Adele Parks - The Other Womans Shoes

PENGUIN BOOKS

The Other Womans Shoes

Adele Parks was born in the North-east of England. She read English Language and Literature at Leicester University. Since graduating she has lived in Italy and Africa. She now lives in London with her son and her soulmate. Her earlier novels, Playing Away, Game Over and Larger than Life, were all bestsellers and are published in fourteen different countries.

www.adeleparks.com

ADELE PARKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

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Published in Penguin Books 2003
1

Copyright Adele Parks, 2003
All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject
to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent,
re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers
prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

EISBN: 9780141907192

For Jim,
a 116, 834-word love letter.

If it were not for hope the heart would break.

(ancient proverb)

Martha wasnt usually to be found on Earls Court station in the middle of the afternoon. She rarely travelled by Tube at all; it was so impractical with the children. Not enough of the stations had lifts, and dragging ten-month-old Maisie and two-and-a-half-year-old Mathew (not to mention the related paraphernalia of double buggy, endless bags, several dolls, books, rain covers, etc, etc) up and down escalators or stairs was not Marthas idea of fun. Martha rarely went anywhere without the children so mostly she drove around London in the family car. But today the car was in the garage being serviced.

Lucky bloody car.

Martha looked around, guiltily, as though shed said her thought aloud. No one was paying her the least bit of notice, which suggested she hadnt.

Its not that she was complaining about Michaels lack of attention, it was just that OK, she was complaining.

The children were being looked after by her mother. Martha felt a little bit guilty about this too, although as guilt was the emotion Martha experienced most, she no longer even recognized that she was feeling guilty. Nor did she realize when she felt tense, stressed or even exhausted. She was terrifyingly used to the horrible dull ache in the pit of her stomach, the ache that told her shed forgotten, or failed, or ruined something somehow, despite all her best efforts.

Martha thought it was unfair to ask her mother to babysit just so she could go to the hairdressers, however much her mother insisted that it was a pleasure looking after the children. It seemed selfish. Shed visited Toni and Guys in Knightsbridge to have her hair cut by the amazing Stephen for over five years. Martha normally took the children with her to the salon, which was quite a challenge. One or the other, or both, usually screamed throughout, turning the experience into an ordeal rather than a treat. Martha had considered bringing them along today and taking a cab to avoid the Tube. But then she would have had to fit both car seats into the cab, and the driver always became impatient when she did that. Where would she have put the seats when she arrived at the hairdressers? Theyd have been in the way.

Martha hated being in the way, or causing any sort of scene at all, however minor. She liked to blend, to fit in. Ideally shed like to be altogether invisible. Besides which, Martha always felt cabs were just a tiny bit self-indulgent, and such extravagance was not her style. Indeed there could hardly be anything less Marthas style than self-indulgence, except perhaps fluorescent-pink hair accessories.

So it had been a toss-up. Luckily, her mother had taken the decision out of Marthas hands, by turning up with balloons and E-additives in the form of sweets and squash.

Martha fingered the already impeccably neat collar of her shirt and straightened it again. She checked her reflection in the shiny chocolate machine that stood, temptingly, on the platform. She brushed a few errant hairs from her shoulders. The cut was perfectly symmetrical. Martha went to the hairdressers on the first Friday of every month, at 2.15 p.m. Only the very observant would notice that her hair had been cut at all. It was an iota sharper, a fraction tidier. Martha was pleased with it, all the more so because you could hardly tell it had been done.

Marthas hair, like Martha, was neat, sleek, orderly. It was brown with subtle dark-blonde highlights. She loathed bed-hair, scrunched hair, artfully sculpted hair and even curls. Martha liked straight, reliable, controllable hair. Her heart went out to those women who had bad hair days. Imagine getting out of bed and having random bits of hair sticking out at jaunty, irresponsible angles. Or treacherous hair that went flat when it was supposed to be full, and full when it was supposed to be sleek. Martha breathed in deeply, fearful at the very thought.

Her coat was beige, pure wool, very long. It was tied with a belt, which showed off her neat waist. It wasnt a fashionable coat but it was a classic, and it was flattering. She wore 10-denier skin-tone tights (stockings were ludicrous, stay-ups simply didnt). She wore patent court shoes that shed bought in Russell and Bromley but somehow, on Martha, they appeared entirely Dr Scholl. The heel was a sensible inch and a half.

Under her coat she wore a neat tailored navy suit (not black, goodness, she wasnt a barrister and she certainly didnt work in advertising). Her shirt was pale blue and other than her wedding ring and engagement ring (a large cluster of diamonds), she didnt bother with jewellery, although she did wear a beautiful, expensive watch. Whilst women commented that Marthas skin, hair and nails were perfect and would agree to call her attractive, men were more likely to compliment her on her good brain (new man), or quiche lorraine (traditional-variety). She was popular with men who were turned on by school marms and the young Princess Diana. That type of man thought of her as extremely sexy.

It seemed to Martha that just about everybody on the platform at Earls Court thought just about everybody else on the platform was extremely sexy. She tried, very hard, to keep her eyes on the chocolate-bar machine.

It was about four oclock, school kicking-out time. The outrage was that all the people finding all the other people sexy were children. Martha wanted to keep her face impassive and not allow her mouth to tighten into a tell-tale grimace. But girls, aged anywhere between twelve and sixteen (Martha couldnt tell, who could nowadays?) were blatantly flirting with boys of the same age! Mathew would be this age in the blink of an eye. The thought caused the dull ache in the pit of Marthas stomach to flare into a spasm of searing anguish. It was September, they ought to have been wearing their jackets and there would certainly soon be a need for handkerchiefs, as these girls all insisted on sporting skirts the size of one.