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Back The Harpy Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. The Harpy
  2. Also by Megan Hunter
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. The Harpy
  8. Part I
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. Part II
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. Part III
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. Part IV
  51. Acknowledgments
  52. Back Cover

I had been given the all-­clear that time too, and no longer felt I could mention the things my heart did, all of its dives, its inversions, its battle for release. I gripped the railing of the stairs, feeling wrongness squirm and flip somewhere unseen. By the time I was standing in front of Jake, I was sweating, breathing quickly: I hardly needed to say a thing.

6

6

Jake got me a glass of water, running the tap until it was cold, testing the temperature with his hand, so that the glass he gave me was slippery with wetness, its contents fresh and cool as though they were from a spring. I gulped the whole thing, gasping between swallows.

He kept his eyes on me: usually by this point he’d be moaning about the train, about the other commuters – so packed, so bloody rude – speaking with his mouth full, gesturing with his fork. But now he was placing the food into his mouth slowly, deliberately, watching me.

How was your day? he said instead, putting as much normality into the question as possible. Sometimes I thought this was the worst thing about being married: the way you get to know exactly what every tone means, every gesture, every single movement. Sometimes, even before this happened, I would long for a misunderstanding, to have no idea what he meant.

I put the glass down, pulled the sleeves of my cardigan over my hands. I let the silence be for a few seconds, feeling the innocence in it, the reality of our life, the thousands of days without this knowledge.

Jake, I spoke to – for a second I thought that I was going to forget his name, that this is what would save us, after all. Forgetfulness, some boring name given to someone decades ago lost, slipping by, letting Jake get away with it.

David Holmes – there it was, words caught on a hook. He told me – about you and Vanessa.

I swallowed, looked up. Jake held his fork in mid-­air. I had expected immediate remorse, his face crumpling with it – this would be new, in fact. I had never seen that before. But instead he looked angry, that old dog, the irritation creeping up his features. He shook his head.

Fucking wanker. He dropped his fork so that it fell on the plate, such a small, domestic noise. Nothing that the neighbours would notice. He scraped back his chair abruptly – they might have noticed that, the walls were thin – then walked around the kitchen leaning his neck back, cradling it in his own hands.

He seemed to have forgotten that I was there, feeling tiny now, at the table, my legs crossed, the panic subsided and replaced by the water I had drunk, its waves breaking inside me.