Free The Liar's Chair by Rebecca Whitney

port, is part of the myth he’s created for
himself that the sea is in his blood.
    ‘If I ever bump into my old man,’ he says, ‘reckon he owes me a pint.’
    I wonder why his dad is the hero and his mum the demon. They both left.
    Will is hidden behind the open kitchen door. His shadow casts a fuzzy shape on the lino, and the outline vibrates as he works at the pots and pans. A back door leads from the kitchen on to a
small concrete courtyard, north-facing, and this door clicks open and shut, the noise followed by a scatter of paws on the slippery floor signalling Bessie, Will’s little dog, coming in from
the yard.
    Bessie lies down on the floor next to my chair and I stroke her sweat-damp coat. She’s old and smells doggy. Skinny ribs rise and fall with each puffy wheeze and my fingers sense what
little fat there is between her fur and the bones underneath. Her body is winding down. ‘You’re not long for this world, are you, my sweet Bess?’ Will said last night as he
stroked the little dog on his lap.
    Lying back into the cushions, I know I need to get dressed, find my mobile, connect with the day, but I allow myself a few moments as I wait for my head to clear. If I wasn’t here, what
would I be doing now?
    It’s a Saturday. David is at the gym or walking the dogs and I’d be at home no doubt, tiptoeing around the empty house like an unwanted guest who’s outstayed their welcome. I
picture myself walking through our immaculate rooms, the walls and furniture colour coordinated, and my stockinged feet testing the spring of the carpet under my toes. The fabric’s quality
thrills me, and the vacuum lines left on the wool by the cleaner look like a manicured lawn. I’m always afraid of spoiling the pattern. The luxury and perfection of the house are my roots,
keeping me grounded and sane, and with no clutter or mess I can half believe that state exists within me as well.
    If I was there, what would I be doing? I’d be planning to go out.
    ‘Do you want a tea, angel?’ Will calls from the kitchen. He’s been scrabbling through his repertoire of cutesy names, trying to find one that fits.
    ‘Rachel? Are you there?’ He turns the radio down and pops his head round the door. I smile – a small smile. ‘Tea?’ he says with a big grin. His nose is on the large
side, his lips uneven and flat, and his eyes are squinty with one black socket from last night’s drunken fight, but when all these features are arranged as a whole, some magic of nature
creates the sum of a good-looking man. As he smiles, lines ripple from his mouth through to his cheek, and even though his skin holds the wear-and-tear of over twenty years of drinking, underneath
is a warm boyish face.
    ‘OK.’ I raise myself from the creaky chair and follow him into the kitchen, to sit at the yellow Formica table. The surface is speckled like a bird’s egg and scarred by years
of cutlery.
    Will turns his back to me and resumes the washing-up. He leans across to put the kettle on with a confident flick. It’s his house now, not the pub or the bedroom with the lights off.
We’ve explored secret parts of each other’s bodies, but today is only the second time we’ve been together the next morning, and this everyday world of Will embarrasses and shocks
me, more so than if he’d stood in front of me naked; there’s greater intimacy and more to reveal from the minutiae of his domestic rituals than in the sex we have. He looks different in
daylight and in his own home, away from the protective cloak of the dimly lit pub, and his actions are more mobile though touched with self-consciousness. I get the sense the kitchen hasn’t
been cleaned for a while and it’s being done in my honour, or even more worrying, out of some kind of proof to me that he can do it, that he is a viable human who functions on the same level
as everyone else, that we could have a future. My hangover helps me resist the temptation to join in and pretty