The Other Woman's Shoes (19 page)

Two and a half bottles of wine. The last time she’d drunk quantities like that was when she’d just met Michael. They used to have Friday nights where their friends would just turn up at Michael’s flat with half-a-dozen tinnies and bottles of wine, foul stuff, screw tops, lethal. But fun. Such fun. The nearest they got to Michelin-star cooking was putting Phileas Fogg crisps in a bowl. They’d play ridiculous drinking games and everyone would get plastered. In those days they were all too young to worry about hangovers, too irresponsible, too damn lucky. Was that the fun Michael missed? When did they start introducing filo pastry and cutting back on the units? When did they become sanitized? Dull? Because they must have slipped into dull at some point. Had the fire been dampened in Michael’s belly by an overload of seating plans and olive ciabatta?

Martha hadn’t planned to drink so much last night. After Michael had slammed out of the house and she’d kicked and kicked the front door (wishing it were him, and hurting her foot), she’d known exactly what
not
to do. It wouldn’t be a good idea to listen to sloppy love songs. Definitely a really bad idea. How could playing the songs that they’d danced to at their wedding reception do anything other than upset her?

It wouldn’t help.

She’d put them on anyway.

And cried. She bawled and sobbed and howled. So hard that her T-shirt was wet, right to the navel. By the time she’d listened to
All Women
– volumes one and two – Martha had drunk a full bottle of white wine. For the past four years she had been either trying to conceive, pregnant or breastfeeding and her tolerance was down. She’d gulped the wine. She knew she ought to stop drinking – but she also knew she wasn’t going to. She was thirsty and needy, and besides, it tasted nice. The cool sting of a dry wine hit her throat and then her stomach. When she shook her head in time to the music, it hurt; she knew she was working towards a terrific hangover. She didn’t care. She was almost looking forward to it. She could always take a tablet to alleviate that pain.

The worst thing to do would be to look through old photos. It would probably destroy her. The second bottle was half empty by the time she picked up the first big fat leather album. It was full of photos of their early holidays together, their engagement party, her pregnant with Mathew, Mathew’s first bath. There were a large number of photos of Martha and Michael together. Neither of them were particularly good photographers so they’d invested in an idiot-proof camera. Michael often used to put his left arm around Martha, hold the camera in his right hand and extend his arm, point and press. A number of the photos were mainly of walls, ceilings or wardrobes. Martha and Michael would be squashed to one side of the frame, partially decapitated, or simply distorted because of the odd angle at which they’d been immortalized.

But they were always beaming broadly. Grinning insanely, looking like people who believe in for ever. God,
it was bad enough losing the bastard (which she certainly had, which he certainly was), but now she’d reminded herself that he once was a very special, decent, worthwhile man. She wanted to eat her own soul. Another glass of wine and it struck Martha that she didn’t recognize the young, cheerful, kind man on these shots; she hadn’t seen him for months. He’d vanished. The man she’d fallen in love with had already left the scene of the crime: all that remained was his sorry apology for an alibi.

She was drinking the dregs of the second bottle by the time she picked up the very last packet of photos. They’d been taken that August at Center Parcs. Martha hadn’t found the time or, more accurately, the will to put them into albums yet. She examined the photos carefully. That was a lovely one of Mathew hugging Maisie, very cute. There was a good one of Mathew jumping on the bouncy castle, and a sweet one of Maisie’s delighted expressions as she tried ice cream for the first time. Despite it being during Martha’s birthday tea, Martha and Michael had had a row about that. Michael was right of course, she was a plump baby and she probably shouldn’t be encouraged to have a sweet tooth. But it was just the smallest bit of ice cream and it was hardly likely she’d go and blow all her pocket money in the sweet shop behind their backs; she couldn’t walk yet. Besides, Martha had been a fat baby and she was skin and bone now. Babies were supposed to be chubby.

Martha flicked through the photos to try and find one of Michael and her together. There weren’t any. Her skirt was in the one of the children sat on a picnic rug, and there were three of Michael, which Martha had taken. They were posed; she’d handed him Maisie and asked him
to sit next to Mathew, as she’d wanted some nice family shots to send to his parents. They weren’t good photos. It could have been that Michael was squinting at the sun but he looked sullen, a reluctant sitter.

