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

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    She turns to Hector, smiling sweetly. ‘I’d love a gin and tonic.’
    ‘Of course, Mother,’ Hector says, moving towards the living-room door.
    I intercept him. ‘I’ll get it.’
    ‘I don’t mind—’
    ‘I’ll get it, Hector,’ I say. ‘I need to put these in some water.’ I lift the flowers in my hands, watching a yellow petal fall towards the ground.
    Hector turns back and joins the circle behind me. I stand on the outside for a moment, trying to catch Kylan’s eye. He is laughing at something his father is saying, and as he laughs, he tenses his arm around Katya, pulling her closer. I watch the taut muscles in his upper arm. Katya flicks her hair out of her eyes, and I feel a searing ache spread through my body as I watch her smile up at him.
    In the kitchen, I take some scissors and cut the cellophane away from the flowers. I breathe out, separating them onto the worktop, touching the edges of the snipped stems. Filling a bucket with water, I drop the flowers in and open the patio doors, putting them outside where they belong. They will only die faster in the house.
    I check on the food, skirting the edge of the soup pan with a wooden spoon, smiling at its perfect consistency. I make another gin and tonic.
    When I look up, Matilda is there, standing in the doorway, her wrinkled hands on her wide hips. I turn to face her.
    ‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask.
    She takes two steps into the room.
    ‘Do you need any help?’ she asks.
    Automatically, I step back, out of her way.
    ‘I’m all right,’ I say. ‘Everything’s pretty much ready.’
    She reaches out to lift up the lid of the stew pot. Steam escapes into the kitchen, and she sniffs the air. Then she picks up the spoon from the side of the stove, ladles out some of the sauce, and sips it. She shuts her eyes, letting the hot liquid travel down her throat.
    As I watch her, I remember a younger Matilda, full-bodied and wearing a red apron matching mine. After the wedding, she would come every Sunday, for my lessons. It almost makes me laugh that I ever thought I stood a chance of meeting her expectations. I was taking a job she didn’t want to give up, especially since Hector’s father had passed away. Despite the fact she had pressured Hector into finding a wife, she wasn’t going to make it easy to take over from her. Hector would sit at the kitchen table, watching us. He was always annoyed with me after she left, barely speaking to me for the rest of the afternoon. I had disappointed him by failing to impress her, as he had failed before me.
    Now, Matilda is still standing with her eyes closed, tasting my stew.
    ‘Needs more salt,’ she says. Then she turns around, picks up her gin and tonic from the sideboard, and leaves the room.
    When she is gone, I lift the lid of the pan. Picking up the large salt container, I hold it over the stew, watching the smooth white trail disappear. I pour until the container is empty.
    I run yet another bowl of soapy water at the sink, watching the steam rise. When the bowl is full, I turn off the taps, and plunge my hands below the surface, the heat tingling at the tips of my raw fingernails. I feel her hands slipping over mine, clasping my fingers, rubbing them. My eyes shut, her breath is hot in my ear, her weight presses against my back, and I can feel her bare feet on either side of mine. I wonder absently when I took off my shoes. She whispers something I can’t make out. I strain to hear her.
    When I take my hands out of the water, sweat breaks through the skin on my forehead, my hands shake, and she is gone.

9
    In the living room, Hector is talking about the snowfall last winter, telling the story again of how we were snowed in all over Christmas. Kylan is laughing along with him. I remember how keen he was to return to college as soon as the festivities were over: the snow frustrated his journey. He had to stay in the house for days, playing chess with his father and watching the fire burn