The Other Woman's Shoes (46 page)

Martha was grateful. She knew Eliza had a thousand more interesting alternatives on a Friday night. ‘Thanks, Eliza, that would be lovely.’

‘What do you fancy: Indian, Thai?’

‘Bring Thai.’

‘Right.’

‘Right.’

Martha allowed the children to stay up later than normal. The excuse she used to them and herself was that their grandparents and aunt and uncle were coming to visit. The truth was, she didn’t want to be alone, not even for half an hour. Besides, she had no energy to fight with them about cleaning their teeth. The children realized that this was as good as it got, if you were three and under (staying downstairs after 7 p.m.) and therefore
were behaving impeccably. Mathew was patiently helping Maisie to put plastic shapes into the correct holes, and he told her the names of the shapes she was playing with. It probably didn’t matter that so far he’d told her a triangle, a star and a square were all ‘rounds’. Martha put a couple of bottles of wine in the fridge but resisted opening one; she could wait until the others arrived. She surveyed her home. She was very grateful that she wouldn’t have to move. It felt like a happy home. Not at that exact moment, perhaps, but mostly.

The early evening sunset filled the kitchen with orange light. Martha stretched to see the skyline; her view was mostly of houses and flats but, undaunted, a little bit of sunset forced its way through the congested London sky and promised 7 million people that summer would arrive eventually. Martha saw a plane overhead. She checked her watch. Of course it wasn’t Jack’s plane, it was far too early, she was being melodramatic. But she wondered who was on that plane, and who was being taken away from their loved ones.

Or perhaps towards. Because Martha still did believe that – somehow – everything turned out OK. Maybe her OK wasn’t just yet. But she did believe in it, she had to.

Martha had spent the afternoon tidying up. She was no longer obsessive about cleanliness or neatness. She didn’t waste time mopping her cream carpets with bleach, or washing the inside of vegetables, or alphabetically arranging her cookbooks but, because her mum was coming to visit, she’d pushed the vacuum around and cleared away the plates from the children’s tea. It hadn’t taken long. She’d also had calls from Claire and Dawn. Claire had
carefully not alluded to the fact that Jack was leaving, but had frequently repeated an invitation for Martha and the kids to join her family for Sunday lunch, an invite Martha intended to take up. Dawn was more forthright, and asked Martha if she felt like shit; then she’d said, ‘Don’t answer that, of course you do.’ Martha had also gone on line and paid a couple of bills, but still the afternoon had dragged.

Martha picked up a magazine and started to flick through the glossy pages. She no longer had to sit and count on her fingers the blessings in her life; instead, she was imbued with a general sense that she was surrounded by good things. The same good things – her children, her family, her friends. She was grateful for her time with Michael. It hadn’t worked for them, but it didn’t mean that what they’d had was meaningless. Their time together had meant a lot to her. It was still a mystery as to why it hadn’t worked; both of them had wanted it to, albeit at different times. But would the benefit of hindsight or time travel have put her in a different place? She doubted it, because she felt as though she was in a place where she belonged. She felt strong and brave in her new place, a place she would have liked to share with Jack.

She had no idea how she would fill the time until her family visited. She had no idea how she’d spend the rest of her life.

Martha wondered what she’d do with all the time she used to spend with Jack, the time that they’d filled with play and prattle. He’d told her about over- and understeering on cars, pixels in TV screens, how engines worked; and she’d told him about hyperbole, the conventions of Greek Tragedy and that cabbage is good for
cracked nipples. Together they’d played I-Spy. They’d divided all their friends and families into types according to the world of Winnie-the-Pooh (because it was true that everyone in the end can be boiled down to Pooh, Tigger, Eeyore, Piglet, Kanga or Roo; there might be Owls too, but Martha hadn’t met any). They’d talked about which Superhero they would want to be (Jack wanted to be Superman. Martha opted out; she thought it was a lonely life being a Superhero).

The truth was, Jack and Martha weren’t the sort of people who could change the world in any profound sense. If they could have, they would have found the cure for killer diseases and written a five-point plan for world peace. But they were just ordinary people. The best they could hope for was to avoid heart disease and obesity by eating sensibly, and to take some of the menace out of the school playground by bringing up at least two children with a set of values that prioritized love, honesty and respect.

