by Emma Chapman
Looking over my shoulder, I see myself in the steamed mirror. I don’t want to push the girl away, to deny these things I have been seeing. There’s a sense that it would be fruitless anyway: like trying to sink a cork in basin full of water. It will always rise to the surface again.
* * *
In the bedroom, I go to the wardrobe. I am careful about choosing what I want to wear, running my finger along the selection of clothes. Tonight feels important and I want to look my best.
A good woman can be judged by the neatness of her dress and how well her children behave.
I want Kylan to be proud of me.
I choose a red pencil skirt with a matching jacket and a white shirt. Perhaps I will wear heels too.
At the back of the wardrobe, I catch a glimpse of crumpled white material. I reach in and touch it, the lace edge slipping through my fingers. I haven’t thought about this in years. Pulling it out, I decide to wear it tonight, my secret. A corset: a wedding gift from Hector. When I used to wear it, it was fastened on the tightest clasp, but these days even the loosest is too tight, and I struggle to turn the material around my middle. When it is on, I can feel the slight bulges of skin along the edges of the wired material: I feel restricted, but I decide that it is not altogether a bad thing.
I remember trying the corset on in the changing room of a department store, on our last trip to the city. We had been shopping all day, for clothes for my new married life, a special treat. We agreed it was a good day, wandering around the sunlit city, stopping for a coffee in one of the wide tree-lined avenues. I remember Hector smiling, wiping away a trail of white foam from his lip. It wasn’t long before the wedding and it was summer.
Now though, I am taken back to the stuffy smell of the changing room. My hands shook as I attached the clasps and I had to ask Hector to help me with the top few. I remember how cold his hands felt. I adjusted it behind the curtain, slipping my arms through the straps, but though the material sagged, it was suddenly too tight, and I couldn’t breathe. I pulled at it, my face hot, but it wouldn’t come off. Eventually I got myself out of it, and pulled on my clothes: an old jumper of Hector’s and some black trousers, too big. For a long time, I wouldn’t come out of the changing room, and Hector had to persuade me, first with kind words and encouragements, then quiet threats, whispered through the thick velvet curtain which divided us. Would your daughter like some help? the changing-room attendant asked, and even through the curtain, I could feel Hector’s quiet rage.
After we had paid, Hector took me by the arm and we walked through the streets. I couldn’t keep up with him, and I remember how his grip tightened. I wanted to do the right thing, but everything I did seemed to annoy him, and his eyes were dark, his lips tight. He muttered at me to hurry up. Eventually, we came to a hairdresser’s salon and Hector pulled me inside.
I can smell the alcohol of the salon again now. I breathe in: just beyond it, there are other things, and I wait. There is the feel of the leather seat under my fingers, the huge mirrors in front of me. In the reflection, I see myself, but I look different, almost unrecognizable.
I remember the hairdresser asking me when I had last had it cut, her voice filled with thinly veiled disgust as she held the ends up to the light. I shook my head, feeling the eyes of the other people in the shop. The music, the laughter, the chatter, all existed beyond an impassable wall. Hector sat by the window affecting boredom, casting glances across at me, a magazine juddering on his knee. He had tried so hard to get the knots out, even suggesting he cut my hair himself. The tears rolled down my cheeks. I could feel his embarrassment as the hairdresser knelt down beside me, her own hair gleaming under the lights, and whispered that it would all be all right.
She gave me a hot sweet cup of tea, which I drank quickly to make her happy, burning my tongue. Then, according to Hector’s instructions, she cut it all off, gave me a fringe, and dyed it brown. Watching the ground and the long wisps that fell, I listened to the determined metallic sound of the scissors.
When she switched off the blow-dryer, I let myself look. My head felt lighter, and although I didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror with the dark bob and heavy fringe, I knew it was me. Hector put down his magazine and came over, smiling widely. He thanked the hairdresser, then bent down to me.
‘Do you like it, Marta?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘It must be a relief to get rid of all that hair,’ he said. ‘You look like a different person.’
He turned around, walking to the till, and I watched the girl with the dark hair get up and follow him.
For all these years, I have thought of that day in the city as one full of light and joy. Hector and I, beginning our lives together. Now it’s as if I can see shadows for the first time.
8
Once I am ready, I go to the kitchen and drink two glasses of white wine as quickly as I can. I wash the glass, dry it and put it back into the cupboard. Hector definitely wouldn’t approve, not with his mother arriving any second.
