by Emma Chapman
We didn’t have a reception: everyone agreed it would only upset me, not having my family there. We signed the marriage register straight after the ceremony. I looked down at Hector’s signature, his small, neat handwriting still unfamiliar then. I wrote my new name as neatly as I could, remembering all the times I had practised it. Mrs Marta Bjornstad. I was her now.
When I turn around, Hector is standing in the doorway, his arms folded. I jump, putting my hand up to my chest.
‘You scared me,’ I say.
Hector doesn’t move.
I start to pull bowls out of the cupboard for the halibut stew.
‘Marta,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘This needs to stop.’
I stare at him.
‘Leave her alone,’ he says. ‘She only wants you to like her.’
I watch my unsteady hand as I ladle the stew from the pot to the first bowl.
‘Kylan is going to marry her,’ he says. ‘He’s happy. Can’t you see how important that is?’ His eyes are dark, clouded.
I take a deep breath. ‘Don’t you think they’re too young?’
‘You were younger than him when we got married.’
‘That’s different.’
We stare at each other.
‘Can’t you see how good it is, that he’s found someone? We both know it’s not easy.’
The bowl begins to wobble in my hands. ‘I just think he should wait a bit, until he’s older,’ I say.
‘He might not have that many more chances,’ Hector says. I focus on keeping the bowl still, on not spilling a drop. ‘It’s his decision,’ he says. ‘Did you ever think that maybe this was why he didn’t tell you about the engagement? He didn’t want you getting involved. You can never let him make his own decisions, stand on his own two feet.’
I slam the bowl down. Spots of creamy liquid dot the counter. ‘I get it, Hector. You always know what’s good for him, what he wants, and I don’t. I understand.’
Hector sighs behind me. ‘You just don’t listen to him.’
‘How can I listen to him if he never tells me anything?’ I can hear the tears in my voice.
Hector comes and stands behind me. ‘I know you don’t want to lose him,’ he says. ‘But you’re pushing him away. It’s not fair. He only wants to be happy.’
I want to throw one of the bowls against the wall.
‘Will you please take this through?’ I say. I hold it out to him. Don’t let your husband lift a finger: treat him as you would any other guest in your home. ‘I’ll bring the rest.’ After a moment, he takes the bowl, turns around and leaves the kitchen. I feel myself sink against the counter, my head in my hands.
I know she’s there before I pull my hands away. She is lying on the kitchen floor, smoking a cigarette, her thin legs crossed over each other awkwardly. Her hip bones are still visible, but there’s more of her stomach than there was the last time I saw her, and her hair is not as tangled and broken. She blows smoke rings at me.
There are seven piles of cards on the floor next to her in a line, some facing up, and some down.
She smiles. There is a black hole between her gums round the side: a tooth is missing. I run my tongue across my own teeth, but they’re all there. She reaches forward to move a card to another pile, to turn one over.
When I open my eyes, I am sitting at the kitchen table, a lit cigarette between my fingers. My throat burns, and the room is filled with smoke, either hers or mine. I put my hand up to the tightness in my chest, my breaths rising hard and fast. What was I thinking? I have no idea where the cigarette has come from, and no recollection of lighting it. This is different, I think, to the other things I have been seeing. This is dangerous.
Standing up, I look around the kitchen, unsure what to do with the burning cigarette. I can hear the laughter in the dining room, and I wonder how long I have been in here. Sliding open the patio doors, I slip out and drop the cigarette into the drain.
I wonder if Hector is right. Perhaps I need to take my pills.
My hands shake as I lift the remaining bowls out of the cupboard. Stacking them upside down on top of the saucepan lid, I carry the whole thing through to the dining room to serve it there, leaving the patio doors open but shutting the kitchen door.
12
When I re-enter the room, they are still talking about the wedding. I put down the saucepan and begin serving the food, handing it down the table. Thinking of the salt, I smile. The first rule of being a good hostess is never to apologize for something that may otherwise go unobserved.
