The Other Woman's Shoes by Adele Parks Page A

bag. She charged at Martha and started to wrestle the phone out of her hand. For such a small bird Martha was deceptively strong, and clung tightly to the handset.
    ‘Put the phone down, Martha.’
    ‘Please, please, please come home. We need to talk. I love you, Michael,’ Martha begged.
    ‘I’m going to switch my phone off now, Martha,’ said Michael calmly.
    ‘No, no, no, you can’t switch me off just like that. I’m your wife.’
    ‘Look, I’m sorry.’ He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded angry. He just wanted to get her off the line.
    ‘I’m your wife. I’m your wife. I’m–’
    ‘Put the phone down.’ Eliza snatched the phone from Martha and stabbed the off-button. ‘Haven’t you any self-respect?’ she demanded furiously.
    ‘No. Not any more.’ Martha slumped against the hall wall and started to sob loudly.
    Eliza wrapped her arms around her sister and rocked her gently to and fro. God, she’d like to kick the shit out of that bastard Michael. Martha’s face was twisted, almost beyond recognition; as she exhaled, she spat the air out: itstung Eliza’s cheek like pinpricks. Martha’s pain was so visible that Eliza wondered whether she might be able to catch it, box it up and throw it away.
    It had been a little over four weeks.
    Even Martha was beginning to understand that this was more than ‘a silly spat’.
    ‘Where are the kids?’
    ‘Maisie is taking a nap, Mathew is in the garden.’
    Eliza was relieved. Martha was at least ensuring that the children didn’t witness her collapse.
    ‘I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to call him,’ said Eliza. She knew that Michael wouldn’t have called Martha. He never called. He’d walked away from his wife, his children and his home without, as far as Eliza could see, as much as a backward glance. He’d only visited the children four times in the four weeks. All communication (usually frenzied, irrational and often drunken) was precipitated by Martha.
    ‘I had to call him. The estate agent rang.’
    ‘So you’ve told them that you won’t be taking the Bridleway?’
    ‘Not exactly.’
    ‘Martha, you have to tell them,’ Eliza insisted with exasperation. She broke away from her sister, walked through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She’d made hundreds of cups of tea in the last four weeks. She wasn’t sure if they helped any, but it was something to do. She felt useless. Having something to do, even something as trivial as putting the kettle on, was necessary. Sometimes Martha drank the tea; sometimes it went cold because Martha ignored it. Eliza made the tea and carried it backto her sister, who hadn’t moved an inch; it was beyond her. Eliza was struck again by how small Martha looked. Always a slim woman, she was disappearing before Eliza’s eyes. Sometimes Eliza was nervous of holding her too closely in case she snapped.
    ‘Do you want me to call them? You can’t keep them hanging on thinking they have a sale, honey. It’s not fair on the vendors.’
    ‘It’s not fair on me,’ exhorted Martha with a surprising measure of bitterness. ‘None of this is.’
    The last four weeks had been total hell. For four days, Michael wouldn’t even speak to Martha. He didn’t take or return her calls.
    Initially she had left bright and breezy messages:
    ‘Darling, are you there? This is so silly. Call me. Let’s sort this out.’
    ‘Are you picking up these messages? The children are in bed, it would be a good time to talk because it’s peaceful here. Have you eaten? I’ve made a lamb casserole, your favourite.’
    The casserole went uneaten and her tone became more concerned:
    ‘Michael, please call me back just to tell me you are safe and well.’
    She had nightmares of him doing something terrible to himself. She couldn’t sleep because she fell into panics, imagining him lying prone in some seedy hotel room, next to empty whisky and aspirin bottles. When by the Wednesday following his walkout he still hadn’t