How to Be a Good Wife (11 page)

He rolled onto his side afterwards, and I watched his pupils get smaller. Almost immediately, he sat up, and began to get dressed. The bed was damp between my legs, and I pulled my dress down, feeling a tear roll down the side of my face.

Hector went to stand at the window, a shadow against the bright outside light.

I tried not to make any sound.

‘We’ll go for a walk before dinner,’ he said.

I pulled myself up. Hector turned and looked at me. He came closer, kneeling on the floor at my feet.

‘You look amazing in that dress,’ he said, ‘Mrs Bjornstad.’

Through the kitchen door, I can hear them laughing in the dining room. I can still hear Hector’s voice, close in my ear.

I take the ramekins of chocolate mousse out of the fridge and line them up neatly on a tray with a jug of cream. Each time I pick them up, one or other of the ramekins falls out of their neat formation, and I have to stop and straighten them again.
Presentation is everything: a meal must look appetizing to be appetizing.
I pick up the tray; it happens again. I slam the tray down onto the counter: the ramekins clash together and some of the cream escapes from the jug. My hands are trembling now: I hold them out in front of me, trying to steady them. I dig my fingers into my palms until my raw fingernails ache: until I feel like my fingers might break.

*

I pass the ramekins around the table, watching Kylan dig his spoon into his chocolate pot, making a dip which he fills with cream, just as he has always done.

‘How is everything at school, Hector?’ Matilda is asking.

‘Oh, you know,’ he says, ‘same old.’ Hector is looking down at his dessert.

‘Did you know that Hector is a teacher, Katya?’ Matilda asks. Katya nods. ‘The pupils just love him. Don’t they, Hector?’ Matilda places her hand on Hector’s arm, squeezing it. I fight the urge to bat it away.

‘I don’t know about that, Mother,’ he says.

‘Oh, Hector,’ she says, ‘don’t be modest.’ Matilda turns to Katya again. ‘He’s so dedicated to helping them achieve their goals.’

‘Where do you teach, Hector?’ Katya asks, chocolate on her front teeth. Her pink tongue emerges quickly and it is gone.

‘At a school across the valley,’ he says.

‘You should see his notice board upstairs, Katya,’ Matilda says. ‘It’s covered with notes from his students.’ She turns to Hector. ‘Show her after dinner, Hector. She’d like that.’

I see Hector, striding through the fading sunlight past the bleached brick of the school building, a book under his arm. I am watching through the car window, and he doesn’t see me: I am parked out of sight. It is after hours: Kylan is at some after-school activity at the high school, and though I wasn’t sure where I was going when I set off from the house, I am not surprised to find myself here.

It was a long time until I saw him walk out of the building again, and most of the other cars were gone. He wasn’t alone: there was a student with him, a girl who must have been in the final year. I wondered if this was the girl he had told me about, the one who
had potential
, his latest after-school project. They stood on the steps, talking, her face leaning in close as if she was telling him a secret. Then she smiled a shy half-smile, and turned away. Hector took hold of her arm, and pulled her towards him, and for a split second, they embraced. The girl turned away from him then, walking straight past my car without seeing me, her face flushed. Hector went the other way, getting into his car and pulling out of the car park.

I stand up. Everyone turns away from Hector to look at me. He must have been telling a story.

My head rings and I need to lie down, to think it over.

With unsteady hands, I collect the ramekins back onto the tray and walk back through to the kitchen.

‘Is she all right?’ I hear Matilda asking, but I keep walking.

‘She’s fine, Mother,’ Hector says.

In the kitchen, I put the tray down and lean over the sink, taking deep breaths. I shut my eyes, trying to bring back the memory, to examine whether it was real or not. But I know that it is: I can feel the uncomfortable warmth from the car heaters, and see Hector’s hands around the girl’s waist.

I hear the door open behind me. I turn around, and Hector is there.

‘Marta,’ he says, ‘I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I wish you would pull yourself together. You are ruining the evening.’

I want to confront him, to ask him about the girl I saw him with, about the others. But I hear the rumble of Kylan’s voice from the dining room, Katya’s laughter, and I don’t want to cause a scene.

