The Other Woman's Shoes Read Free

Garden was changing. Or, rather, it wasn’t changing at all, and perhaps that was the problem. Far from being the epitome of cool, it now struck Eliza as a dismal mash of tat and trinkets. The stalls sold stuff that amazed and dismayed Eliza. Who bought it? Who’d wantit in their home? Where were the dinky little eateries serving delicious apple strudel and soft nougat? All Eliza could see were homogeneous pizza chains.
    Greg loved Covent Garden. He liked having a laugh, meeting people, chatting about the spirituality of amethyst crystals and the like, whilst he earned enough money for his beer, fags and tie-dye throws. He had no desire to have a company expense account, private healthcare or even a Mont Blanc pen. Eliza couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to mix with the type of people who bemoaned the lack of a good cleaner.
    Eliza sighed and tried to budge her feeling of dissatisfaction, stale air that she harboured deep in her lungs. The dissatisfaction that had slowly crept up on her, taken hold and now threatened to explode. Blowing everything apart. Blowing them apart.
    She tried to remember exactly when she had started looking at Greg and seeing failure, when she started to think his come-to-bed, Autumn-sky-blue eyes were more lazy than licentious. She used to like his devil-may-care attitude. She had adored the fact that he’d scribble lyrics on the bathroom wall – now she wanted him to pay attention to Dulux colour charts. She actually ached with the hope he’d mention golf clubs, pension plans and, more specifically, a wedding. She was bored of being an adolescent.
    He was sexy, though.
    Breathtakingly sexy. He had loose hips and firm lips. And whilst she objected to the fact that he ate with his fingers, that he still wore Doc Martens and long overcoats from charity shops – as he had done when he was anineteen-year-old – and that he earned pretty much the same as he did then, she was extremely grateful that his sex drive had remained adolescent.
    Extremely grateful, but no longer eternally grateful.

3
    ‘Are you coming to bed, darling?’ Michael’s smile was designed to try to disguise the fact that he was absolutely shattered and it was only the lines at the corners of his mouth that betrayed him; when he was tired they sort of smudged together like tributaries of a river. Martha was at once sympathetic and irritated. A state only possible to achieve if you have been in a solid, positive, long-term relationship for a number of years. One that was just a teensy bit… the word ‘dull’ flashed into Martha’s mind and then disappeared in an instant. She replaced it with ‘safe’. She did sympathize with the fact that Michael was tired, he worked really hard, as all Captains of Industry had to, doing all sorts of important things for Esso, the exact nature of which she was unsure of. But then it was Friday. And Friday night meant sex. Even after ten years, Friday equalled sex. Surely Michael understood that.
    Wanted that.
    As if reading her mind, Michael paused at the door and added, ‘We would both benefit from an early night.’ He smiled again and this one was genuine, saucy, inviting. Martha’s body responded: the twinge in her stomach was in answer to the part of her that sympathized with his constant fatigue, and understood his overwhelming ambition. The warmth that she felt between her legs wasbecause another part of her not only respected his drive; she’d married him for it.
    The part of her that was irritated that his ever-present fatigue had robbed him of speech for the entire evening – after all, she was tired too, the children had been particularly demanding and uncooperative, yet she had still chattered to him throughout dinner (practically non-stop) – drove her to mutter, ‘I’ll just finish this chapter and then follow you up.’
    As soon as Michael left the room Martha regretted being sullen. It wasn’t very grateful and she ought to be more grateful.
    On a