The Other Woman's Shoes Read Online Free PDF

sister’s.
    ‘Eliza!’ Martha called out, although she didn’t like shouting.
    Eliza turned round. Her expression of exasperation melted as she recognized her sister and niece. She rushed back towards them and enveloped Martha in a huge hug and planted a fat kiss on Maisie’s tear-stained cheek. ‘Martha, fantastic to see you,’ she beamed. ‘Not your neck of the woods, doll.’
    Though the women lived less than a mile apart (Eliza lived in Shepherd’s Bush and Martha lived in Holland Park) their neighbourhoods were worlds apart. Shepherd’s Bush was all Poundstretcher and betting shops, with an above average number of newsagents that sold Lottery tickets. Holland Park was a dizzy blur of expensive florists and stunning patisseries. Eliza was right to be surprised to see Martha on her doorstep.
    ‘When we last visited you I noticed the shops that sell Indian saris, and I wanted to take a closer look at the fabrics – you know, for inspiration, colours and things,’ explained Martha.
    ‘Project Dream House?’ asked Eliza. Eliza knew that Project Dream House was about all that could induce Martha to venture to W12. Martha, Michael and the children had only ever visited Eliza in Greg’s flat three times, although she’d lived there for four years. Eliza visited their home at least once a week, sometimes three or four times. Eliza was well aware of Martha’s views that Shepherd’s Bush wasn’t a desirable place to bring the children to. Eliza thought Martha was snobby and overprotective, Martha thought Eliza was irresponsible and imperilled. They loved each other fiercely.
    ‘And how is Project Dream House developing?’ continued Eliza.
    ‘We’re waiting to hear if the vendors will accept our offer. I expect we’ll hear any day now.’
    Many people have ideas about their dream home. They say, ‘I’d like a hot tub and a forty-foot swimming pool’, they wish for something flashy, flamboyant and often unrealistic. No more expected than their numbers coming up on the Lottery; it could happen but it probably won’t. Martha’s concept of her dream home was much more sincere than that.
    Martha’s dream home was the fabric of her self. Since her teens she’d been filling a scrapbook (and when that was full, a box) to be the inspiration for her dream home. She’d collected magazine pictures that had caught her eye, mostly of sunny kitchens and fun-looking children’s bedrooms. As she grew more confident in her own creative abilities, she saved a leaf and stored it carefully in her box (because one day she wanted to paint a bathroom that exact same shade of rust), along with a glass marble she’d bought in a toyshop (because she liked the way the colours slipped into one another). She squirrelled away pieces of rich fabrics, textured stones and pebbles, pretty tiles and pottery. Martha spent hours mixing paints when she did craft with Mathew, in an attempt to get the perfect blue (the blue of a troubled sea before a storm), and the exact red (the pinkish red of lazy Spanish walls that just about propped up the terracotta roofs on the sleepy houses). She often went into a haberdasher’s and gazed and gazed at the bobbins of cotton: a myriad colours, wonderful rich magentas, soulful greys and lilacs, every nuance of vibrant green. She’d buy the reels and add them to her treasure box.
    Her interest was not just about the cosmetic side. Whilst she did buy countless magazines and books about interior design, she also became an expert on the technical aspects of creating a dream home. She knew everything there was to know about renewing roofs, damp-proofing joists, tiling, polishing, converting, dismantling, restoring and maintaining.
    Her dream house would be a big house but not ostentatious; the rooms would be light and airy, south-facing. There would be enough bedrooms for the children still to sleep separately, to have lots of friends and family to stay in comfort. Maybe they’d even have a live-in