He stands in the doorway, staring at me, a little stooped, his hair more greying than I remember. He looks pitiable, and before I can stop myself I feel the laughter rising. No one is going to find him attractive any more, I think. That’s when I realize I don’t care; he can have all the students he likes.

‘What are you laughing about?’ he says, moving towards me.

My heart beats faster, but I can’t stop.

‘Marta, what the hell is so funny?’

I feel his growing anger almost as if it is my own: I know I am on unstable ground.

‘Marta, stop it.’

He has hold of my arm now.

‘What the hell is wrong with you tonight?’

There is a sound in the doorway and he turns his head. Katya is standing there, watching us. Hector lets go of my arm.

Her mouth is open and it takes a moment for her to say anything. ‘I was just looking for the toilet.’

‘It’s down the hall on the left,’ Hector says, and I can hear the effort it has taken to keep his voice level.

Katya nods, and turns away.

Hector turns back to me, his face red.

‘Now see what you’ve done,’ he says. ‘Can’t you behave yourself when we have guests?’

My smile edges in again: I feel as if I am not a part of this situation.

‘I’ll do the washing up,’ I say, turning on the taps at the sink.

He stands there for some time.

‘Go and see the others,’ I say. ‘They’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.’

Eventually, I hear his footsteps retreating.

Through the crack in the kitchen door, I see the shadowy figures go into the living room, and hear a CD begin to play on the stereo. I work my way through the washing up slowly. Below the surface of the water, below the soap suds, I feel something stringy and wet floating, like seaweed, brushing past my hands. I feel around under the surface, and the substance becomes thicker, filling the sink. Pulling my hands out, I realize the sink is full of hair, matted together in clumps, enough hair to fill the entire bowl. It wraps itself around my hands: I try to free my fingers but they are caught. Dimly, I remember the feeling of wet hair under my fingers: I feel a shooting pain in my neck.

‘Marta?’

I look up. She is leaning against the frame of the kitchen doorway, watching me, wearing a big red coat with the hood pulled up. Her blonde hair escapes from the sides of the material and her cheeks are flushed with cold. She carries a sports bag and I can see her peach tights protruding from the bottom of the coat. She is smiling her wide white smile.

‘How do you know that name?’ I say.

She stares. She is wearing black eyeliner. She looks so young.

‘I thought you wanted me to call you Marta,’ she says. I blink, and Katya is standing there, in her flowery dress. She looks confused.

I look down at the sink. My hands are still below the surface of the water, but there is nothing there.

‘Did you want something?’ I say.

‘I just came to see if you needed any help,’ she says.

‘It’s fine. Go back in there and enjoy yourself.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

She is still standing there. ‘Marta?’ she asks. ‘I’m so sorry I asked about your parents. I didn’t know.’

No,
I think,
you don’t know.

‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Honestly. It was a long time ago.’

‘It must have been hard, to hear me talk about the wedding preparations if your parents weren’t there for yours,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’

She’s trying to bond with me, and it makes me sick. I want to push her out of the room and shut the door.

‘Really, Katya,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

She turns to leave and then stops. ‘And thanks again for dinner. It was delicious.’

No it wasn’t
, I want to shout. I step towards her and grasp hold of her hand. And there it is again: her ring. She stares back at me, wide-eyed.

‘Katya,’ I say. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Do what?’ she says.

‘Get married.’

She looks down at my hand, over hers. ‘I’m really excited about it,’ she says. ‘I love Kylan.’

I let go of her. ‘It’s your decision too,’ I say. ‘Just remember that.’

‘I love Kylan,’ she says. I want to shake her.

I look into the water in the sink.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Bjornstad?’

I wipe my eyes. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Please don’t tell Kylan I said anything.’

When she is gone, my hands are shaking, the rage vibrating through my body. I shut my eyes, but all I see is her young, perfect face, smiling sweetly back at me. I imagine them having their own children, a little boy like Kylan, a little girl with blonde hair: I see a perfect family picture. And I will always be on the outside.

