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Автор Адель Паркс
PENGUIN BOOKS
The Other Woman’s 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,
The Other Woman’s Shoes
ADELE PARKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
PENGUIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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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 publisher’s
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: 978–0–141–90719–2
For Jim,
a 116, 834-word love letter.
(ancient proverb)
September
1
Martha wasn’t usually to be found on Earl’s 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 Martha’s 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 she’d said her thought aloud. No one was paying her the least bit of notice, which suggested she hadn’t.
It’s not that she was complaining about Michael’s lack of attention, it was just that… OK, she
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 she’d forgotten, or failed, or ruined something somehow, despite all her best efforts.
