The Other Woman's Shoes (35 page)

And then he hung up.

Hung up!

He’d said she was fabulous – the most fabulous – and then he’d hung up, before she had a chance to reply or react.

OhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGodOhmyGod.

He thought she was ‘the most fabulous’ woman he’d ever met.

Martha walked on air for the rest of the day, which she spent in the lingerie department of John Lewis. Jack had texted her and asked if she would ‘indulge him as it was Valentine’s Day and wear cute underwear’. Martha was thrilled, flattered and petrified in equal parts. Thrilled and
flattered that Jack believed that she was the type of woman to have cute underwear, and petrified because she wasn’t that type of woman at all, and so obviously she’d have to go and buy something new.

Martha assumed cute underwear meant stockings, suspenders, a lacy bra and knickers. She wasn’t going to entertain the idea of crotchless or anything kinky like that; she wouldn’t manage to keep a straight face. Besides, she wasn’t absolutely certain as to whether crotchless knickers really existed, or whether they were just a figment of the imagination of the type of man who read the
Sun
. She supposed a visit to Ann Summers would put her mind at rest one way or the other, but she couldn’t pluck up the courage, not on such short notice. Martha had never worn stockings before. No one had ever taken the time to ask her to bother. Possibly because she had always voiced the opinion that stockings were ludicrous. She was the type of woman who slept in pyjamas, for goodness sake; it was a significant jump from that to Agent Provocateur lingerie.

She decided to buy black. Red was out of the question. Well, at least first time round. Martha didn’t think it was an unrealistic idea to introduce red at a later date. How much lace before she looked like a saloon girl? And did you wear the belt around your waist or hips? Under or over your panties? The picture on the packet showed the belt over, but then would you be able to go to the loo? Then what to wear over the top of ‘cute underwear’? Trousers were out of the question; a little black dress seemed too dressy. In the end, Martha chose a black T-shirt and a beige leather skirt, not too tight, but tight enough, with black knee-high boots.

At seven o’clock Mrs Evergreen knocked on Martha’s door. Martha had arranged for her mother to babysit because obviously Eliza had a date.

‘Lord, Mum, that’s a big bag, are you moving in?’

‘No, dear, I’ve brought my knitting,’ smiled Mrs Evergreen.

Martha thought her mother was being optimistic. Mathew had lined up an arsenal of games to play with his adored granny. Martha doubted her mother would get the time to make a cup of tea, let alone knit up a pair of bedsocks or whatever.

‘I won’t be late,’ she assured.

‘Don’t worry. You just enjoy yourself, you deserve it,’ smiled Mrs Evergreen. ‘I don’t suppose–’

‘No, nothing.’ Martha cut her off before she could ask whether Michael had sent a card or flowers. Her mother looked disappointed. Martha wondered if she should tell her that she was ‘the most fabulous girl’ Jack knew. After all, it had made Martha’s day.

They’d agreed to meet at the bar in the Sanderson Hotel. The hotel was funky and well, yes, pretentious too. Martha knew that Michael would have loved it. They’d visited a number of lan Schrager hotels before the children had been born. The modernity and beauty had blown them away, as had the cost. The fact that they (or their firms) had been able to afford for them to stay in such stylish places had been a thrill. They’d made love in the big, white beds under the large, imposing mirrors and amazing, challenging art. Martha remembered how excited and impressed they’d been on their first visit. She couldn’t remember when it became commonplace to stay in
fabulous hotels where even the bellboys wore Armani. She couldn’t remember when Michael had first started to complain that the service was slow, ‘especially considering what we’re paying’. She couldn’t remember exactly when the complaining overwhelmed the pleasure, but she knew it was wrong.

The bar was full of beautiful people: women who were too thin, and men who were too wealthy. Martha wondered whether there would ever be a world where the roles were reversed. Where the women were wealthy enough to arrogantly carry beer bellies and the men had eating disorders and silicon implants. Martha rarely mixed with this type of person, although Eliza did, and often came home with funny anecdotes about women who could tell you the number of calories in the olive in their Martinis and men who could give you the numbers on the banknotes in their wallet. To Eliza’s credit, she was able to enjoy the glitz of visiting bars and hotels such as these, rubbing shoulders with the beautiful young things of the twenty-first century, without taking it too seriously. She wasn’t a wannabe, and therefore people assumed she already was. Martha decided to adopt the same policy so that she could relax and enjoy the hotel bar, the chic women and chiselled-jawed men.