At exactly seven thirty, I sit and wait at the top of the stairs. Soon, I hear a car. The headlights beam mistily through the frosted-glass panel in the front door, the car doors open and shut, and there is laughter and clipping heels in the driveway.
When I hear the doorbell, I stand up, moving slowly, methodically, in my high heels. Holding the handrail with one hand, I feel lightheaded. Steadying myself at the bottom, I glance in the hall mirror, smile, and feel a rush of happiness. Behind the glass across the hallway is the outline of my son’s broad shoulders, his hair darkened in silhouette.
I open the door, letting the chill of the outside air in. He is standing on the doorstep, his hands in the pockets of a big grey duffle coat I don’t recognize, wearing the red scarf I gave him for Christmas. He still looks like a boy to me, his sandy-brown hair split down the centre, his freckled cheeks, and his kind blue eyes.
I say his name. He leans in to kiss me on the cheek and there’s the sharp tang of his aftershave, covering up his smell. Pulling him closer, his body feels strange, big, not how I remember.
Over his shoulder, the blonde girl is standing on the mat, smiling a crooked half-smile at me, wearing her white pyjamas with the pink hearts. I breathe in sharply, clutching Kylan’s arms, the material of his coat thick under my fingers. He puts his hands over mine, gently, trying to lift them off. My heart moves heavily. He holds me at arm’s length, looking at me with darting eyes.
‘What’s the matter?’ he says.
I take a step backwards, into the hallway. Kylan enters, and she starts to follow him. Pushing past Kylan towards the door, I shut it quickly. I hear her make a noise from the other side. I turn to face Kylan, my breath rising quickly, standing between him and her.
‘Mum,’ he says. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘She can’t come in here,’ I say.
‘She’s come to meet you. We’ve just driven for six hours—’
‘That’s not her.’
‘You’ve never met her.’
‘She can’t come in.’
Kylan goes to open the door. I stand in his way.
‘Mum,’ he says, ‘please. It’s freezing out there.’
His blue eyes are so like his father’s. Walking around him, I go to the kitchen. I hear Kylan open the door, then shut it; I hear them talking. I don’t know. I’m sorry.
Now, Hector is on the stairs. Out of sight, I see his hair is still a little wet from the shower, brushed across his head neatly, like a little boy dressed up uncomfortably for a birthday party. He goes to give her a kiss on the cheek. She colours, and there is an awkward moment when they almost bump noses. She has the same blonde hair, long over her shoulders, the same pale grey eyes, but a different mouth. Her lips are smaller, like a rosebud; her smile is slower, softer. She is wearing a pretty flowered dress. It’s not the girl after all.
I step forward.
They all turn to look at me. There is a long moment where no one speaks
.
‘Mother not here yet?’ Hector says.
I don’t answer. Hector looks between us.
‘Have you met Katya at last?’ he says.
‘No,’ I say.
Hector looks confused. ‘Who let them in, then?’
‘I’m sorry, Katya,’ I say, stepping forward. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
Both Hector and Kylan stare at me. ‘But I told you—’ Hector says.
‘I’m sure we will have enough food to go around,’ I say, smiling.
‘It’s lovely to meet you at last, Mrs Bjornstad,’ Katya says finally. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’
I wonder what she has heard.
‘You can call her Marta,’ Hector says.
I 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 ask.
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 away. He was irritable, forever checking the weather forecast. I suppose he must have forgotten.
‘My parents have invited Kylan to stay for Christmas this year,’ Katya says, glancing at Kylan. She glows in the light from the fireplace, her hair a shimmering mass of white gold. I clench my fists at my side. As she smiles, it is the other girl I see, smiling up at Kylan, talking to Hector. She is here, in this room, and I am the only one who can see her.
When I look around, I realize I’m in the centre of a silence. All of the faces in the circle are looking at me, waiting for my reaction to something, but I can’t think what it was. I try to smile.
‘Mum?’ Kylan says.
I turn to him. ‘Yes, darling?’
The line appears on his forehead again. ‘I just asked you what we’re going to eat.’
‘I’ve made your favourite,’ I say.
‘Meatballs?’ Katya says.
I stare at her, standing where the girl was. She flicks her blonde hair out of her eyes, blinks at me. ‘No,’ I say, my teeth gritted together, ‘that’s not Kylan’s favourite. It’s halibut stew.’
Kylan looks at the fire. ‘I guess it depends what mood I’m in,’ he says.
Hector laughs. It’s loud, in the small room. ‘Well handled, my boy,’ he says, winking at Katya and making her blush.
