The Thirty List. Eva Woods
and gorgeous, having been tempted along to the dance class by his supportive wise-cracking friend, in order to get past the traumatic break-up/bereavement/death of his cat he’d just suffered. He’d see me there in my new shoes and the socks underneath that had pigs on them and think, yes, this is the girl for me …
‘Lady needs a partner!’ Nikki was yelling behind me. ‘Single lady here! Needs a partner! Here you go, handsome gent for you, darlin’.’
I turned hopefully, looked up … then looked down. ‘Hi,’ said a voice from somewhere near my ribcage. ‘I’m Keith.’
As I reluctantly smiled down—way down—I heard an agonised cry from the other side of the room. Emma seemed to have broken Adrian’s foot.
I headed home after another day in the post-divorce world—or the post-split, pre-divorce world—tired, a little tipsy, with blisters on my feet from the new shoes. I wondered if this would be my life now. When we were at uni, I used to have a theory I called shoeology—studying Art History leaves you with a lot of time on your hands. The theory was this: relationships are like shoes. There are pretty ones you can’t bear to leave in the shop, though you know they will hurt you and ruin your bank balance. You walk tall in those, feeling sexy and strong—until the blisters start. Then there are comfy ones, which let you run and walk easily, until they start to lose their shape. You don’t want to wear them out of the house any more. You slump in those shoes, instead of walking tall. And with repeated wear they will simply fall apart.
There are relationships that are like slippers—nice for indoors, but you don’t want anyone to see you wearing them. There are situation-specific relationships, like flip-flops or snorkelling flippers—fine for holidays, for example, but with no place in your real life. A key point of shoeology was that nearly every pair hurt at first—like my new dance shoes had chafed. Perhaps the first time I went on a date with someone it would be the same—leaving me with cuts and blisters until I broke them in. And who even was there? Sexy Geek Man had, it turned out, come with his fiancée, a dumpy blonde with a ponytail who commandeered him for the cha-cha.
As I turned my key in the door and went in through the living room, I saw Patrick was putting something into the cupboard on the end—the locked one. ‘It’s me!’ I called needlessly. As I rounded into the kitchen, I saw him click the lock back on and wondered again what was in there—was it possible he shut away his valuables, that he didn’t trust me? That was a little depressing, though I supposed we hardly knew each other.
‘Oh, hello. I was just going to open some wine.’ I wondered if he drank a bottle every night. Dan and I used to do that, when things were very bad and we couldn’t talk about it, but I’d cut back since Cynthia had given me a booklet called ‘Are you an early-stage addict?’ after the night when I had to go and make myself sick in the toilets at All Bar One. I decided I’d just have a few sips. He did pick the best wines, rich and bursting on the tongue. I suspected he did not buy the ones with orange stickers on from the Londis round the corner.
‘Good night?’
‘Mmm. I’m not sure.’ I told him about the Keiths and Adrians, the sweating and the difficulties of correctly crossing in the tango. ‘I used to think I was a fairly good dancer, but seriously, I couldn’t even do it right once.’
He stood up, holding his hands out to me after wiping them on his cords. ‘Come here a second.’
Startled, I did. He was very close suddenly, and the wool of his jumper tickled my face. He smelled of lemons and fabric softener. ‘Is it like this?’ And he’d twisted me into a perfect cross.
‘Yes! Why couldn’t I get it before?’
‘The man is supposed to lead. If it’s not working, then it’s his fault.’ He dropped my hands quickly, sat down again. ‘We had lessons. You know, for the wedding and that. Me and … my ex-wife. Wife. Whatever.’ He seemed unable to say her name. ‘She wanted this whole routine, to wow people. I’d always hated dancing, but I suppose I sort of enjoyed it. She didn’t like letting me lead though.’
‘Yeah, it is a bit sexist.’ Oops, half the delicious wine was gone already. ‘How’s Alex feeling about the whole thing?’
His face changed. ‘He’s fine. They keep in touch, and there’s Skype and stuff … you know. I’ve been trying not to let him hear anything about her affair. It’s always assumed men are the ones who do it, but when you find out your wife cheated, well, it hurts.’
The topic was making me squirm. I didn’t want to talk about this, or think about it. He misread my reaction. ‘Rachel. I’m sorry. I’m completely oversharing and we barely know each other.’
‘No, I don’t mind. It’s …’
‘I’m sorry. I should let you get to bed. I tend to ramble on, I know.’ Suddenly, we’d gone back to landlord and tenant, not what I wanted. He was washing the dishes, putting the bottle in the correct recycling bin, so I went up the three flights of stairs with my new shoes in hand. My blisters throbbed as I slipped my feet under the covers. I used to think Dan was a one-in-a-million shoe—those sexy heels you can dance in all night and still run in to catch the bus, that would shield me from the broken glass and chewing gum of life’s pavements, and would never leave me with blisters. Then they started to chafe and bind, so some days I felt as if I might leave bloody footprints on the ground.
There’s a lesson there—it’s hard to wear one pair of shoes for the rest of your life. That and always keep the receipt.
Outside the door was the sound of squishing. Blop blop blop. I put down the box I was reluctantly unpacking and listened. ‘Alex?’
There was quiet for a moment. Then a small voice said, ‘It’s not me.’
I got up from my table and opened the door. ‘Hey, look, it is you.’
His face creased in existential uncertainty. He was wearing his yellow mac and red wellies, and on his head his train driver’s cap flattened his gorgeous dark fuzz. ‘What’s in there today?’ I indicated his wellies. Patrick encouraged him to wear them for some reason, both out of the house and in.
He stepped carefully from one foot to the other. ‘Guess.’
Something dry. ‘Crisps?’ I guessed. He nodded. ‘What type?’
‘Orange ones.’
‘Wotsits? You’ve got Wotsits in your wellies?’
He nodded solemnly.
In the time I’d spent in this house so far, I had picked up that Alex had a weird habit of putting things in his wellies. Mostly food—Angel Delight, avocado, biscuits—but also gravel, marbles and once his friend Zoltan’s hamster. Luckily, Harry was rescued before any feet went into the boots, and Alex received a lecture about not putting living things in the wellies—and yes, frogspawn counted.
‘Why does he do it?’ I’d asked Patrick, over what had become our nightly glass of wine.
‘I think it’s something to do with safety—he puts in things he likes. To keep them there, maybe.’
I didn’t want to ask why Alex would be afraid of losing the things he loved, and for a moment, I felt stunned by gratitude that Dan and I hadn’t managed to have a baby. I couldn’t imagine bringing a child into the middle of everything that was going on.
‘What are you doing?’ Alex was watching me setting out my art supplies on my new desk. ‘Are you colouring in?’
‘Sort