There was Jack. He was standing at the end of the bar, drinking apple juice. Martha felt a surge of pride; she firmly believed he was the most beautiful man in the bar. He wasn’t the tallest and everyone was dressed well, but he definitely had the kindest eyes. She threaded her way through the crowds. He watched her being watched.

‘God, you look hot,’ he said, kissing her on the lips. He lingered there.

Martha wondered if it was hip to kiss in a bar like this. She wasn’t sure what the current fashionable thinking was on public displays of affection. Whatever – it made her feel as amazing as holding the winning Lottery ticket.

She had never looked ‘hot’. She had been pretty, lovely, and on her wedding day one or two people had described her as beautiful (old aunties and Michael).

But here she was being hot.

Her lips were glossed. Her lashes were long. Her hipbone jutted out at a sexy angle and, really, she couldn’t wait for him to find that out.

‘What can I get you to drink?’ he asked.

‘I’ll have a Red Bull.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah, I don’t want to get drunk.’ Martha had been drinking far more than was good for her recently. Well, since Michael had asked for a divorce. She knew it was weak and self-destructive and she didn’t want to get maudlin or forget anything important tonight. Although it seemed such a shame to come to a bar like this and not try one of the many champagne cocktails on offer. She did enjoy a glass of crisp, cold champagne.

‘Don’t you fancy a glass of crisp, cold champagne?’ asked Jack. ‘It seems a shame to come to a cool gig like this and not have something special.’

Martha gave in to the ESP and asked for champers. The service was embarrassingly slow, but without the embarrassment. Whilst it was nearly impossible to catch
the eye of the barman, Martha was surprised when she noticed that
she
caught the eye of two or three strangers. They were flirting, registering their interest in her. And they were good-looking, really good-looking. They were the type of men who would never have given Martha a second glance when she wore her neat shirts and M&S slacks, but were now more than ready and willing to whip off her Ted Baker T and leather skirt. As such they were less interesting to her than even Michael. For all his faults, at least he had once fancied her in clothes from Monsoon. OK, as it turned out, she didn’t like herself in clothes from Monsoon, but that was hardly the point. The good-looking men were obviously shallow. Martha looked at Jack and once again marvelled at how peculiar it was that he was this odd mix of
über
cool, and yet totally unfazed by her very-recent geekiness.

Martha hunted out a quiet table, Jack following her. She took a seat and as he sat down opposite, her whole body redirected itself towards him. Outwardly she didn’t move an inch; inwardly she felt her lungs fill with fresh oxygen, her heart lean towards him. The hairs on her body stood up in deference. Her smile was a fraction wider for him. Her teeth slightly whiter, her lips slightly wetter. Her sex that bit hotter.

‘Remarkable that there’s a free table,’ commented Jack.

‘Not really, it’s too out of the way for the see-and-be-seen. Most of the people here would rather hover uncomfortably at a crowded bar than miss spotting Stella McCartney’s eyebrow.’

Jack laughed. ‘I love it that you’re not impressed by that shit, Martha, that you know your own mind.’

‘Well, if it was Madonna’s eyebrow, that would be a different story.’ She paused. ‘Don’t you think I’m molly?’

‘Molly? What’s “molly”?’

‘Girl geek-like,’ explained Martha.

‘No way, Martha, the opposite. I’ve told you, I think you’re fabulous.’

‘Why do you think I’m fabulous?’

‘Because you pay attention to everything that’s going on around you, you seem to be fascinated with life and that in turn makes you fascinating. Because you’re beautiful and strong and because you try hard to be kind and decent.’

Martha basked under the praise for a second or two.

‘And most of all because you’re a fantastic shag,’ added Jack.

So, the same reasons that Martha thought Jack was fabulous, then.

After they’d had a drink Jack asked Martha if she wanted dinner or a room. He assured her that he’d be equally happy with either choice. Martha pointed out that she couldn’t stay over because she had to get back for the children. Jack admitted having arranged with Mrs Evergreen for her to stop the night to look after Mathew and Maisie, which explained the outsize bag. Martha was horrified.

‘Do you think that was presumptuous?’ he asked, concerned. ‘I mean, it’s not like we haven’t had sex before.’

‘I know that,’ said Martha, aghast, ‘but my mother doesn’t. She thinks Mathew and Maisie were immaculate conceptions, or at least test tube. If she could have, she’d have blindfolded the midwife who delivered my babies.’

