How to Be a Good Wife by Emma Chapman Page A

stand by the ironing board and watch as he lets the newspaper crumple in his lap, dropping his head into his hands. The iron hisses.
    He lifts his head and looks at me. I can barely stand it. He is expecting something. I should know what to do.
    Comfort him in times of stress. Speak in a low, soft voice to reassure him of your support.
    ‘Hector?’ I say. ‘Do you want some eggs?’
    He gets up, lifting himself out of the chair. Standing behind me, he puts his arms around my waist, resting his neck onto my shoulder.
    ‘We’ve been happy together, haven’t we?’ he asks.
    I nod, my hair brushing against his cheek.
    ‘Don’t ever leave me,’ he says softly.
    ‘I won’t,’ I say.
    ‘Tell me you love me,’ he says.
    ‘I love you, Hector,’ I say.
    He turns me around, pulling me towards him and kissing me on the mouth, his eyes still open.
    He releases me, then he smiles and walks towards the door. There’s the sound of the front door slamming, and the car starting up in the drive.

7
    Hector leaves the house at eight thirty. After getting dressed in some old clothes, I fetch the duster and cleaning spray from under the sink and return to the living room. Starting at the bay window, I wipe down everything, making sure not to miss a spot.
    I reach Hector’s chess set, in pride of place on the table in the centre of the room. Sitting on the floor, I rub one piece at a time, turning to look out of the window as I work. Behind me, I hear the sound of a marble chess piece sliding across the board. I turn and see her sitting cross-legged on the floor, her legs so thin that the gaps between them are vast. Her hand is still on a white pawn, which she has pushed forward two spaces.
    I look at her face: the dirty, narrow cheeks; the matted hair; her glowing grey eyes. She smiles as I slide a black pawn forward to meet hers, her white teeth too large in her head. She takes her turn, her legs jigging in the white pyjamas.
    As I am wondering what has happened since the last time I saw her, I feel her hand over mine. Looking down at our two hands together, I see both sets of fingernails are bitten to the quick, raw at the edges. I put my other hand on top of hers, and suddenly, her hand is gone and the room is empty.
    The pieces on the chess board are paused, mid-game. I wonder if that proves that she was really here. It felt real: I can still feel her cold hand over mine. I imagine telling Hector about it, and I see his face falling, then hear the rattle of the pill bottle.
    I think of the house, of Kylan coming home, and I want to make him proud of me. I don’t want to disappoint them again.
    One after another, I move from room to room, cleaning everything in sight, until the whole house shines. I don’t stop to look around or to check my progress. A few times, I remember the hidden cigarettes under the mattress, but I am not tempted to take a break. It feels good to be busy, to be working hard, and I barely think about Hector or what he is doing out for so long. It is like the old days, when Kylan was young, and I never had a moment to myself. It’s not until I am wiping down the final stretch of kitchen surface that I look up at the window in the kitchen and realize the light is fading already, that the day is nearly gone. It’s four p.m.
    I pour myself a glass of wine and go to stand by the patio doors. I feel better, more like myself. Looking out at the garden, I see the dark line of the trees on the horizon, lit from behind by the pure blue of the failing sky. Kylan and Katya will be getting ready to leave, preparing themselves for the long drive from the city, through the shadows to the warm light of the house. I feel my excitement and hold on to it: Kylan is coming home.
    As I stand at the sink, washing out the cleaning cloth again, I hear the sound of footsteps running across the landing upstairs. Walking out into the hallway, I catch the sound of laughter.
    ‘Hello?’ I call. I climb the stairs slowly. I hear