The Other Woman's Shoes (36 page)

In the end, Martha opted for the fast strip in the bathroom. At least that way she could get the moment over with and start to relax, enjoy what the evening had in store for her. She checked her reflection one last time.

Who was that sexy woman smiling back at her? The woman with glossy, blowjob lips and an MTV figure, the woman in black bra, knickers, suspenders and knee-high boots? The sexy woman didn’t care a bit if the four-inch steel heels ripped the sheets (although she didn’t want to injure Jack).

Martha barely recognized her.

But she did like her.

She liked her much more than the woman who had stood on the Tube platform envying lusty teenage girls chewing gum and attracting the attention of hormonal teenage boys.

‘You look fabulous. Absolutely amazing,’ he said. His voice licked her mind, causing her to quiver like an animal shaking water from its fur. She was amazing. She was a goddess. And not just because he said so. Martha didn’t reply. She said nothing at all as she climbed on to the bed
and started to lick his magnificent cock. She was excited to the very centre of her being, she smelt his skin, his sex, his sweat. The sweat of his bollocks, the sweat of his pits. Did she dare? Did people ever? It seemed so whorish. But then she was wearing suspenders. She nuzzled him and stealthily edged her knickers to one side so he could enter her without her removing them. He fingered the silky material of the suspender belt, gently twanging it against her thigh. Then he slipped his fingers inside her, finding her soused in her own excitement. Wintry fingers on scalding flesh. She came instantly, pouring out on to his hands. The acute release caused her to quake and convulse. But she bit her tongue and remained silent as she rolled the condom over his hardness, straddled him and then rode him hard until they were both spent.

She put her hand on his sleeping chest that gently rose and fell. It was hot, and the smooth, soft skin scorched her. It was nearly five in the morning. Was this it? Was this what everyone was always thinking of, writing songs about, hoping for? Was this love? This amazing combination of fun, happiness, contentment and stunning sex?

39

‘Mostly, being a child is a tedious waiting game. Don’t you think?’ asked Eliza, who was born a teenager.

Tom didn’t know what to reply. He’d enjoyed his childhood. It had been idyllic, in a ’70s middle-class way, more Angel Delight and Mr Whippy than homemade apple pie. More cheese fondue than Sunday roast, but he’d always considered it adequate. Didn’t everyone look back at their childhoods fondly? Well, unless it had been truly ghastly, like those of children brought up on innercity housing estates without shoes or Scalextric. Was this woman going to confess to some horrible abuse in her childhood? How mortifying. He should have known by the fact that her ears were pierced twice.

This was his second date with Martha’s sister. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked her to meet him for a second time; he supposed it was because he hadn’t really expected her to agree. She was a beautiful girl, very beautiful. His girlfriends were usually pretty, or the type who ‘made the best of themselves’, so being out with this beauty was an adventure. But she was a bit… different to the girls he usually spent his time with, and he didn’t necessarily mean different in a positive sense.

‘Err, so was your childhood tough?’ he asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He felt he had to ask although he really didn’t want to know.

‘Oh no, perfect really. Doting parents and grandparents. Weekends in the caravan visiting castles and stately homes, lots of pocket money to buy Sherbet Dib Dabs and Flumps with. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. That was why it was so tedious.’

See. Different, thought Tom. Odd, actually.

‘And do you know what the strangest thing is?’

What? Stranger than resenting an idyllic childhood?

‘Now I find myself longing to reproduce that tedious childhood. I want a house where, every morning, there is a row about lost gym kits or mislaid homework. I want children who clean the car to earn pocket money. I want to go to Legoland.’

Quite mad. Tom decided to skip pudding and coffee, just get safely home as soon as possible.

Eliza wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to the second date with Tom, either. She supposed it was because she couldn’t bear the idea of spending Valentine’s evening in alone, or, worse yet, babysitting for Martha, knowing absolutely that Martha was having her brains shagged out.

The Embassy was a very cool club. Eliza, naturally, had membership but she didn’t eat there often, just came for a drink on a Wednesday (the new Friday, Thursday was so over). Dining there was far too expensive for someone who was an amoeba on the food chain of the music-video industry, so it would have been mad to turn him down.

