The Other Woman's Shoes (37 page)

‘No. She was just a friend.’ He sounded angry, insulted.

Martha had little patience, she owned the monopoly on feeling insulted. She lay in bed and wondered what she ought to ask next. She wondered if it mattered and whether he’d tell her the truth anyway. ‘Why haven’t I heard you mention her name if she was a friend?’

‘She was a friend of a friend. She’s Karen’s friend. She wasn’t a very close friend.’

‘She’s clearly that now. How long have you been seeing her?’

‘A few weeks.’

‘How many weeks?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t keep count.’

‘Two, three?’

‘More than that.’

‘Before Christmas, after?’

‘Before, maybe. Stop this, Martha.’ Michael sounded confused. He didn’t like being confused, that was when things were said, things later to be regretted. ‘I don’t owe you any answers. You’re sleeping with Jack,’ he argued, in an effort to recover some composure.

‘I’ve never lied to you about Jack. Why did you lie to me about this Eleanor woman?’

‘Because you kept going on and on about an affair. I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I said I’d known her for ages but just started slee– seeing her.’

‘And lying to me was supposed to help me trust you, was it?’ snapped Martha; then she hung up.

Still, she wanted to believe him.

And she nearly did.

Martha lay awake and stared at the ceiling. She wished that Jack were there in bed with her so that he could wrap his lovely taut body around hers. His skin was clean, cool, firm.

It was easiest not to think about the possibility that the man she had loved for ten years was sleeping with someone else.

She still didn’t want to believe it was an affair, however many people insisted that there was no other explanation. It might have started after he’d left Martha, the way it had with her and Jack.

Why wasn’t that much of a comfort?

He’d said he thought he could be happier living in a different way. He’d said he’d be happier alone than he was with her. God, that had hurt. An exquisite white hot fork of lightning pierced her entire body every time she replayed those words in her head or understood their consequences in her heart.

But it didn’t hurt as much as admitting that someone else was making him happier.

It was death by a thousand cuts.

How did this woman make Michael happy? Did she laugh at his jokes? Assuming, of course, that he was telling jokes again. He’d stopped telling Martha jokes long ago. Did she cook better than Martha? Did she dress better? Think more logically? Would she be able to bear him more beautiful children? That thought slapped Martha like a bucket of freezing water. She looked at the photo of Mathew and Maisie that stood on her bedside table. She stretched out and caressed their faces beneath the shiny
glass; she could feel their warmth and wonder beneath her fingertips. Mathew’s curly, blond hair and chubby cheeks must have been especially designed to melt her heart. She leaned forward and kissed his cherry lips. Maisie’s smile spread from ear to ear; the chocolate smudges did not distract from her radiance. Children were beautiful. Her children were amazing. Spectacular. Martha smiled to herself. None of it mattered. However this woman made Michael happy was all right by her, because Martha was all right by Martha. Martha believed Jack was right and Michael was mistaken. She
was
a fabulous person. The most fabulous was possibly a stretch, but she was pretty, good, kind, honest, even funny when she had the time. She cooked well, dressed well, thought well; her children were unsurpassable.

What Martha wanted now, more than anything, was to talk to Jack. She looked at the clock; it was very late, after midnight. If she called and he was grumpy because of the late hour she’d be wounded. Or if she called him and he wasn’t alone she’d be devastated. Inconsolable. But Martha didn’t think he would be grumpy, and she did think he’d be alone. She believed it would be OK. She trusted him.

‘Do you think I’m a fool to believe in loyalty, wonder, fidelity? Still believe in it?’ she asked without bothering with any conventional introductions and health inquiries.

‘No, Babe, not at all,’ replied Jack. There was absolutely nothing in his tone that suggested Martha’s inquiry was off the wall. She loved him for that.

Well, not really
loved
– that was just a turn of phrase. She wasn’t saying she
loved
Jack. Was she? Jack struggled
in the dark to look at his alarm clock. Eleven minutes past twelve. Poor Little Miss E., obviously a bit stressed about something. He absentmindedly started to tickle his cats, who always slept with him, and thought hard how he could make things better for her.

‘But do you think I’m stupid, gullible even, for still believing that he hasn’t been having an affair?’ she asked.

