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

water. Asking for an appointment, I felt ashamed, as if I was betraying Hector, by admitting there was something wrong in the new life he had worked so hard to build for us. I read the posters on the walls of the waiting room, my hands quivering against my green skirt, not making eye contact with anyone in case I knew them or they knew Hector.
    The receptionist had to call my name three times before I recognized it.
Marta Bjornstad.
Blushing, I made my way along the draughty corridor.
    ‘You’re expecting a baby,’ the doctor said once she had run her tests, looking up from behind a desk cluttered with paperclipped documents and family memorabilia.
    I felt my mouth fall open. ‘But I’m ill,’ I said. ‘I’ve been dreadfully sick.’
    The doctor smiled, writing something. ‘That’s perfectly normal. I’m prescribing folic acid.’
    ‘But I don’t feel right,’ I said.
    She didn’t look up. ‘It’s all worth it in the end,’ she said. ‘When the baby arrives.’
    It felt so strange that something had been happening in my body which I was unaware of. I put my hands on my tummy but it didn’t feel any different. As I walked out of the doctor’s surgery into the sunshine, I smiled, imagining someone to talk to, to look after. I held onto the knowledge as if it was something precious. Hector could tell something was different: I hummed to myself making the dinner, smiling more than usual. I waited until we were in bed that night, sitting side by side, before I told him. He shifted his position, leaning over me and searching my face. Then he pulled me towards him into a hug, squeezing me gently, and I knew then that this was what he wanted, that he was as happy as I was.
    Leaving the light on for Hector, I turn onto my side and shut my eyes.

6
    In the middle of the night, I jerk awake, my eyes wet. The illuminated alarm clock by the side of the bed reads 02:13. Moonlight shines dimly through the crack in the curtains, and I can just make out a white disc in the night sky. A full moon.
    I was dreaming of a forest. A figure was running, as fast as she could, the green of the trees rushing darkly past. I remember a flash of white-blonde hair, a shriek of laughter, her muscular limbs pushing forward. The ballet shoes she wore on her feet. Ribbons trailed behind her, skimming the dirt.
    I breathe out. I am in my own bed, warm and safe. Hector is on my side, his arms around me. I imagine him, lying awake in the darkness, watching the outline of my body, working up the courage to move closer. I can feel his warm belly against my back; the looseness of the skin like silk; the flesh soft, harmless. I listen to the rise and fall of his breathing: the slight wheeze in his lungs, the rattle of his throat. I put my hands over his: the skin feels dry.
    There is no sound in the room except for our breathing, my heartbeat in my chest. I feel a twisting anxiety begin in my stomach. I try to make myself calm, to go back to sleep, but the darkness is heavy, the silence oppressive. I long for the sound of the outside nighttime: an owl in the forest, a fox wailing.
    When I can’t bear it any more, I slip away from Hector and out of bed, pulling myself up. Walking towards the hallway, I wince at the creak of the hinges.
    Away from the warm bedroom, the air is sharp. I long for my dressing gown, hanging on the other side of the door. Over the banisters of the staircase is one of Hector’s ironed shirts and my black trousers, ready to be put away. I pull off my nightgown and slip them on. The shirt is made of thick wool and reminds me of Wellington boots, chopping wood, and the smell of pastry. Warm, wholesome things.
    Shafts of moonlight trespass across the hallway, casting shadows behind the picture frames. I rub my finger over the light switch on the wall. I don’t press it: Hector is sleeping, but I imagine the light spreading down the dark corridor. I am good at this. Soon, the black square of the window is white.
    I walk to