‘We were thinking of having a buffet,’ Katya is saying. ‘We’d really just like a barbecue, but my mum will never allow it.’
I clear my throat. ‘Do you mind if we stop talking about the wedding?’ I say.
Katya stares, blinking. Everyone is looking at me. Taking a mouthful of food, I can taste little but the salt.
‘What do you do for a living, Katya?’ I ask, when I can’t stand the silence any longer.
‘I work in advertising,’ she says.
‘Is that in an office?’ I ask.
Katya nods. ‘It’s a small agency but we’ve done some quite big campaigns.’
‘And do you think you will keep working once you are married?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘We don’t see the wedding changing that much in our lives really. We already live together.’
‘But you want to have children?’
‘When we are a bit older,’ she says. ‘I don’t think we’re ready for that yet. We’re too selfish, I suppose.’ She looks at Kylan and they laugh.
‘And too young,’ Hector says.
‘I was younger than Katya when I had Kylan,’ I say. ‘You didn’t think it was too young then, Hector.’
‘It was different then,’ Hector says. ‘You didn’t have a career.’
‘But you won’t work when you have children,’ Matilda says.
‘I might,’ Katya says, ‘when they are a little older. I haven’t decided yet.’
‘I think you’re all getting a bit carried away,’ Kylan says, smiling. ‘We certainly aren’t planning on any children for a good few years yet.’
‘Having children is an amazing experience, though,’ I say, looking at Kylan. ‘It’s just a shame they have to grow up.’
Kylan smiles and then looks down at his plate.
‘It’s inevitable,’ Katya says. ‘That’s why I think I’d like to keep working.’
I stare at her. It feels like an attack, and I want to say something, but I have promised Kylan I will make an effort.
The only sound is the scraping of the metal cutlery against the china. It makes my stomach churn. Closing my eyes, I see a white plate, rimmed with blue flowers, a steaming mound of beef stew and mashed potato, enough to feed four men. His big hands dwarf the cutlery, scraping the plate clean; his teeth grind.
When I open my eyes, the guests are observing me, their faces turned towards me in the candlelight.
I see myself then, a blank-faced marionette, like the porcelain dolls in the cabinet in the hallway.
I wonder if I was talking, if I said something I shouldn’t have.
‘What?’ I say abruptly, the word stuttering around the table.
There is a pause.
‘Nothing, Mum,’ Kylan says. ‘We were just saying how good the food is.’
I think of the long trail of white salt, disappearing below the surface of the stew. Why are they lying to me?
They watch as I sip my champagne.
Hector is staring at me, a warning look, and the fear tightens in my stomach. I need to behave myself.
Once everyone is finished, I get up and start clearing the bowls. Walking through to the kitchen, I keep checking to see if Hector has followed me, but he doesn’t come.
I remember his hand on my back in the shady hallway of the hotel we stayed in on our honeymoon. It was dim compared with the sunshine reflecting off the outside paintwork, making the tr
ees around the fjord paint the water with sparkling green.
The hotel was only a short drive from the chapel, and I was still wearing my wedding dress: I remember the difficulty of climbing the wooden stairs without tripping. There was champagne in an ice bucket in our bedroom and a fruit basket wrapped in cellophane on the dressing table. Hector locked the door to the room from the inside, then walked out onto the balcony. I began unwrapping the fruit, the plastic creaking under my fingers.
‘Don’t open that now,’ Hector called through from the balcony, ‘we’ll go for dinner soon. Come out and look at the view.’
I followed him, resting my small hands on the white wooden rail next to his larger ones. The fjord stretched before us, and from the darkness of the water, I could tell it was deep. There was barely a ripple on the silky surface, and the valley was deserted.
I felt Hector watching me as I looked out. He moved behind me, putting his hands on either side of mine and pressing his body into my back.