‘Babe, you wouldn’t be as cool as you are if you were a cynical old cow. And you are cool,’ he reassured.

‘It’s just that I don’t want to stop caring despite the statistics, I don’t want to stop searching for, well–’

‘Love.’

‘Yes, despite the logistics.’

‘Hey, Martha, you’re a poet and–’

‘I don’t know it.’ Martha was beginning to feel a bit better.

‘Oh glum feminine angst!’

‘What?’

‘Oh glum feminine angst! It’s an–’

‘Anagram, of “something meaningful”,’ guessed Martha.

‘Correct.’

Martha smiled to herself. ‘My fingers are cold,’ she muttered down the telephone line.

‘Should I come over? I could rub them between my hands and keep them warm,’ he offered.

‘Yeah, do that.’ Martha beamed. That was exactly what she’d hoped he’d say although she hadn’t known it until she’d heard the words. The odd thing was, it felt as though he was offering much, much more. More than ‘I’ll love you for ever.’

March

41

‘Mathew, have you seen the lid to Maisie’s beaker?’ asked Eliza.

Mathew didn’t reply; it was possible that he hadn’t even heard the question, so firmly was he ensconced in his own world, inhabited solely by
Teletubbies
.

Eliza repeated the question three more times. Each time, her demand became more irate as she battled against Maisie’s screams and the volume of Mathew’s video. Eliza stomped towards the television set and hit the power button, nuking the
Teletubbies
. However, this did not create the desired effect. Instead of getting Mathew’s attention, Eliza’s actions were the catalyst for the most enormous tantrum.

‘It’s not fair,’ sobbed Mathew, ‘I didn’t loo- loo- lose the beak- beak- beaker lid.’ He could hardly get his words out between sobs. He threw himself backwards, bashing his head on the floor. Eliza winced and the cries exploded with renewed force. She was relieved when he rolled over on to his stomach and banged his tiny fists into the carpet, thus proving he wasn’t seriously hurt, although he was giving the impression that he’d be psychologically damaged for ever.

Whilst Eliza didn’t really think that the tantrum was proportionate to the level of her transgression (she’d only wanted to get his attention, she wasn’t going to censor
Teletubbies
for the entire duration of Martha’s holiday), but she had to admit he had a point. He had not lost the beaker lid, Eliza had. And the lack of a beaker lid meant that Eliza could not give Maisie her morning milk, and so she was screaming too. There were at least five beakers in the house, but three were missing. They’d gone AWOL, along with Laa-Laa, an indispensable tool to lull Mathew to sleep, the Calpol essential for relief during teething – particularly relief for Eliza – three socks, the rain cover for the pushchair, and oh so many other essential bits and bobs that Eliza had lost count. One other beaker was in the dishwasher, and the final one was in Eliza’s hand – but that was the one with the offending missing lid. Eliza should have put the dishwasher on last night. She opened it up and the smell of yesterday’s supper (fish curry) hit her in a nauseating tidal wave. Eliza slammed the dishwasher closed again without retrieving the beaker.

Eliza checked the calendar. Three days down, four more to go.

Why, oh why, had she agreed to babysit for an entire week while Martha and Jack went to New York? What had possessed her? True, Martha needed a break, deserved a holiday, but chances were Eliza would have a breakdown before her sister returned, and what an indescribably terrible way to use her own precious holiday allowance. Today, Eliza had read to the children, she’d played picture dominos with Mathew, she’d participated in an endless game of chase and a mindless game of taking clothes pegs out of one jar and hiding them down the back of the settee (the clothes pegs were at hand because Eliza was using them as her first line of defence against the horrible
nappies). She’d dressed both children, successfully fed Mathew his breakfast and was currently working on Maisie’s. It was still only ten to eight.

The phone started to ring. Eliza knew that it would be Mrs Evergreen offering to help. Eliza would have loved to accept Mrs Evergreen’s offer; in fact she’d have been more than happy to move out and allow her parents to move in and take over all responsibilities. They were, after all, grandparents, they probably enjoyed changing nappies. However, she knew that she would assure her mother that ‘everything was under control’ as she had yesterday (when in reality everything was underwater or at least her mobile phone was – Maisie had dropped it in the bath). It was a matter of pride. Eliza snatched up the phone.