By the time Martha opened her third bottle she could hardly see. Her T-shirt endured its second soaking of the evening when she spilt the wine as she lifted the glass to her mouth. The alcohol zapped her brain cells but couldn’t anaesthetise her heart. It ached, literally screamed in her chest. Martha just wanted to understand Michael, which at the moment was impossible because she didn’t even know him. Not any more. He didn’t want her. Not being wanted was the worst bit. No, it wasn’t. It was the fact that he didn’t want his children,
that
was the worst bit. No, actually, it was the fact that he’d destroyed her history. These people on the photographs were utter strangers. And he’d obliterated her future. The big family, the big family home, the happily-ever-after were washed away. What a horrible waste.

He’d been the person she’d turned to, to chat, to confer, to confide, to confess, for ten years, most of her adult life. He’d been her next-of-kin; it said so on countless official documents. He’d been there at the births of her two children. His two children. He’d seen inside her stomach and between her legs. He’d watched as they sewed her up and threw away the placentas. He’d been her best friend, her ally and her lover.

Now he was to be nothing to her.

She’d already found herself describing him as the children’s father.

At one-thirty in the morning she’d finally fallen asleep.
She’d left her clothes and the lights on, the empty bottles had rolled around the kitchen floor and come to rest near the cupboards and back door, the kids’ toys stayed scattered throughout the house, as did the shreds of the photos. At six-thirty Martha had woken up as usual. She’d changed Maisie’s nappy and given her some milk and breakfast. Then she’d got Mathew up and dressed, and tried to force-feed him some wheat-free toast. At seven-thirty she called her parents and sent out a mayday.

When she woke for the second time she could hear her family in the garden. She looked out of the window and saw her father and Mathew bent over a vegetable patch, earnestly looking for worms. Her father’s slight bald spot and Mathew’s tiny frame brought a lump to her throat. They both looked so vulnerable. She saw her mother and Eliza huddled over Maisie. They were encouraging her to try to walk between them, helping her find her independence. They were talking in low voices; Martha could guess the subject matter. She felt ashamed that she was such a worry to them all.

She looked in the mirror; her face was puffy, swollen with alcohol, sleep deprivation and tears. The excessive crying had reduced her eyes to skinny slits. Martha was too tired to feel regret at her lonely drinking bout. And too tired to try to be cheerful for her family. Without bothering to change her clothes, or put on socks, or brush her hair or teeth, Martha set off towards the local greasy spoon. A place which she’d often walked past on the way to the swings, but had never frequented.

She
needed
fried eggs.

*

The tea tasted of washing-up liquid. Martha tried to find some comfort in the fact that this did at least prove that the cup had been washed. Martha marvelled at how easy it had been to walk into a café (full of burly builders and devoid of any women customers) and order a strong tea and one (‘no, go on then, make it two’) fried eggs. The builders were reading tabloids. Their bottoms spread over the tiny wooden chairs, their stomachs rolled over their belts. They didn’t seem to care; Martha envied them their serenity.

It was a bright November morning. Martha wasn’t as cold as perhaps she should have been, but then she was insulated with booze-induced hot flushes. She picked a seat near the window.

The autumnal sun splattered its rays on to the frosty road, creating the illusion that the streets of London were paved not with gold but diamonds. It bounced in through the window and played with the chrome salt and pepper pots, the sugar bowl, her knife and fork and the grease on her fried eggs, making everything look precious. If Martha hadn’t been so preoccupied she might have thought the little greasy spoon was quite heavenly.

Martha sat and thought. Thinking was scary. Painful. But necessary.

Was he serious?

Yes.

This was serious.

Could she ever change his mind? Martha thought back over the last couple of months. She had pleaded, cajoled, wept, begged, threatened, sent love letters, reasoned, yelled, stormed, sulked, and Michael had been unmoved.

She could not change his mind.

He was no longer in love with her. To be specific, he’d said she was boring and a nag. That she had no interest in him, that she took him for granted.