‘My parents stayed in this room after their wedding,’ he said. ‘I always wanted to bring my wife here one day.’
I wished he hadn’t mentioned his parents. I imagined his mother, before she was the stern woman I knew now, opening a neatly packed suitcase on the bed, folding her gloves one on top of the other on the dressing table. Pulling out a tissue from the luxuriously decorated tissue box and dabbing at her make-up, her face shiny after the long journey. It wasn’t our room any more.
‘It’s a beautiful view,’ I said, reaching up to kiss the side of his face.
‘Well, we have it all to ourselves,’ he said, and I could hear him smiling.
He took my hand and led me into the room, pushing me backwards onto the bed. Gently, he touched the material of the wedding dress that had once been his mother’s. He sat there for a long time, just looking. I tried to reach up and kiss his cheek, but he pushed my head to the side and into the bed, keeping his eyes only on the dress. I heard the jangle of his belt buckle, and felt the dress being lifted up, my underwear pulled down around my knees. It took him some time to find his way. I tried to shift my body with his, to make it easier, but he put his hand over my hips and held me still as he jerked backwards and forwards. I watched the juddering lace of the canopy above. He moved faster and faster, muttering something that I couldn’t make out, a word repeated over and over again.
He rolled onto his side afterwards, and I watched his pupils get smaller. Almost immediately, he sat up, and began to get dressed. The bed was damp between my legs, and I pulled my dress down, feeling a tear roll down the side of my face.
Hector went to stand at the window, a shadow against the bright outside light.
I tried not to make any sound.
‘We’ll go for a walk before dinner,’ he said.
I pulled myself up. Hector turned and looked at me. He came closer, kneeling on the floor at my feet.
‘You look amazing in that dress,’ he said, ‘Mrs Bjornstad.’
Through the kitchen door, I can hear them laughing in the dining room. I can still hear Hector’s voice, close in my ear.
I take the ramekins of chocolate mousse out of the fridge and line them up neatly on a tray with a jug of cream. Each time I pick them up, one or other of the ramekins falls out of their neat formation, and I have to stop and straighten them again. Presentation is everything: a meal must look appetizing to be appetizing. I pick up the tray; it happens again. I slam the tray down onto the counter: the ramekins clash together and some of the cream escapes from the jug. My hands are trembling now: I hold them out in front of me, trying to steady them. I dig my fingers into my palms until my raw fingernails ache: until I feel like my fingers might break.
* * *
I pass the ramekins around the table, watching Kylan dig his spoon into his chocolate pot, making a dip which he fills with cream, just as he has always done.
‘How is everything at school, Hector?’ Matilda is asking.
‘Oh, you know,’ he says, ‘same old.’ Hector is looking down at his dessert.
‘Did you know that Hector is a teacher, Katya?’ Matilda asks. Katya nods. ‘The pupils just love him. Don’t they, Hector?’ Matilda places her hand on Hector’s arm, squeezing it. I fight the urge to bat it away.
‘I don’t know about that, Mother,’ he says.
‘Oh, Hector,’ she says, ‘don’t be modest.’ Matilda turns to Katya again. ‘He’s so dedicated to helping them achieve their goals.’
‘Where do you teach, Hector?’ Katya asks, chocolate on her front teeth. Her pink tongue emerges quickly and it is gone.
‘At a school across the valley,’ he says.
‘You should see his notice board upstairs, Katya,’ Matilda says. ‘It’s covered with notes from his students.’ She turns to Hector. ‘Show her after dinner, Hector. She’d like that.’
I see Hector, striding through the fading sunlight past the bleached brick of the school building, a book under his arm. I am watching through the car window, and he doesn’t see me: I am parked out of sight. It is after hours: Kylan is at some after-school activity at the high school, and though I wasn’t sure where I was going when I set off from the house, I am not surprised to find myself here.