Their first date had been at the V&A. Tom had wanted to see an exhibition about glass-blowing, Eliza had agreed because she thought it was new street talk for an exhibition on the history of drugs; it had to be, didn’t it? When the exhibition had turned out really to be about glass-blowing,
Eliza had laughed so much that Tom had demanded to know why. When she explained, he’d laughed at the confusion too, which Eliza had liked about him. So here they were at the Embassy, eating oysters and drinking champagne, and it was pleasant enough.

And pleasant enough shouldn’t be shunned, thought Eliza, as she stifled a yawn.

Eliza did not fancy Tom. Eliza could not imagine a universe or time zone in which she would fancy Tom. His hair parted in a funny way, and when he laughed he wrinkled up his nose, which made her think of a hamster. But she hadn’t fancied anyone for so long that she was beginning to think that Martha was putting bromide in her cornflakes. Still, the oysters were nice.

She searched her mind for something to say. ‘Did you get any cards?’

‘Cards?’

‘Valentine cards.’

‘No.’ Tom thought that this was a peculiar question for his date to put to him, but politeness forced him to reciprocate. ‘Err, and you?’

‘No, not really. Well, yours, and one from Mathew, my nephew, but no, not really.’ Eliza sighed, her disappointment at not receiving something else was enormous. So enormous that she didn’t quite grasp just how rude she was being to Tom.

She remembered how last year Greg had taken her on a picnic. As it was February, he hosted the picnic in their front room, but it was a genuine picnic. He’d bought a stack of flowers from New Covent Garden and put them in every available vessel around the flat. He’d painted a
huge sun on the wall. It was still there; the landlord would be furious and unlikely ever to give Greg his deposit back. He’d spread a rug on the floor; there was a hamper with crusty loaves, ripe cheeses, black olives, hummus and KitKats (Eliza’s favourite chocolate). He’d insisted on wearing beach shorts, and playing a stupid game where he blew imaginary sand off the food and took his clothes off because the imaginary sand had got caught in his shorts. He kept moving the rug because the imaginary tide was coming in. Eventually they shuffled into the bedroom, which had been Greg’s plan all along.

Then there’d been the Valentine’s before last, which was possibly even more fabulous. They flew to Venice to watch the carnival. It was sensational, a riot of colour and noise and smells (some of which were pretty unpleasant, but most were food-related and lovely). They travelled on a budget airline and stayed at the local Youth Hostel. They didn’t have much money, but they had a lot of imagination and a really good time. The whole trip probably cost the price of tonight’s dinner.

Eliza was wrenched back to the present. ‘Oh my God, I don’t believe it.’

‘What?’

‘Look. It’s him.’

‘Who?’ Tom started to crane his neck in the direction that Eliza was staring.

‘Don’t look!’ she squealed.

Tom immediately snapped his head back to face Eliza. He did it with such speed that he’d have to visit his chiropractor asap. He probably had whiplash.

‘
Who
is he with? Do you know?’ demanded Eliza.

‘Have I got permission to look now?’ asked Tom reasonably.

‘S’pose. Who is she?’

Tom carefully turned and looked in the direction of Eliza’s outraged glares. He shook his head indicating that he didn’t know who Michael was with.

Michael leant across the table to hand something to the woman. Eliza couldn’t see what was in the envelope. Tickets maybe. To a concert or show? Perhaps flight tickets? Poor, poor Martha. The woman leant across the table and kissed Michael. She was definitely showing more cleavage than necessary, and she definitely let that kiss linger longer than necessary.

Eliza suddenly went off the idea of a champagne sorbet.

40

‘Great gift,’ marvelled Eliza.

Martha was surprised that her approval was so robust, but she was grateful. She’d had a fantastic night at the Sanderson; she didn’t want Eliza’s predictions of doom to dampen the afterglow. ‘Yeah, I haven’t had anything so unique bought for me since 1994.’

‘What was that?’

‘Michael bought me a purple suede mini-skirt. It was about the width of a belt. I didn’t really have the legs to carry it off, but I let him part with the forty-five notes – which was an enormous amount of money back then – because I was so flattered that he thought it would suit me.’

‘Did you ever wear it?’