Jack was obviously amused by Martha’s panic. ‘On the contrary, she made it very clear that she wanted you to have a good time. She repeatedly insisted that you needed it and deserved it. I only cut her short on her lecture on responsible attitudes towards contraception.’

Martha was bemused but somewhat reassured. She went outside the bar to ring home. She wanted to check that her mum really was OK with babysitting overnight, and hadn’t been browbeaten into it by Jack. Her mother scattered the appropriate assurances, and insisted with such force that Martha did her very best to enjoy herself that Martha truly believed it was her filial duty to have multiple orgasms.

When Martha returned to the table, Jack was nowhere to be seen. The waiter handed her an envelope. ‘Apparently it’s an anagram,’ he said without an iota of interest. The waiter was very beautiful, probably too beautiful to have a pulse, let alone a heart or a sense of humour, thought Martha.

The envelope was blue. She opened it up and was not too surprised to find it was a funny card with a cartoon picture and a fairly obvious joke about the importance of the size of a man’s equipment. Well, she hadn’t been expecting a Shakespearean sonnet. Inside the card Jack had written ‘Mum in on shafting glee.’ She studied it for some time – ‘Mum in on shafting glee’, what did he mean? Martha began to giggle. Of course, it was another anagram of ‘something meaningful’. There was also a room number.

Martha ran up to join Jack.

Literally ran.

She could skip dinner.

38

He slammed her against the wall and urgently and repeatedly kissed her. She wrapped her legs around him and started exploring his body, probably for the hundredth time, although it always seemed like the first.

It was a perfect night. Jack had bought her a present, a pair of blue glittery trainers from Diesel. They were stylish, unconventional, the right size and coveted by Martha. She was thrilled. The perfect Valentine’s present. Jack opened the gifts Martha had bought him. She’d bought a selection. Two good books she’d read. A small yellow shaped animal toy that laughed when you picked it up. The hooting bag seemed appropriate because Jack was a big pack of laughs. She’d also bought him a purple cushion that in 1950s retro style had a black picture of a bus and the words ‘Hop on Baby’ emblazoned across it. The double entendre wasn’t lost on either of them. There wasn’t a heart or piece of red tissue in sight. Martha thought her pressies were cool yet thoughtful. Jack was clearly delighted. She was glad that she’d ignored Eliza’s advice, which was not to bother with gifts (‘They show you care.’ ‘But I do care.’ ‘Exactly, that’s why you definitely shouldn’t show it.’).

‘Christ, this place is a giggle,’ said Jack. He’d first flung himself full length on to the bed and was now bouncing up and down; he looked like a child. He was unashamedly impressed. He pored over the menus, checked out the
minimalist packed toiletries, fed her the complimentary slices of pineapple. He showed her the contents of the mini bar, and they both expressed their amazement that it sold everything from Durex to jelly beans, disposable cameras to baseball hats. Martha wasn’t really surprised; the contents of the mini bar were the same in all the Schrager hotels, she’d seen it all before.

‘D’you think the camera and the Durex are meant to be used together?’ he joked. He opened the bathroom cabinet, switched on the hairdryer, rang room service and requested that CDs were brought to their room, as well as beans on toast. They chose beans on toast because it wasn’t on the menu; besides which, Martha had never drunk champagne with beans on toast. Martha found Jack’s enthusiasm infectious. She suddenly found that it was OK to be impressed. Overwhelmed.

She lay on the bed next to him. He started to kiss her with his pure, extreme, potent, probing kisses. However, despite the fun they were having and the champagne she was drinking, Martha was riddled with trepidation. How would she ever approach the subject of her ‘cute underwear’? It was peculiar, considering she’d sat stripped bare and spreadlegged in front, on top and behind him, that she felt ridiculous for having complied with his request. Maybe he’d only been joking when he suggested it and would think that she was a total tart once she undressed. And the undressing would have to be sooner rather than later, because at the moment she couldn’t take her boots off. Little as she knew about seductive apparel, she did know that the toe seams of nylons were not sexy – but the heels on her boots were high enough to be lethal.
Surely he thought it was odd that she hadn’t taken off her boots, usually shoes and socks off was the first thing she did at home, the moment she walked through the door. It was the only way to relax. Was she supposed to wait and let him discover the saloon girl get-up during the course of the evening? Or was she supposed to go into the bathroom and strip down to the essentials and emerge with a flamboyant, ‘Tah-dah’? Why didn’t sexy lingerie come with a set of handy hints on how to conduct oneself, she wondered?