The Other Woman's Shoes (40 page)

‘All right, cutie?’ Jack asked casually and cheerfully.

Martha had lain awake most of the night. She loved Jack, she was sure of that. Did she really want to burst his balloon? No, she didn’t. But there was no alternative. It had taken quite some time, but Martha finally knew that she would not be able to love Jack to the best of her ability, unless she loved herself first. ‘Yeah, I’m OK, although I was going to fly home, in the middle of the night.’

Jack froze. He stared at the ceiling as he tried to gather the courage to turn to her and ask the necessary ‘why?’ He was utterly clueless.

‘Because you’re like all other men. You’re incapable of being faithful or single-minded – but because you told me in advance that this was the case, I have to put up with it. Bastard.’ Martha could feel the tears welling in her eyes and her nose itched.
Don’t cry
, she willed and then commanded herself.

‘Why do you think I’m a bastard?’ asked Jack.

‘I don’t understand you, Jack. I’m sorry, I don’t get the naked-friend-versus-girlfriend distinction. I haven’t caught up with the morals, or rather lack of them, that this century seems to advocate.’ She waited, hoping he’d interrupt her. That way she’d reduce her chances of saying something she’d regret. He didn’t interrupt. ‘I’m still stuck
way back in the early part of the nineteenth century. I’d actually like to be wearing a long hooped skirt if that meant I’d be protected from the disruption and disillusion that a divorce causes. I don’t want to be back in the game, as you put it, but if I must be, then I at least want to understand the rules – and I don’t. Your naked-friend thing seems to me to simply be a get-out-of-jail-free card. Now this may help you keep any nagging spells of conscience at bay, but to be frank, the fact that you’re shagging around is not made any more acceptable just because you tell me you’re shagging around. In fact, it’s possibly worse.’

‘Whoa, wait, slow down, Martha.’ Jack sat bolt upright in bed and put his hands on Martha’s shoulders. ‘I’ve never lied to you, or given you any false impression. Or at least I sincerely hope I haven’t. I’ve always tried to be very honest with you.’

Martha shook his hands off, not least because they were centimetres away from the rise of her breast and if Jack went anywhere near her tits her defences would be completely annihilated. ‘It’s a fucking loophole,’ she yelled.

Jack stared at the floor. Bloody hell, it goes to show they’re all the same in the end. This woman had told him that all she was looking for was a bit of fun. He’d thought, hoped, that she wasn’t going to turn out to be hysterical and demanding. Or hurt. He definitely hadn’t wanted to hurt her. Why did they tell you they could handle things that they blatantly couldn’t?

‘My hole isn’t just a loophole. People deserve more respect. “I love you for ever” should mean for ever. “Until death do us part” should mean just that. Or shut the fuck
up. Sex is more than just fun. It may not have to be about making babies every time, but it can lead to making babies and that’s special, isn’t it? That has to mean something, doesn’t it? I don’t have any of the answers. I’m not sure why I married in church besides the fact that it made pretty photos, but I did mean for ever.’ Martha stopped raving but only so that she could breathe.

‘So this isn’t about us at all, it’s another row about Michael,’ said Jack.

Martha glared at him. She held tightly to the quilt cover, her knuckles white with strain and tension. Didn’t he see she couldn’t separate the two things in her mind as easily as that? Men compartmentalized, women bled.

‘Martha, I’ve never been anything other than fair with you. I’ve always tried to be absolutely clear. To be honest, it’s easy to be good to you, you deserve it.’

‘Yes, you’re so damn fair and nice and honorable. I don’t dispute your honesty. But didn’t you know that that would simply make me expect… hope for more?’

‘Are you suggesting I should have lied and treated you badly?’

‘Well, at least I would have known where I stood.’

‘Martha, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.’

‘And there’s something else.’

‘What?’

‘I love you. I want to distract myself from this truth, but I can’t. I know I should be cooler and I know I should wait and I know all the sensible stuff, but the thing is, I love you, Jack. I really do. I love you.’

This was his cue to say he loved her too.

He didn’t.

Martha cursed the day she was a twinkle in her father’s eye. But it was too late. The words were out of her mouth and into their life. She’d told him she loved him.

Three times.

Shit.

She decided that her only chance was to fake some bravado and, like a visit to the dentist, remind herself that this would all soon be over. ‘What?’ she demanded.

