Free How to Be a Good Wife by Emma Chapman Page A

stare at her. Her pretty, unblemished face shines back at me. Watching Kylan’s arm move around her back, pulling her closer towards him, I feel something cold shifting in my stomach.
    ‘Can I get anyone a drink?’ I say, taking a step towards the kitchen.
    ‘I can get them—’ Hector says.
    ‘Take them through to the living room, Hector. The fire’s lit.’
    They stare at me and no one answers. I feel like I am about to scream.
    ‘I’ll have a beer,’ Hector says.
    ‘Me too,’ Kylan says.
    ‘Do you have gin and tonic?’ Katya asks.
    ‘I have your favourite beer,’ I say, looking only at Kylan. ‘I bought it specially.’ He looks down at his feet.
    In the kitchen, I put my hands on the edge of the counter and listen until they are out of the hall. They don’t move. Through the crack in the kitchen door, over the echoes of my breathing and heartbeat, I hear them.
    Once I am sure they are gone, shuffling through to the living room, I lean over and vomit quickly into the sink. A slithering trail of brown runs across the stainless steel. Behind my eyelids, there’s the pressure of a dim bedroom: Kylan’s little hand on my shoulder, the crease between his wide eyes. The same look of concentration and worry, familiar from hours of maths homework. I remember his football kit, his muddy knees, the smell of the wet hairs at the nape of his neck.
    Turning on the tap, I rub at the mess until it is clean again. Then I wipe and rinse my mouth, wash my hands, and take one tumbler, two tankards, and a wine glass out of the cupboard.
    I slop gin and tonic water into the tumbler without measuring them. Cutting a lemon with unsteady hands, I see the knife glint under the kitchen light. I hold it in my hand for a moment; I feel an itch on my wrist, along the slender bone on the underside where the blue veins run. I go to rub the feeling away with the blade of the knife: as soon as the metal touches my skin, it clatters onto the sideboard.
    They stop talking for a narrow moment as I enter the living room, then continue with false normality. I am aware of being watched as I hand the drinks out, leaving Kylan’s until last. Katya says thank you. When I give Kylan his, he takes the glass without looking at me, his hand still resting on Katya’s back.
    The doorbell rings. Hector’s mother stands on the doorstep. She seems smaller than I remember, older: the lines on her face coated with powder, accentuating the fine hairs on her cheeks. She wears an old blue suit which I recognize, and matching blue eye shadow. She steps forward, handing me a bunch of yellow carnations wrapped in tight cellophane.
    ‘These are for you,’ she says. ‘Brighten the place up a bit.’
    ‘Thank you, Matilda,’ I say, standing back to let her in. ‘Can I take your jacket?’
    She ignores me, looking around the room. This house is still her territory.
    She starts to take off her jacket, watching me with her cloudy blue eyes. I turn away first, hanging her coat over the stairs.
    ‘Where’s Hector?’ she asks.
    ‘He’s in the living room with Kylan and his girlfriend,’ I say.
    She walks slowly across the hallway, her hip obviously making her uncomfortable. I don’t help her.
    ‘Kylan,’ she says, reaching the door. ‘Come and give your old grandmother a kiss.’ Tufts of white hair surround her head like a halo. Kylan bends to kiss her: she brushes his cheekbone leaving a trail of shimmering pink.
    Matilda looks across at Katya.
    ‘This is my girlfriend, Katya,’ Kylan says.
    Matilda scans her. ‘It’s lovely to meet you at last,’ she says. ‘Hector has told me a lot about you.’
    ‘You too,’ Katya says. I want to warn her.
    Hector kisses his mother, and has his hair fussily smoothed. ‘Let’s have a look at you, Hector,’ Matilda says, holding him at arm’s length. She frowns. ‘You look as if you need feeding up.’ She looks at me, and I pretend not to notice, though my skin crawls.
    ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I