The Other Woman's Shoes (21 page)

It was an enormous relief.

Admitting your life wasn’t perfect.

In fact, admitting your life had gone – what was Eliza’s expression?
Tits up
, that was it. Admitting your life had gone tits up was an enormous relief.

Martha suddenly found that she was entirely released from the tyranny of housework, timetables, cookbooks, starch bottles, the gym, educational and development books about children – and from Michael’s expectations.

Expectations that she’d always had the feeling she’d failed.

Martha would no longer host elaborate dinner parties. Instead she started having impromptu sleepovers, when her friends were too smashed to drive home. Martha couldn’t imagine there being a similar scenario when Michael had lived with her; the idea had never crossed her mind. Slowly Martha had come to the conclusion that it was ludicrous to run around in a frenzy, wiping sticky hand prints off surfaces at night time; they were always back again by 8.30 the following morning. She soon found out that, after the children had gone to bed, it was a pleasure to stick a simple meal in the microwave. There was less washing up and shopping and cleaning to do.

There were fewer rows. There was less tension, anxiety and irritability.

But there was no less love in the house, which made Martha wonder when the love had left. Obviously way before Michael had.

Martha began writing herself lists of the things she hoped to achieve over the next few days. That way, if she had any free time and was in danger of thinking – which inevitably led to crying – she could consult the list and find something to do with herself. Sometimes the lists included the smallest of tasks (buy cards, write cards, buy stamps, post cards). Simply writing ‘send cards’ would have earned only a single tick, and it was satisfying to see four small ticks on the list. A tick signalled a sense of self-approval, which Martha wanted to believe in.

The problem with self-worth was that no one else could do the job – although, in fairness, everyone tried. Her friends and family amazed her with their level of support;
they called and talked and listened and encouraged and affirmed. They didn’t comment when she insisted that as the father of her children he deserved her respect and kindness. Nor did they comment when she vowed to sniff him out, track him down, and cut off his bollocks.

A surprising number of people suggested that Martha hire a private detective, because no one understood why he’d left. Everyone agreed that ‘not happy’ was an inadequate explanation for deserting your family. Martha was tempted. It would almost be a relief if a detective handed over a set of black and white photographs showing Michael leaving a flat and a woman at the door, who was clasping her frilly dressing gown to her heaving bosom and looking both delighted and dishevelled. Martha just wanted to understand Michael, which at the moment was impossible because she didn’t even know him. Not any more.

The birthday party was an enormous success. There were balloons and bubbles and prizes and music and laughter. Nothing was missing. Michael wasn’t there and yet nothing was missing.

After the final party bag had been given away, all the discarded tissue and wrapping paper collected into large black sacks, and exhausted Maisie and Mathew tucked into their beds, Eliza and Martha kicked off their shoes and prepared to enjoy the silence.

‘Leave the washing up, it’ll keep,’ said Martha, who really was making a huge effort to try to relax more. She’d been surprised to discover that this wasn’t as much of a contradiction as it might sound.

Eliza didn’t need to be asked twice. She happily abandoned the sink and reached for a bottle of wine.

‘Fancy a glass?’

‘I do.’ Martha nodded enthusiastically. ‘I think it was a success, don’t you?’

‘Yeah. Jelly and ice cream up the walls, crisps underfoot, not an organic morsel in sight – my idea of a good party,’ joked Eliza. ‘Was there a single child who didn’t have a crying fit?’

‘Unlikely.’

‘Thought not.’

The women wandered through to the sitting room. Martha picked out a CD and put it on. Billie Holiday crooned her way into the room.

‘You need some new tunes,’ commented Eliza.

‘Do I? Don’t you like this?’

‘I’m not saying that. It’s a classic, but you’ve been playing it for ever.’

‘Actually, that’s not true. I played it at university, but I can’t remember playing it in the last ten years.’

‘Really?’ Eliza recognized the ten-years indicator to mean ‘pre-Michael’. She was relieved to note that Martha had resisted saying his name.

‘You always had such lovely rooms at university,’ said Eliza.