Behind my eyes, the family picture refuses to fade. A man and a woman stand arm in arm under a wide dark tree, the sunlight in their faces. The man’s hair is sandy, split down the middle like Kylan’s, but the woman is different to Katya, her hair darker and longer, her feet bare. Between them stands a girl in her early teens, smiling, wincing at the camera, her features erased by the light. The picture begins to dim, and I cling to it, longing to understand who the people are. There’s a roaring sadness in my chest that feels as if it is pressing to escape, and I lean against the sink, waiting for it to pass.

My hand reaches out for the phone on the kitchen wall. The numbers are there, on the edge of my mind, and I type them in fast, before they fade again. I hold the phone up to my ear. It rings and rings but there is no answer.

I put down the phone and pick it up again, but when I try to remember the number, it is gone. For a long time, I screw my eyes tight shut, willing the picture back, but it doesn’t come.

Eventually, I take another bowl and continue with the washing up.

Once the house is back to normal, I go to the living room. The CD has been turned off and the television is on.

I tell them I am going to bed, and head upstairs.

I check the rooms, laying clean towels on each of the beds. Normally, I would put a hot-water bottle under Kylan’s sheets for him to find, but I see Katya’s suitcase on the floor of the guest bedroom and I know I can’t do that any more.

In the bathroom, I fill the basin with water, shut my eyes, and wash my face. I rub my face on a towel, and when I look up, she is there in the mirror next to me. Her hair is still white blonde: a little greasy, and tied in a shiny ponytail. She wears the pyjamas with the pink hearts, but they are clean now. Side by side, her leg is wider, denser, than mine. She hasn’t lost the weight yet. I put my hand out, squeezing the hard muscle. She tenses her leg, stretching it out and pointing her toes. Then she begins the exercises: swinging her leg out to the side, the front, and then the back, pushing it up as far as it will go. As she lifts her arms, they are inches from my face, her fingernails unbitten.

I begin to copy her and our movements align, our legs next to each other. She can get hers higher than mine, much higher; her movements are more fluid. We rise onto our tiptoes, and I feel my muscles elongate. I touch the ceiling and hold, hold, hold.

When I lower myself back down, she is gone. My heart pounds in my chest; my arms and legs tingle.

Entering the bedroom, I look around to check if she is still there. Though I can’t see her, I feel her watching me as I undress and pull my woollen nightgown over my head. I slip under the covers and shut my eyes, trying to ignore the sounds from downstairs, to drift off to sleep.

*

I wake up to screaming in the darkness. It is loud, piercing. Soon, the sounds turn into words.
Help me, somebody, please.
Sometimes it stops, and beyond it, through the silence, I can hear the whirring of a fan. Then it starts again.

‘Marta?’

I blink in the darkness, not sure whether my eyes are open or shut. There is the familiar sense of dread.

The light flicks on. The clock on the bedside table reads 03:07. Hector is beside me in the bed, his eyes bleary with sleep, flat and unreadable.

‘You were screaming,’ he says, as though he knows he doesn’t need to.

I feel the softness of the ironed sheets, the warmth of the bedside lamp.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. It’s the old conversation, and I remember my part.

‘Bad dream?’ he asks.

I think, as if I can’t remember, then nod. I don’t think I was asleep at all.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he says. He has learnt, by now, that the answer is always no.

‘I’m fine,’ I say.

He looks at me one last time, then rolls onto his back. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to get back to sleep?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I say, and Hector flicks out the light.

I lie in the yawning darkness. My stomach is heavy, as if it is filled with jagged black stones. I raise my hand up to my face, but I see nothing and I squeeze my eyelids together to check they are closed. I count to a hundred. I do it again. Nothing changes.

Then I hear her voice, whispering: her breath is warm in my ear.

They’ll never find me. I don’t even know where I am.

Then she is screaming again.

I can’t stand it. With my head resting on the pillow, I put my fingers in my ears.

When I pull my hands away, she has stopped. There is only silence now, and that is worse, because it means she has gone again.

The light begins to glow at the edge of the curtains, tattooing the wall with squares of blue. My face feels tight and achy in the dim bedroom.