Free The Other Woman's Shoes by Adele Parks Page A

To the end,’ mumbled Eliza, embarrassed at the unconventional nature of the toast.
    Greg took a sip and then a chance. ‘Will you sleep with me one last time? For old times’ sake.’ He smiled a slow, lazy smile, which drew lines around his eyes. Still, he didn’t look his age.
    Or act it, Eliza reminded herself. ‘No,’ she said as firmly as possible.
    ‘No,’ he repeated quietly, and dropped his head to stare intently at the glass of whisky he was holding. He swirled round the rich, amber liquid, which chased and caught the light of the late afternoon sun that was drifting into the room. The mood could have been romantic. ‘It’s over, isn’t it?’ he asked, forcing his gaze back upwards.
    ‘Yes,’ said Eliza. She examined her emotions. She was expecting to feel relieved, even a little bit jubilant. She didn’t. She felt horrible. But, she reminded herself, this was her first step on the road to respectability, and everyone knows that the first step is always the hardest.
    That’s why it hurts.
    Not because she’d just thrown away the best thing that had ever happened to her.

10
    Martha felt wonderful. Absolutely brimming with happiness and, good Lord, excitement even. It had been a while, but now she felt marvellous. Today had been perfect. Today was the type of day when you saw a space in the supermarket car park and you managed to reverse into it, first time, no hesitation. Today was the type of day when you were able to buy absolutely every ingredient on your list for your dinner party. Even chioca. The type of day when the children played happily together (Martha had a convenient memory and had already forgotten the torturous early morning), and your sister called round unexpectedly and you had a really lovely time just doing ordinary things like eating breakfast and buying the weekly groceries.
    Today was the day when the estate agent called up to tell you that your offer on your dream home had been accepted. Hurrah!
    An absolutely perfect day.
    ‘Michael, isn’t it wonderful?’ Martha didn’t pause for his response because she knew it was wonderful and she knew that Michael would think so too. ‘It will solve all our problems. A live-in nanny, pure bliss. Somewhere to air the towels and bed linen. A decent-size garden. A Wellington room.’ Martha pronounced the words ‘Wellington room’ with the same enthusiasm other womenreserve for thanking sex gods for multiple orgasms, but Martha didn’t know that – she’d never been with a sex god and she’d never benefited from multiple orgasms.
    Martha had returned home from the supermarket and immediately called the estate agent, as she had four or five times a day since they’d made the offer on the Bridleway. Martha was used to receiving the polite but uninspiring response, ‘They’re still mulling it over.’ She wasn’t aware of the estate agent’s exasperated eye-rolling at his colleagues, or of the fact that they all chorused ‘Mrs West again’ every time the phone rang. Martha would politely and somewhat hopelessly respond, ‘Oh well, let me know as soon as you hear anything.’ Her comment was accompanied by a brave smile and a renewed silent prayer: ‘Please, please let them accept our offer.’
    So it was more than a surprise when the estate agent deviated from the established conversation pattern. ‘Ahh, Mrs West. I was just about to call you.’
    ‘Were you?’ Please, please, please God.
    ‘They’ve accepted your offer.’
    In those four, or technically five, words, all of Martha’s Christmases and birthdays came at once.
    Martha had unpacked the shopping, fed the children, played with them all afternoon, taken them to the swings, fed them again, bathed them, read them a story, prepared dinner for six, showered, washed her hair, got dressed and made up, all in an unprecedented state of exhilaration.
    It was the perfect day.
    Martha allowed her chatter to run on and on as she dashed around the kitchen, completing the