Free The Other Woman's Shoes by Adele Parks

determination she pushed knickers inside of shoes, weighed down slippery, flimsy dresses with heavy jumpers.
    ‘I want matching crockery, I want shiny cutlery, I want private health care and travel insurance. I want a mortgage, not a rent book. I want dinner parties, I want to visit supermarkets and B&Q.’
    ‘You can’t be serious. B&Q is always full of angry, resentful couples,’ argued Greg.
    ‘I want to be an angry, resentful couple,’ yelled Eliza without really thinking what she was asking for.
    ‘Well, you’ve got that at least, chick.’ Greg tried to smile – he wanted to appear flip and fearless; he was sure he sounded bitter and sad.
    ‘No. We’re not a couple, Greg, that’s what I’m trying to say. I want a partner, not a boyfriend.’
    Greg started to roar. ‘Now I know you’re having a laugh. You’ve always hated the word part-ner .’ He said it in the stupid voice they both always used whenever they said the word and with the ‘carrot-up-the-bum’ expression they usually adopted when introduced to someone who insisted on referring to their lover as their partner. ‘You don’t want a part-ner . I don’t believe you.’
    Eliza stopped rolling garments into tight angry balls and froze. It was true she didn’t want a part-ner . She seriously doubted her ability ever to say the word out loud without the aid of fury or a silly expression. But she did want security, stability and respectability. She wanted to own furniture that wasn’t so scanky that it had to be covered by tie-dye throws (which in point of fact were also scanky). She wanted to collect Denby pottery, not DVDs. She wanted stacks of Tupperware, smart pans with matching lids, and a fridge without the magnets arranged to spell rude words. She wanted all the things Martha had. And, most of all, she wanted a husband.
    ‘I want to get married,’ admitted Eliza. She dragged her eyes from the carpet and stared at Greg. Her look was defiant, this wasn’t a romantic proposal; it was a challenge.
    Greg knew this instantly. He could see the gun that was being held to his head as clearly as he could see his own reflection in the mirror.
    Eliza waited. It was possible, just possible, that he’d say, ‘OK let’s do it.’ She’d even do the Vegas thing and be married by Elvis, if that’s what he wanted (although she secretly longed for a replica of her sister’s fairytale wedding).
    ‘I see,’ muttered Greg. ‘I think I need a drink.’
    That’s not the proper answer, steamed Eliza silently. She angrily tried to force the zip of the case to close. It wouldn’t – she had to sit on it. She jumped on top of the case and bounced up and down, and centimetre by centimetre the teeth of the zip locked together.
    Greg came back into the bedroom. He was carrying a half-empty bottle of whisky and two glasses. Eliza noticed that the glasses didn’t even match – typical. Greg handed her one glass, which she mutely took. He unscrewed the cap of the bottle with his mouth and sloshed generous measures into both glasses.
    He had beautiful fingers.
    ‘So tell me again. Why do you want to get married? Because you want matching crockery and cutlery, and private health care and a mortgage?’
    ‘Yes,’ sighed Eliza. She knew that she wasn’t being very clear, but she couldn’t find the words. ‘I want a grown-up life,’ she offered.
    ‘And we’re not that?’
    ‘No. We’re not.’
    ‘I thought we were, Liza. I thought being helplessly in love was grown up.’
    Eliza didn’t know what to say. She normally loved it when he called her ‘Liza’. It was so intimate because no one else ever shortened her name, never had; today she thought he was being impertinent.
    Greg stayed silent for a moment and then said, ‘We should drink a toast. What do you think we should drink to?’ Eliza couldn’t bring herself to look at him. ‘How about, “to the end of our affair”?’ he said and then clinked his glass up against Eliza’s.
    ‘Er.