It was a long time until I saw him walk out of the building again, and most of the other cars were gone. He wasn’t alone: there was a student with him, a girl who must have been in the final year. I wondered if this was the girl he had told me about, the one who had potential, his latest after-school project. They stood on the steps, talking, her face leaning in close as if she was telling him a secret. Then she smiled a shy half-smile, and turned away. Hector took hold of her arm, and pulled her towards him, and for a split second, they embraced. The girl turned away from him then, walking straight past my car without seeing me, her face flushed. Hector went the other way, getting into his car and pulling out of the car park.
I stand up. Everyone turns away from Hector to look at me. He must have been telling a story.
My head rings and I need to lie down, to think it over.
With unsteady hands, I collect the ramekins back onto the tray and walk back through to the kitchen.
‘Is she all right?’ I hear Matilda asking, but I keep walking.
‘She’s fine, Mother,’ Hector says.
In the kitchen, I put the tray down and lean over the sink, taking deep breaths. I shut my eyes, trying to bring back the memory, to examine whether it was real or not. But I know that it is: I can feel the uncomfortable warmth from the car heaters, and see Hector’s hands around the girl’s waist.
I hear the door open behind me. I turn around, and Hector is there.
‘Marta,’ he says, ‘I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I wish you would pull yourself together. You are ruining the evening.’
I want to confront him, to ask him about the girl I saw him with, about the others. But I hear the rumble of Kylan’s voice from the dining room, Katya’s laughter, and I don’t want to cause a scene.
He stands in the doorway, staring at me, a little stooped, his hair more greying than I remember. He looks pitiable, and before I can stop myself I feel the laughter rising. No one is going to find him attractive any more, I think. That’s when I realize I don’t care; he can have all the students he likes.
‘What are you laughing about?’ he says, moving towards me.
My heart beats faster, but I can’t stop.
‘Marta, what the hell is so funny?’
I feel his growing anger almost as if it is my own: I know I am on unstable ground.
‘Marta, stop it.’
He has hold of my arm now.
‘What the hell is wrong with you tonight?’
There is a sound in the doorway and he turns his head. Katya is standing there, watching us. Hector lets go of my arm.
Her mouth is open and it takes a moment for her to say anything. ‘I was just looking for the toilet.’
‘It’s down the hall on the left,’ Hector
says, and I can hear the effort it has taken to keep his voice level.
Katya nods, and turns away.
Hector turns back to me, his face red.
‘Now see what you’ve done,’ he says. ‘Can’t you behave yourself when we have guests?’
My smile edges in again: I feel as if I am not a part of this situation.
‘I’ll do the washing up,’ I say, turning on the taps at the sink.
He stands there for some time.
‘Go and see the others,’ I say. ‘They’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.’
Eventually, I hear his footsteps retreating.
Through the crack in the kitchen door, I see the shadowy figures go into the living room, and hear a CD begin to play on the stereo. I work my way through the washing up slowly. Below the surface of the water, below the soap suds, I feel something stringy and wet floating, like seaweed, brushing past my hands. I feel around under the surface, and the substance becomes thicker, filling the sink. Pulling my hands out, I realize the sink is full of hair, matted together in clumps, enough hair to fill the entire bowl. It wraps itself around my hands: I try to free my fingers but they are caught. Dimly, I remember the feeling of wet hair under my fingers: I feel a shooting pain in my neck.
‘Marta?’
I look up. She is leaning against the frame of the kitchen doorway, watching me, wearing a big red coat with the hood pulled up. Her blonde hair escapes from the sides of the material and her cheeks are flushed with cold. She carries a sports bag and I can see her peach tights protruding from the bottom of the coat. She is smiling her wide white smile.
‘How do you know that name?’ I say.
She stares. She is wearing black eyeliner. She looks so young.
‘I thought you wanted me to call you Marta,’ she says. I blink, and Katya is standing there, in her flowery dress. She looks confused.
I look down at the sink. My hands are still below the surface of the water, but there is nothing there.