Jack stayed silent and stared at the duvet cover.

His silence forced her to fill in the space. ‘And I know we agreed that this was just a bit of fun, but you never can tell, sometimes the unexpected happens and sometimes the unexpected is damn good and we are. I know that you care for me too.’

‘I do.’

‘You make love with me, you don’t fuck me.’

‘I know.’

Then he went silent again. Martha felt miserable. Obviously, if he loved her, now was the moment to tell her. Or even if he wasn’t sure he loved her yet, but thought that he might love her one day, then this was the moment to tell her. He stayed silent. The silence stretched between them for what seemed like an eternity. Certainly a long time. Too long. Martha felt the humiliation creep up through her toes. It clung and stained like tar, and then settled in a heavy lump in her stomach as though she’d swallowed enough to resurface the M1.

‘Oh, forget I ever said anything, Jack,’ she spat. ‘You’re all the same in the end.’

‘Who are?’

‘You know.’

‘Say it, Martha. Articulate that ridiculous sexist, bizarre, unscientific thought.’

‘Men. Men are all the same in the end.’

‘All bastards?’

‘All bastards.’

‘Michael really has won, Martha.’ With that, Jack jumped out of bed and walked into the bathroom. ‘I can’t discuss this now, I’m going to be late for my meeting.’

They ignored each other as Jack showered, dried himself and dressed. He picked up his wallet, phone and PalmPilot. Pausing at the door he said, ‘Will you meet me later?’

Martha kept her head under the duvet; she didn’t want him to see she was crying. He’d think she was crying because she cared that she’d totally disgraced herself, but in fact she was crying because she was angry and frustrated.

And
because she cared that she’d totally disgraced herself.

‘I’ll be at that café on Union Square, the one we went to on Monday night. I’ll be there from four. I’ll wait for you.’ He opened the door.

‘Jack,’ called Martha, ‘there can be only one.’

‘I recognize that: it’s from
Highlander
,’ said Jack, pleased with himself.

‘No, Jack, it’s from my heart.’

45

Eliza had passed another hour with the Bianchis. But she was only there in body. Her mind was elsewhere, and her heart had stopped. She was the most stupid chick on the entire planet. Timing had never been her strong point. Why hadn’t she told Greg how she felt that time she saw him when they were Christmas shopping? It would have been easy, she could have just said, ‘I’m sick of dating pricks, will you loaf with me for ever?’ But she hadn’t, she’d whinged about credit-card bills and forgotten birthdays. She could have said something on Christmas Day; that was another great opportunity. OK, she couldn’t exactly drag him under the mistletoe, that would have been very uncool, but she could have given him some encouragement. The nicest thing she said to him was, ‘You look stupid in the red paper hat, here, have my blue one.’ Oh God, oh God, was there ever such an arrogant arse?

All the clichés were horribly accurate. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone. What was this other woman like? She hadn’t wanted to ask the Bianchis. They weren’t known for their tact. If the bitch was a five-foot-nine beauty, with flawless skin, a personal inheritance of millions and a contract with the Elite Modelling Agency, the Bianchis would probably make the mistake of thinking that Eliza would want to know that. Did this woman
sleep in
their
bed? Well, of course she bloody did. Eliza wondered whether if she stood in the middle of the street in Shepherd’s Bush and actually kicked herself anyone would think it was strange behaviour. She doubted it; they’d probably think that she was a community-care patient and, in fact, she was a damn sight less correct in the head. Would this girl stroke Dog? Take him for walks? Drink out of Eliza’s glasses, the ones she’d bought in Habitat? Yes, yes, yes. This girl’s toothbrush was probably nuzzling up against Greg’s toothbrush at this very minute.

Eliza was not the type of girl to cry; she was more of a doer than that. She turned the buggy round and headed away from the Tube station and towards Greg’s flat.

She hammered on the door. No reply, although some of the paintwork did crumble and fall to the floor. She hammered louder, loud enough to wake someone having a little nap in Sydney, Australia. She did not give space to the possibility that Greg might be out. He wouldn’t be out; her will was stronger than that.

‘OK, coming,’ yelled Greg from behind the wooden door. ‘Hiya.’ As he opened the door he smiled a wide, genuine smile.

