Emma Chapman - How to Be a Good Wife

I get out of bed, creeping towards the bedroom door so as not to wake Hector. He likes to sleep in on Saturdays, and I have a lot to do for this evening. He’ll be down at about nine for his eggs, and I will have them ready.

Downstairs, I clear the mess in the living room: scooping up the newspaper, putting Hector’s shoes into the hall cupboard, straightening the cushions, drawing the curtains.

Clear away any untidiness. Catering to his comfort will give you an immense sense of personal satisfaction.

Setting up the ironing board, I put on my 20 Romantic Classical Favourites CD and work to the ‘Moonlight Sonata’. Everything gets ironed, including Hector’s underpants.

Find little jobs that will make his life easier and more pleasant.

Listening to the rise and swell of the music, the muscles in my legs begin to twitch, as if I have trapped a nerve. They long to be stretched. Putting the iron down, I place my hands face down on the ironing board. As I point my toes, my legs lengthen and the gentle hairs catch the light. The music reaches a crescendo and I pull my leg up further, ignoring a tremor of pain.

Letting go, I move the ironing board and rise up onto the tips of my toes in one motion, feeling the arch of my foot. Stepping from one foot to the other, I lift my curved arms backwards and then forwards. My body knows what to do. I rise onto one leg, sweeping the other in a semicircle, raising my arms and turning, turning, turning, always bringing my head back to the same point.

Just as I am beginning to overbalance, I feel a hand catch my leg and hold it, helping take the weight. There is another hand on the small of my back. I open my eyes and the girl from last night is there, smiling, swaying a little to the music as she supports me, her eyes closed.

I stay very still, not wanting her to go. Her blonde hair isn’t as messy, tied up high on her head. The white pyjamas she was wearing the last time I saw her are clean now, too short at the arms and legs, dotted with tiny pink hearts. Her body is more filled out, and I can see the muscles of her legs, and the definition of her stomach. She opens her eyes and looks right at me.

‘What are you doing?’

I jump, and turn towards the living-room door. Hector is standing there, watching me. I feel my cheeks redden. When I look behind me, she is gone.

‘I didn’t think you were up yet,’ I say, my heart pounding.

A smile cracks the corner of Hector’s mouth. ‘You look ridiculous,’ he says. ‘What was that supposed to be?’

I look down at the floor.

He laughs then, short and sharp. ‘You looked like a crazy person. Dancing in your nightgown. Whatever next? Just wait until I tell Kylan.’

I shoot him a look. ‘Don’t, Hector,’ I say. ‘Please.’

He smiles. ‘I won’t,’ he says, moving closer, putting his hand on my back where hers was a moment ago. ‘Not if you don’t want me to.’ He rubs my back, up and down. ‘Have you taken your pill?’ he says.

‘Not yet,’ I say.

Hector leaves the room, returning with the bottle.

‘Open your mouth,’ he says.

He takes out a pink pill and puts it in my mouth. I mock-swallow, letting the pill slip underneath my tongue, then open again. He nods.

Once he has left, I spit the pill into my hand, going to the fireplace and dropping it into the grate. Then I move the ironing board back into place and continue to work.

There is something, just out of reach, which I can feel shifting inside me. I shut my eyes, willing it to come forward. It’s a smell first, of detergent and sweat, and a rapid image that shuttles before my eyes too fast for me to grasp. Hard, shiny wood floors, a wall lined with mirrors. The tight material against my legs, my hair scraped back and held aloft with too many sharp pins. Then the chords: classical music played softly, a few bars and then nothing. The picture spreads for a moment like ink through blotting paper, and then, just as quickly, it is gone.

After what feels like a long time, Hector re-enters the room. He walks slowly to his chair, easing himself into it. I hear the newspaper open. The only sound is the rustle of the pages and the hiss of the iron. The palm of my hand is slippery with sweat, making it hard to get a good grip.

Some time later, when I am finished, I turn to lift the pile of ironed clothes into the basket, and catch a glimpse of him. He holds the newspaper up, but he is staring straight past it, at the far wall. He looks so tired and old and drawn, his half-moon spectacles resting on his nose. His face is clouded with something I can’t read. I almost don’t recognize him.

I stand by the ironing board and watch as he lets the newspaper crumple in his lap, dropping his head into his hands. The iron hisses.

He lifts his head and looks at me. I can barely stand it. He is expecting something. I should know what to do.

Comfort him in times of stress. Speak in a low, soft voice to reassure him of your support.

‘Hector?’ I say. ‘Do you want some eggs?’

He gets up, lifting himself out of the chair. Standing behind me, he puts his arms around my waist, resting his neck onto my shoulder.

‘We’ve been happy together, haven’t we?’ he asks.

I nod, my hair brushing against his cheek.

‘Don’t ever leave me,’ he says softly.

‘I won’t,’ I say.

‘Tell me you love me,’ he says.

‘I love you, Hector,’ I say.

He turns me around, pulling me towards him and kissing me on the mouth, his eyes still open.

He releases me, then he smiles and walks towards the door. There’s the sound of the front door slamming, and the car starting up in the drive.

Hector leaves the house at eight thirty. After getting dressed in some old clothes, I fetch the duster and cleaning spray from under the sink and return to the living room. Starting at the bay window, I wipe down everything, making sure not to miss a spot.

I reach Hector’s chess set, in pride of place on the table in the centre of the room. Sitting on the floor, I rub one piece at a time, turning to look out of the window as I work. Behind me, I hear the sound of a marble chess piece sliding across the board. I turn and see her sitting cross-legged on the floor, her legs so thin that the gaps between them are vast. Her hand is still on a white pawn, which she has pushed forward two spaces.

I look at her face: the dirty, narrow cheeks; the matted hair; her glowing grey eyes. She smiles as I slide a black pawn forward to meet hers, her white teeth too large in her head. She takes her turn, her legs jigging in the white pyjamas.

As I am wondering what has happened since the last time I saw her, I feel her hand over mine. Looking down at our two hands together, I see both sets of fingernails are bitten to the quick, raw at the edges. I put my other hand on top of hers, and suddenly, her hand is gone and the room is empty.

The pieces on the chess board are paused, mid-game. I wonder if that proves that she was really here. It felt real: I can still feel her cold hand over mine. I imagine telling Hector about it, and I see his face falling, then hear the rattle of the pill bottle.

I think of the house, of Kylan coming home, and I want to make him proud of me. I don’t want to disappoint them again.

One after another, I move from room to room, cleaning everything in sight, until the whole house shines. I don’t stop to look around or to check my progress. A few times, I remember the hidden cigarettes under the mattress, but I am not tempted to take a break. It feels good to be busy, to be working hard, and I barely think about Hector or what he is doing out for so long. It is like the old days, when Kylan was young, and I never had a moment to myself. It’s not until I am wiping down the final stretch of kitchen surface that I look up at the window in the kitchen and realize the light is fading already, that the day is nearly gone. It’s four p.m.