Martha thought it was enough. Her life was important enough.

‘We let ourselves in, darling,’ said her mum. Suddenly Martha was aware that Eliza was putting food in the microwave. Greg was opening wine, Mrs Evergreen was kissing her and the children, and Mr Evergreen was checking on the garden.

‘Where are the coasters?’

‘Have you been pruning?’

‘Do you want a spring roll?’

‘Have the children been good today?’

The chatter was constant. It was clear that there had
been a tactical agreement that any direct allusion to Jack was forbidden. His name was all the more glaring for its absence. They’d all come to fill her life with their love and concern, which would no doubt mean that there would be some sort of family squabble at some point in the evening, nothing serious, something about what to watch on TV, or who should nip to the garage to buy chocolate. Little things that showed that they cared about one another, rather than the reverse. Martha brightened and realized that she was looking forward to her Thai takeaway and the evening in with her family. She was looking forward to her life.

She was going to see an Elvis impersonator. She would chat to slow old ladies in the high street who had no one else to talk to, because she’d have time to do so. She was going to put a fireplace in her bedroom. She was going to cry when her friends had their babies and not be embarrassed that she was a hysterical female and far too emotional. She was already wearing unsuitable clothes; she might take the children to Australia to visit an old school friend who’d emigrated there years ago. She was going to learn to snowboard. She was going to buy a new dining-room suite. She was going to do a flower-arranging course, no apologies. She was going to take a photo of the children every day if she felt like it, even if they were all the same. She was going to start her new job, she was going to skip meals, she was going to eat chocolate, and tomorrow she’d have fried eggs, if she felt like it.

Martha was so engrossed in her survival strategy that her father almost had to shake her to get her attention.

‘Martha, ’phone for you.’

Martha took the call in the hall. It was the least noisy part of the house. The children were overexcited at seeing nearly all their favourite people in one room at the same time, and so were insisting on acting like children. The adults seemed to be following their lead.

‘Martha?’ His voice was quilted with kindness, and now as always, Martha felt at once loved and loving, sexed and sexy.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s me.’

‘Yes, you silly bugger, I know that.’ Martha wished he hadn’t called. She’d just been starting to feel brave. She didn’t want to have to go through a goodbye; she’d been very clear about that.

‘I’m at the airport.’

‘I know that, too.’ Martha sniffed silently and hoped he couldn’t hear her breaking heart and her screaming soul.

‘Little Miss E., you know all the reasons we couldn’t work?’

‘Yes, I do.’ Her head was weary with turning them around, wishing them away, then admitting they were there to stay.

‘Can you think of one reason that it might work? Just one?’

Their conversation was interrupted by an announcement from the tannoy: ‘This is the last call for British Airways flight BA0179 to New York.’

Martha heard the announcement, so he certainly must have. He ignored it. If he wasn’t careful he was going to delay the plane. She fought and fought to hold back her sobs but images swooshed into her head, damaging her
resolve. She saw them dancing in the kitchen, pretending to be Adam Ant, and dancing in Fabric, pretending to be cool. She remembered the chocolate heart and the anagrams of ‘something meaningful’. She thought about Jack making paper airplanes, bathing the kids, changing the water filter, ice-skating. The idea of letting these memories go was causing a pain so intense that her body felt it was being mangled, she thought she might scream. ‘Just one,’ she sobbed.

‘What is it, Babe? What’s the reason?’ He sounded frantic.

‘This is a call for all remaining passengers travelling on the 19.50 British Airways flight to New York, please make your way to the departure gate immediately.’

Just piss off, thought Martha. She meant the tannoy announcement, rather than the love of her life.

‘Baby, listen, recently you’ve given me lots of reasons why we won’t work. Can you give me one that we will? Just one.’

‘I love you, Jack, I love you, and without Hope my heart will break.’ She was sobbing harder. God, she was such a girl. Sometimes it seemed she hadn’t learnt anything in all these months.

‘And I love you, Little Miss E. And your messy kids and messy life. I love them,’ said Jack.

Martha could tell that he was tearful too. ‘Do you?’

‘You know I do.’

This is a call for passenger Mr Jack Hope, travelling on the 19.50 BA0179 flight to New York. Please make your way to the departure gate immediately.’

‘They’re calling for me.’

‘I know.’

‘I gotta go.’