This and much, much more had been said last night. Despite Martha’s best efforts to blank the scene of parting, she remembered that they’d both spat out cruel insults and exchanged vicious criticisms. He’d said that the thrill of being with her had gone, that it was entirely lost. She’d told him that he was shallow, and ‘not a sticker’. He’d commented that was typical of her, always throwing about abuse. He’d then added, ‘You’d never forgive me, Martha, you’d never be able to forget this.’ Which had confused her. Did he want her forgiveness? Did he want to come home?

Immediately, Martha had insisted, ‘You’re wrong, we would be OK. I love you. We
are
a family. We should be together. We should be visiting Kew Gardens, having picnics. Come home. Come home. Just stop this nonsense, Michael, and come home, please.’

But all Michael had said was, ‘I hate picnics.’

Martha loathed herself for begging him to come home, for subduing herself so entirely. She loathed herself for giving him countless opportunities.

Opportunities he didn’t take.

She’d told him that she was exhausted and felt neglected. He’d told her he’d rather be at work, at the gym, in the arms of another woman, anywhere except with her. She’d yelled at him to fuck right off and find another woman if he could, but she doubted he’d find anyone else fool enough to put up with his selfish, myopic ways, he’d
been lucky enough to find one in a lifetime. He’d shouted he might just do exactly that and more sinisterly he added, maybe he already had. Then he’d said that swearing didn’t become her, that he’d never liked women who swore, it was undignified, disgusting. The words sliced through her tautly stretched patience. She’d then hurled every four-lettered word she could think of. Which just showed that there was definitely a fault in the hardware of her brain. She was thinking, You disappointing, arrogant, hapless man, and yet her voice box had interpreted that into words of four letters of Anglo-Saxon origin.

She wasn’t exactly proud of herself, but she couldn’t think of any other way to hurt him. And she did want to hurt him.

How had it deteriorated so quickly?

They had fought and ranted and screamed and bickered and nagged and cried and flung glasses of wine and now it was over.

Finished.

The end.

It was his certainty that hurt Martha the most. He’d never once (to her knowledge) questioned whether he was doing the right thing in walking away from her, Mathew, Maisie and the Bridleway. He’d known his own mind. Oh God, how she’d loved that quality in him once, and now how she despised it.

Martha ordered more tea and another fried egg. This was possibly the finest meal she had ever eaten. Far better than anything she’d eaten in the numerous fancy restaurants she’d frequented in the past. Far tastier than any international cuisine she’d sampled. She ate the egg
thinking that the white looked like an opal and the yolk like liquid gold. Such an elaborate description of an egg proved she was still drunk. She couldn’t imagine going to fancy restaurants without Michael. But would she miss them?

The time she’d spent alone had been terrifying, shocking, humiliating.

But it hadn’t been all bad.

Martha liked having a mobile phone and the Internet was genuinely fascinating. Admittedly, her initial interest had been inspired by a desire to impress Michael, but when he appeared resolutely nonplussed at her foray into the world of technology, she realized that the enjoyment she’d derived wasn’t diminished; it had nothing to do with him.

She liked not putting the toys away every night. She actually felt quite liberated watching the ironing stack up. The other day she had dressed herself and the children from the pile of non-ironed clothes – and the world hadn’t screeched to a stop. Her grocery bill had halved, as had the time she spent in supermarkets. She had more wardrobe space and she adored her new leather pants.

No, it wasn’t all bad, thought Martha. Which was the scariest thought she’d had that day.

She measured out the meal so that she finished the last bite of toast at exactly the same moment as she finished the last piece of egg and scooped the last splurge of tomato sauce into her mouth. After the fried breakfast, she drank four more cups of tea and ate two chocolate croissants.

A triumph.

Did she really want him back at all? The thought erupted
into Martha’s consciousness and shocked her. It was definitely the alcohol. Decent fried eggs and a sunny café shouldn’t make you think of giving up on your marriage.

She looked up and noticed that the builders had left. The two fat ladies behind the counter sat gossiping. It was obvious from their countenances that gossiping was routine, necessary but no longer fascinating.