‘Only in the bedroom,’ Martha giggled. When had Michael stopped thinking of her that way? Martha remembered making love to Michael on sofas and tables and chairs, right at the beginning. But then as beds became more freely available they only ever made love in bed, and eventually they stopped doing much of that. Except for Fridays. The odd thing was, whenever they did make love they’d ask themselves, and each other, why they didn’t do it more often. Michael and Martha knew each other’s body inside out. Michael hit the spot with frightening intensity every time. Martha knew exactly how fast, how hard, how
long it took to arouse Michael. So when had the intimacy dissolved into laziness?

With Jack Martha performed. She felt beautiful, interesting, undiscovered. She was a paradise, not a paradise lost. Suddenly Martha froze. It was possible that one day Jack would buy her shoes from Dr Scholl the way Michael had started to buy her below-the-knee skirts. It was possible, but not probable. Martha would not think like that; it was not inevitable that a paradise known had to be a paradise lost.

‘What about you? How did you fare?’ She changed the subject.

Eliza hesitated. The most significant event of her Valentine’s evening was the fact that she’d seen Michael. Should she tell Martha? Would Martha get any consolation from the fact that Michael’s spotting of Eliza had almost certainly ruined his evening?

Luckily, Martha was so pumped with lust that she wasn’t really capable of thinking about anyone other than herself and Jack for any length of time. ‘I almost feel guilty about how happy I am,’ trilled Martha. ‘Surely I should feel more miserable, not quite so thrilled at the prospect of life? But I am thrilled. It is thrilling. There’s so much more out there than a man that doesn’t care about me.’

‘Do you really think that?’ asked Eliza. God, Jack really must be a magician in the sack.

‘I do.’

‘Good, because I think there’s something you should know. What I mean is, I think I’d want to know, if I were you.’

Martha already knew that she didn’t want to know but that she probably needed to.

‘I saw Michael, last night.’

‘Where?’

‘At the Embassy.’

It was Valentine’s night. Martha didn’t need to ask if he was alone. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Blonde, young, tall.’ Martha sighed at the predictability of the situation. Michael had turned her into a cliché. ‘Not as slim as you,’ added Eliza hopefully.

That was supposed to help.

‘Do you know who she was?’

‘Well, I embarrassed him into an introduction.’

Martha was almost amused. She’d have liked to see Michael’s expression when faced with feisty Eliza.

‘I didn’t make a scene, Martha, because I knew you’d kill me, although I wanted to pour his soup into his lap.

He’d chosen soup. It must have been French onion, which was the only soup Michael would eat. ‘So what was her name?’

‘Eleanor.’

Martha stopped breathing. It didn’t mean anything to her. That was better – or was that worse?

‘I said all along that he was having an affair,’ continued Eliza.

‘A Valentine’s date does not mean he was having an affair.
I
was on a date.’

‘Martha, it’s obvious.’

‘Is it?’

‘Men never leave unless they have another home to go to. Another woman is always the reason they leave.’

Martha flicked a dishcloth over the kitchen surfaces. She refused to meet Eliza’s eye. ‘Don’t you see? I can’t believe that about the man I loved. If you’re right, I’ve been a fool, and on top of everything else, I can’t admit to being a fool. What would you like for supper? We’ve got quiche, and I could do some jacket potatoes or perhaps pasta,’ suggested Martha, and in this way she made it clear that the conversation was closed.

‘Were you going to tell me that you were seeing someone else?’

‘Yes.’

‘When?’ Michael sighed and Martha could hear his frustration through the miles of telephone cable. She knew that her late-night call was annoying him intensely; she also wished she’d been able to stop herself making it. But she hadn’t been able to. ‘When were you going to tell me?’ she repeated.

‘When the time was right. Soon,’ he added. It was clear that this call was making Michael uncomfortable. ‘Look, Martha, I knew you’d be hurt. I didn’t know how to tell you.’

‘When did you meet her?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes, it does. To me, it matters.’ Martha was indignant. Of course it fucking matters, you moron, was left unsaid.

‘I’ve known her for… I’m not sure,’ he stalled. ‘Over a year.’

‘So you
have
been having an affair.’ Martha managed to make her inquiry sound matter-of-fact, as though she was discovering nothing more sinister than the fact that
someone had been on a diet: so you have been using skimmed milk.