‘I did, didn’t I?’ Martha’s rooms had been a heady mix of romance, expectation and possibility. Innumerable Pre-Raphaelite posters and postcards blotted out the ugly woodchip wallpaper. The images weren’t Eliza’s cup of cha – far too many fair maidens drowning or crying or simply waiting for a knight in shining armour – but they
were very Martha, the eternal romantic. The grubby, threadbare carpet was covered with a shaggy rug bought in a junk shop. Martha had studied English and art history, so her room was always packed with books. She had enormous respect for them, and the black spines of the Penguin Classics stood to attention like soldiers on her shelves, in strict alphabetical order. Eliza had always found it easier to drop her books on the floor; after all, the only inconvenience was when you tripped over the unwieldy piles, after having one or two glasses too many.

‘Martha, do you remember how much you loved those ugly green and gold mugs?’

‘Thank you very much. There was nothing ugly about them,’ laughed Martha.

‘And you had that horrible purple Paisley bedspread!’

‘It was the height of fashion,’ defended Martha, giggling.

‘To be fair, you were very fashionable in your time.’

Why didn’t that sound like a compliment? Eliza had intended it to be one. Martha would have liked it to be one.

‘You wore short skirts in those days, and DMs.’

‘Corduroy jackets,’ added Martha.

‘With leather-patched elbows.’

‘Ripped second-hand jeans.’

The sisters screeched their surprise at the recollection.

‘Whatever happened to–’

‘Me?’

‘I was going to say, your leather beret.’

They fell silent. The pertinent question was: what had happened to Martha? When had the romantic individualist
drowned in rubber gloves and suffocated in furniture polish?

‘I’ve been thinking about my college days a lot recently,’mused Martha. ‘It was the last time I was entirely selfish. It was the last time I had to think only about me. Realistically, I’m never going to be in that position again.’

‘Well, at least not until you’re in your fifties.’

Martha laughed. To both women ‘your fifties’ seemed far enough away to be ‘never again’.

‘Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret any of it. I don’t regret marrying Michael and I certainly don’t regret having the children. I’m just saying that I’d like the opportunity to put myself first.’

As she put a lot of work into every aspect of making the children’s lives as happy as possible, Martha had put a lot of work into making the party a success. The paper plates, balloons and streamers had been colour coordinated, which was more than could be said for Martha’s wardrobe. She’d spent an age dressing the children for the party, but only seconds putting on her own lipstick. She’d agonized over choosing Maisie’s presents. She’d striven for a mix of unusual, thoughtful, educational and good-value toys. She’d been particularly pleased with the multicoloured, heart-shaped fairy lights and the wooden tricycle. Yet Martha hadn’t had a long soak in a bath in months; she always said there was no time.

As if reading her mind, Eliza said, ‘You could put yourself first now and again. Not all the time, admittedly. But you don’t have to be a martyr to be a good mum.’

True.

‘Martha, you should go out more. Accept some of these invitations you’re getting.’

‘I
do
accept invitations.’

‘No, you
don’t
. I heard you today, you accepted all the invitations that relate to the children. You’re going to the ball park at Syon House and the Monkey Music class, but I heard you turn down the invite to Claire’s thirtieth birthday.’

‘I couldn’t possibly go to that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Everyone will be in a couple.’

‘Not true, I checked with her. Martha, you have to claw your way out of your comfort zone.’

‘She’s holding it at a Salsa bar and restaurant. I don’t know how to Salsa.’

‘Don’t be pathetic, you just have to shake your hips.’

‘It isn’t just shaking your hips, though, is it? It’s all very raunchy. There’s a whole lot of gyrating.’

Eliza tried not to laugh. ‘Live dangerously for once. What’s the worst that can happen? You can’t live your life thinking that risqué is not following a Delia recipe to the letter, substituting some flat-leafed parsley for basil.’

‘Don’t be silly. I do risqué things.’

‘Name one.’

‘One?’

‘Yes. One. One risqué thing you’ve done in the last ten years.’

Martha was cross. Partly with her sister, but mostly with herself because Eliza had a point.

‘What will I wear?’ There was something in Martha’s
tone that suggested her resistance was lowering. She wanted to be persuaded.

‘Good question, we’ll have to do something with your look’.

‘My look?’

Eliza jumped up from the sofa and dashed for a pile of fashion magazines that she’d stashed earlier. It was clear she’d been waiting for this opportunity. She quickly started to flick through the mags and point out pictures of leggy models looking sensational in jeans and skimpy tops.

