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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 to move to stop myself thinking, had to start doing something. I put a load of washing on, even though there was nowhere to hang it, even though the house was already draped with clothes, filled with their dampness, not warm enough in the larger rooms, even with the heating on. I should make a fire, I thought, but I didn’t know how. Jake had always done it. I swept up instead, moving quickly around the rooms in my short black dress, a diamanté embellishment between my breasts. I used to wear the dress to formal halls at Jake’s old college, a cocktail dress, very flattering, skimming over my hips. Now it was pulled too high by some rearrange­ment of my flesh, the caesarean surgeon’s knife, the trainee who had been learning how to cut. My breasts loomed out of the deep neckline, my full-­cup bra visible. If I lowered my neck, I could bury my head in my own flesh. I wondered, briefly, if I could suffocate myself like this, if I pushed down for long enough, if I really made an effort.

I swept and swept, then got down on my hands and knees to scrub the dirty patches. Our kitchen floor was the most neglected part of our house, mopping often delayed by the busyness of our lives, which, now I looked from this perspective – on the floor, miniaturized, the kitchen a giant around me – were not busy at all. There was plenty of time, plenty of time for Jake to fuck me and fuck her, for months. We’d had great sex lately, both of us exhausted afterwards, muted, gazing at the ceiling. He had come from her, of course he had—

Another retch, onto the kitchen floor, a thin line of spit trailing to the ground. I sat back, propped myself against the cupboards. These were the ones where we kept the Tupperware, the dozens of plastic boxes without lids, with the wrong lids, a stacked confusion. I was always planning to organize them; I never did. The house and I had agreed, long ago, to ignore things like this: pockets of disarray, small, hidden places where chaos broke through.

I reached for my wine, winced as I swigged it. I had barely eaten for hours: a couple of cold fish fingers from Ted’s plate, one piece so mangled that I suspected it had been in his mouth before mine.

Far away, in the next room, the door opened, slower, more tentative than usual. I nearly got up. I nearly combed my hair, splashed my face, ate a piece of chewing gum. I could have run upstairs, changed out of the dress, worn something sensible. But I did none of that. I stayed on the floor.

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