The Other Woman's Shoes Read Free Page B

screaming. Martha felt ill knowing Maisie was in pain and that she couldn’t do anything about it. Martha had spent night after night watching her daughter’s tiny body go into spasms, her knees jerk up to her chest. The wailing tore at Martha and left her feeling miserable and inadequate. There was nothing more torturous than a crying child. Martha never understood how Michael was able to sleep through the pitiful wailing. Martha often sent generouscheques to appeals on behalf of children who needed urgent operations, false limbs or simply water and shelter. Martha wanted to hold each and every one of them and shush their crying. How did their mothers face each morning?
    And that was why it was silly to get into such a state about something as insignificant as potty-training. And, like she’d told Michael he would, Mathew had finally grasped the concept of pooing in the loo (as opposed to in his bed, the kitchen cupboards, the reception room or – most memorably – Michael’s shoe). It had been a long haul. Mathew had been well on the way to being potty-trained at twenty months when Maisie was born, but then suddenly seemed to lose the knack. Martha had tried but failed to ignore the comments from her numerous child-behaviour-expert friends and relatives who felt compelled to constantly comment that the step back in bathroom etiquette was a deliberate act of defiance/anger/terrorism, brought on by sibling jealousy/insecurity/feelings of loneliness.
    No kidding.
    Remarks like this sent a frisson of tension running up and down Martha’s spine. She wanted to point out that she’d had a Caesarean (two, actually), not a lobotomy. She said nothing. She sometimes wondered where she stored her suppressed irritation.
    Because it must be adding up.
    Martha had read the books and dutifully carved out exclusive ‘special time’ for her and Mathew, with the hope of eradicating the excrement terrorism. They went to the zoo, they made paper boats and floated them on the pond,they fed the ducks and they played in the park. They did this even though it cost a fortune in childcare for Maisie, they did this even when Martha could barely walk with tiredness because she’d been up four times in the night.
    But it had been worth it. Mathew was now fully potty-trained.
    Martha’s blessings included her family. She adored her mum and dad who quietly rumbled through their retirement without making much demand on her time, but were always visibly grateful if she did descend on them for an afternoon with the two children and two dozen bags. Her parents had moved down to a London suburb when they retired as both their daughters and their grandchildren were settled in the capital. They’d hoped to help Martha with the childcare. Secretly they were a little disappointed by her fierce independence and insistence on doing everything on her own. They felt redundant as parents and grandparents, and it didn’t take Einstein to work out that Martha could do with some help now and again. Mr and Mrs Evergreen feared it would be quite some time before Eliza ever wanted children.
    Blessings, blessings. Other than needing spectacles and one of them having a gammy toe, her parents (touch wood) were the picture of health. And they were so normal . Martha always felt so sorry for her friends who had alcoholic, neurotic or clingy parents. Hers were so pleasant, so non-intrusive; they were no bother at all. Martha beamed to herself.
    And Eliza, her sister, was also a joy. Admittedly, she was unreliable as a conversationalist at dinner parties (she was often deliberately shocking), she was not great attimekeeping, or saving, or choosing men, and she had never done anything quietly in her life; still the very thought of Eliza made Martha smile. What were kid sisters for if not to show you glimpses of the wrong side of the tracks? Martha had always believed that Eliza was predestined to be more glamorous than Martha (therefore more trouble). After all, Martha