‘I’m fine,’ she snapped.

‘Oh good, glad to hear it.’

‘Martha?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wasn’t expecting it to be you. I thought it’d be Mum. How’s New York?’

‘Sensational, Eliza. I don’t know where to start.’

‘My God, Martha, what time is it there, isn’t it the middle of the night?’

‘Yeah, we’re between clubs, but I thought I’d catch you before you took Mathew to playgroup.’

Eliza was so stunned by the throwaway comment ‘between clubs’ that she nearly missed the reference to Mathew’s playgroup. Nearly. She tucked the phone under her ear and walked towards the timetable that detailed her niece and nephew’s extremely hectic schedules. Shit, she was supposed to be at Bunnies and Bears in twenty-five
minutes. It was a foregone conclusion that she was going to be late. She surrendered herself to the inevitability of a black mark from the nursery teacher and demanded, ‘Spill. Are you having a glorious time?’

‘Oh, the best, Eliza, I can’t tell you how good.’

Jack had some business in New York and had almost insisted that Martha go along with him. Apparently, he was expecting to have plenty of free time between meetings and he’d taken an extra few days’ holiday so they could do the sights.

‘How are the children?’ asked Martha. She’d rung from Heathrow and JFK airports to ask the same. She’d rung the moment they’d arrived at the hotel, and she’d rung every morning.

‘Perfect. Brilliant. Angels, both of them.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ Eliza crossed her fingers behind her back. She didn’t need to bother Martha.

‘Are they eating well?’

In so much as they were eating plenty of sweets and ice cream, and none of the organic chicken and vegetable casserole or similar lovingly prepared meals that Martha had precooked and then frozen, then, yes, they were eating well. ‘Fine.’

‘And sleeping?’

‘Oh yes, they’re sleeping fine.’ In Eliza’s bed, rather than in their room was more information than Eliza felt she was required to give. Instead, she tried to change the subject. ‘Stop worrying, they’re great. We’re all great. What have you done so far?’

Satisfied and happily deceived, Martha moved on to
her news. ‘Well, Jack’s been meeting people for the last two days so I’ve amused myself. I’ve done all the touristy things. I’ve been up to the top of the Empire State Building; it’s just like it was in
Sleepless in Seattle
– well, except for about a million other sightseers. I’ve seen the Statue of Liberty, Times Square, and Grand Central Station. I’ve been to MOMA.’ (Martha enjoyed using the acronym.) The excitement in Martha’s voice momentarily drowned out Mathew’s wails. Eliza knew she’d done the right thing in offering to babysit. ‘I sat in the studio audience for some terrible confessions programme. I even participated by asking a question.’

‘You didn’t!’

‘I did. I’m going to be on national TV. And better yet, I started it with, “Hey, sister.”’

‘Martha!’

‘I know. I have no shame. Jack’s free now until Friday, so tomorrow we’re going to shop until we drop.’

‘Fifth Avenue?’

‘No, I think we’ll go to the villages. The clothes are so much more hip in Greenwich and Soho.’

‘Right.’ Eliza spotted the beaker lid under the table. She bent down to retrieve it, stood up too quickly and banged her head on the underneath of the table. There should be danger money in this job; she’d sustained multiple injuries in the last three days. Scratches from Maisie (before she found the nail clippers and even then she’d had to wait until Maisie was asleep before she could cut the nails), and Mathew had hit her on the head, knee and ankle with Dizzy, Bob the Builder’s cement mixer. All three incidents were accidents but, all the same, Eliza wondered if she
could sue someone, perhaps the maker of the toy, or the toyshop that had sold it to her without the appropriate warnings. She doubted that the contents of Mathew’s moneybox would amount to much.

‘My feet are killing me. I’ve walked and walked,’ related Martha. Eliza actively coveted an injury such as blisters on her feet; it would at least mean she had new shoes, or that she’d managed to get out of the house. As yet, Eliza hadn’t managed to muster the degree of military precision and organization necessary to tackle the operation of getting both children further afield than the back garden.

‘Didn’t you just say you were between clubs?’

‘Well, there’s always energy for dancing. There’s always room for Jell-O, as Jack says.’

‘Is that from a film?’

‘Probably.’

‘Aren’t you worried that he doesn’t have an original thought?’