‘I couldn’t wear that,’ cried Martha, aghast. ‘Anyway, I did buy some new clothes.’

‘A couple of things, and it was weeks ago. You’ve really got a great figure, you ought to make more of it.’

‘Great figure’. The compliment barely had time to compute before the scary implications of ‘you ought to make more of it’ hit home.

‘A make-over?’ Martha asked, wide-eyed with fear.

‘An image change,’ Eliza stated confidently. ‘We need to shop!’

December

24

They don’t like me. I can tell they hate me, thought Martha, as she eyed the other guests at the birthday dinner. I have ‘scarlet woman’ written all over me. In bright red. Every woman is thinking, I’m not letting my husband anywhere near her. Every man is thinking that there must be some intrinsic flaw; it may not be obvious what, but it’s a certainty. Why else would my husband have left me? They’ll be surmising that I’m lousy in bed, or that I have a foul temper, or that I’m jealous and nagging. Because they’ll know there must be something fundamentally wrong with me.

They just don’t know
what
.

Nor did Martha. The agony of not being wanted by someone who had said they would want you for ever was bloody. The disappointment, the disbelief, the disgust. Martha was unable to believe that anyone would want to spend five minutes with her, without the distraction of cable TV.

‘What you drinking, Martha?’ asked one of the gang, kindly. (Kindly, because her friends
were
kind. Kind, because they didn’t hate her. They liked her. And she was right, they didn’t understand why she was on her own, but they couldn’t imagine it would be for long.)

She considered ordering an orange juice, but decided that she’d need more than vitamin C to help her through
this evening. She hated this question. She never knew what to answer. Whilst recently she’d indulged in some blow-outs with Eliza, she’d always reached oblivion with a decent Chardonnay. She detested beer and spirits, and only really enjoyed the occasional glass of good wine, and then only with a meal; the wines sold in pubs and bars such as this were generally lousy.

‘A white-wine spritzer,’ she offered finally, although she knew her choice was viewed as a wimpy drink. Her friend brought back a large white wine with a splash of soda.

Martha gulped it back and then offered to buy a round. She couldn’t stand the sort of women who thought they didn’t have to buy any drinks just because they were single. She definitely didn’t want to be that type of woman, so she bought a round and then organized a kitty. A very generous kitty. It was quite nice in here, thought Martha. Fun, relaxed. Not that she had an awful lot of venues to compare it with; she couldn’t remember the last time she and Michael had gone to a club. Eight years ago? Could it be that long?

She had of course been to a club more recently than that – she used to go with the guys and girls from the office fairly regularly. Michael was invited along as well, but he always seemed to have a previous engagement or simply too hefty a workload to join her. But then she’d left her job three years ago. Could it be possible that she hadn’t danced for three years? Of course, there had been weddings. She liked a bop, but recently her dancing partners had often been under two foot (Mathew and his chums). The hokey-cokey simply didn’t count. When did
she stop dancing with Michael? When did she stop dancing? Martha suddenly realized that she couldn’t see her glass clearly, it was swimming. She blinked away the hot, angry, sentimental tears, brought her glass into focus again and poured another drink. No good came from thinking of Michael, she knew that. She couldn’t spend any more time thinking about why he didn’t want her. Icy fact was, he didn’t.

His loss.

The food was taking an age to arrive but, despite Martha’s fears, the conversation was flowing. A number of the women had children and so Martha felt on safe ground as she discussed with them the pros and cons of the MMR vaccination. Although, she couldn’t understand why she twice slipped up and referred to it as the MRR. It was a hot room and Martha was very thirsty.

And flirty.

God, she couldn’t believe she’d just thought that. But she
was
feeling excitable; there was no denying it. Who’d bought the champagne? She did enjoy a glass of champagne; there was never a reason to say no. Lord, were they still talking about the MRR, didn’t they have anything else to discuss? Martha instantly felt guilty. What a mean thought. It wasn’t so long ago that she’d happily have discussed her children all night. Indeed, she’d thought about nothing else for three years but suddenly tonight she wanted to think about something else. Tonight she wanted a night off. Maybe it was her new suede skirt and black gypsy-style top.