Eliza didn’t notice, she stomped past him into the flat, abandoning the children in the doorway. Eliza strode into the sitting room – it was empty. She took another couple of large paces and she was in the kitchen – uninhabited. She turned and strutted into the hall, held her breath, threw open the bedroom door – deserted. There was only the bathroom left; Eliza hesitated, she didn’t like the bathroom at the best of times, but needs must. She confidently flung open the door – all clear.

‘Looking for something?’ asked Greg. He sounded amused.

‘An earring,’ muttered Eliza. Then she paused and faced him.

Greg was smiling. Of course he was, he rarely did anything other than smile. He’d taken Mathew and Maisie out of the buggy. He was holding Maisie in his arms; she was nuzzling up against his goatee (facial hair that was the result of Greg not having yet made it to the bathroom that day, rather than a fashion statement); Mathew was looking for Dog. He found him asleep under the table in the kitchen, and he and Eliza swooped to pet Dog together.

‘What type of earring?’ asked Greg; he didn’t bother to hide his amusement, but he was polite enough to play along with Eliza’s charade as long as necessary.

Eliza glared at him; she knew she’d been rumbled, so she didn’t bother to elaborate further on her excuse. ‘I’ve just been to see the Bianchis,’ she said by way of explanation.

‘About time, they’re always asking after you.’

‘They seemed well. Unchanged.’

‘Nothing much changes around here, Liza.’

‘That’s not what they said,’ countered Eliza, cryptically. She carried on glaring at Greg and waited for his defence. He met her gaze but didn’t seem in the least bit fazed or embarrassed. Eliza thought about this for a moment. Of course he wasn’t fazed or embarrassed, why should he be? So he had a new girlfriend. What did she expect? She could hardly be fired with indignation and outrage. She had dumped him, unceremoniously, unexpectedly, and
from a great height. She’d done this six months ago, what did she think he was going to do? Behave like a monk for the rest of his life? Besides which, she’d dated, almost non-stop, for all the good it had done her. She’d even had sex. The memory made her shiver. So her hunt for Mr Perfect had been unsuccessful, of course it had. It was doomed from the start. Her Mr Perfect was never going to be a man whose biggest passion was rugby or fly-fishing. She’d never find a true spiritual partner amongst men whose only interest in spirits was how woody a particular malt was. Her Mr Perfect would not wear a tie. He would not drive a saloon car and however disappointing it was for Eliza to admit it, it was unlikely that her Mr Perfect would have started a pension policy aged twenty-one. That level of organization would simply turn her off.

Her Mr Perfect was more likely to be creative, relaxed, witty and, therefore, on occasion, a bit lazy and messy.

Greg.

Greg was her Mr Perfect.

‘Fancy a cuppa?’ asked Greg as though she’d been popping in to see him every week for months, and there was nothing unusual about her sudden arrival, nothing peculiar in the fact that she’d searched his home as if she was looking for the definitive answer to ‘What is love?’ – and, in a way, she had been.

‘Yeah, that’d be nice.’

Greg put Maisie on the floor and she scrambled towards Dog, thrilled with the opportunity to torture him alongside her brother. Eliza was just about to object – she could only imagine what filth the children would be crawling in – when she noticed that the carpet was clean. There were
no dog hairs, no can rings, no empty, crushed cigarette packs. Eliza took a moment to have another look around. It wasn’t just the carpet that was clean. There was no fog of smoke, there was no stale, lingering smell of Dog sweat. In fact, the windows were open, allowing fresh air into the flat (or at least air as fresh as air ever gets in a huge city with over seven million inhabitants). There were no empty coffee cups; there weren’t even any sticky rings showing where the coffee cups had once rested. There were no pizza boxes; there weren’t even any flyers offering to take your credit card details in return for the service of delivering a curry to your settee.

Eliza bit her lip to cork the scream that wanted to erupt. She turned on her heel once again and rushed into the kitchen. Where were the towering stacks of dirty dishes? Why wasn’t the lino sticky? Oh God, the oven had been cleaned. She rushed through to the bedroom. The purpose of her last search had been to unearth ‘the New Woman’; Eliza had expected to catch Greg and ‘the New Woman’
in flagrante delicto
– not that she’d thought through what she’d do if she had caught them in such a predicament.