‘I know.’

‘But, Martha…’

‘What?’

‘I’ll be back.’

‘Is that a line from a damn film?’

‘No – well, yes, it’s Arnie, but it’s me, too, Babe.’

Martha walked back into the sitting room. A barrage of confused questions heralded her arrival. It was clear they’d known who was on the phone, and they’d been trying, and failing, not to eavesdrop.

‘What did he say?’ asked Mrs Evergreen.

‘Everything all right?’ Mr Evergreen.

‘Well?’ asked Eliza and Greg.

‘Was it Jack?’ asked Mathew.

‘He said he’d be back,’ smiled Martha.

‘Hurrah!’ Mrs Evergreen jumped up and down on the spot, Mathew started to cheer and Maisie, who probably had little understanding of the situation but was caught up in the excitement of the moment, started to giggle and throw her head back, gurgling in a way that always made Martha want to laugh too. Martha didn’t know what to do. She was laughing and crying at the same time. Even Mr Evergreen looked relieved.

Luckily, Eliza had a grip on reality. ‘When? When will he be back?’ she demanded.

‘Leave it, Liza,’ said Greg gently. He reached out to put his hand on Eliza’s arm as though his physical restraint could stop her tongue. But his caution came too late; her
words were out and the damage was done. The mood was broken.

‘He didn’t say,’ admitted Martha.

‘Surprise, sur-bloody-prise.’

‘But I believe him.’

‘Will you stop with this trusting thing! Yeah, he may come back when Mathew is graduating, or Maisie needs someone to walk her down the aisle. Or he may come back sooner than that. He may come back after he’s shagged a few more women in New York, or then again, he might not, because he might meet one that he really likes and decide to stay.’

‘He wouldn’t do that.’

‘Why wouldn’t he? It’s not good enough saying that he’ll come back at some point. You need him now. You need him to help with the kids, to do that throwing-them-in-the-air thing that makes them squeal with delight. You need him to carry heavy shopping bags. You need him to give you a good servicing – you’re in your thirties, that’s your sexual prime. Sorry, Dad.’ Eliza realized that her father was probably hoping that the ground would open and swallow him up. He hadn’t heard his daughters discussing sex since their guinea pigs had had babies – Eliza had been eight at the time and fascinated. ‘You need him to sort out the tax on your car.’

‘I can do all those things. Well, except for the servicing,’ admitted Martha. ‘Sorry, Dad.’

‘I know you can, Martha, but I don’t want you to have to do them alone.’ Eliza had been standing in the doorway from the kitchen to the sitting room. She now collapsed into a chair and said, ‘If he loves you he should be here
by your side.’ Eliza was shaking. She was quivering with anger and indignation. She wanted more for her sister. Her sister deserved more.

‘I can’t make him, Eliza. I can’t force him. I don’t even want to. That’s not love.’

‘But what are you going to do?’ Eliza wished that there was a solution.

Martha thought there might be many. ‘I’m going to be OK. I have no idea how things are going to turn out, but I think I’m going to be OK.’

51

The party lost some of its edge after Eliza’s outburst. They ate the takeaway but the jollity was forced, and Mrs Evergreen couldn’t persuade anyone to eat up the last fishcake, even though the mango sauce was delicious. She turned her attention to tidying the kitchen. Mr Evergreen shuffled off to the garage to buy some chocolate bars in the hope of restoring good humour. Eliza tried to make amends by reading a story to the children and putting them to bed. Which just left Greg and Martha. They watched a repeat episode of
One Foot in the Grave
in silence, until Martha could stand the silence no longer and demanded, ‘Do you think she’s right?’

‘Oh, always, about everything,’ joked Greg. ‘At least in public. Which bit do you mean in particular?’

‘About him shagging
other
women? About the fact that he’d be by my side now if he really loved me.’

Greg shrugged. He was distinctly uncomfortable. He might be engaged now. He might have managed to spit out a fairly decent proposal to Eliza, but that didn’t mean he was capable of talking about love and stuff to other women. He liked Jack. He’d seemed like a laugh. And Greg liked Martha, she had a good heart; he liked her especially since her groovy clothes now matched her groovy personality. But he didn’t really want to get embroiled in a ‘do you think he loves me?’ conversation.
In his experience this type of conversation was rarely satisfactory.