BooksBarbecue
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 gripped the glass in my hands: I wondered how much pressure it would take to shatter it. I imagined the blood mixing with the wine, which would suddenly seem thin in comparison, a pale watery red next to the density that would pour from the cuts. I had seen this before, I thought – I could see it in such detail – but I couldn’t remember when.

Lucy?

Jake sounded sober, grown-up: I could hear his thick-­soled leather shoes coming towards me. I had an urge to laugh. Was it possible I was married to this man, who was now returning to me, calling my name? Surely it was more likely that we had been pretending, all along.

He was in the doorway, his hand somewhere near his face. A pause.

Lucy? Luce? Are you okay?

He squinted down from his great height, as though I was a stranger, collapsed on the street, a vagrant, in need of rescue by a suited man.

Where have you been? I said to the floor, copying him, asking something I knew the answer to, just to hear the words coming out of my mouth, to make a sound. Maybe, I thought, we could do this forever, our relationship a series of non-­communications, until the end of time. Out, he could have said, shrugging. Or How are the boys? But he didn’t.

I’ve been with Vanessa. We – we just talked, Lucy. I told her it’s over. That’s it now.

Eleven o’clock. Just talked? There was too much time for that. There was time for sex, at least, but worse – much worse – there was endless time for tenderness, hugging, carefully worded goodbyes. Suddenly, the porn visuals made no sense, were re­­­placed by romance, gentleness, small moans into a neck or an ear.

Our house was small; there were only three paces between me and him, only a few seconds of me scrabbling up, flying at him as I had seen my mother fly at my father so many times, my fists closed against his shoulders, my eyes almost shut, only an indistinct darkness, someone yelling, someone else screaming.

Fuck you, Jake. Fucking bastard.

I could hear the words, but I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. I could feel only a blur of fabric, limbs lifted and falling against each other, a clash, a cataclysm of familiarity. Jake grabbed my wrists, hissed under his breath:

Stop it. For God’s sake, pull yourself together. Calm down. Christ.