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

After all, so many obsessions pass like this, slide easily into oblivion. The boy bands whose faces used to cover my wall. A collection of porcelain pigs. The rows of stuffed animals: blank-­eyed, certain solace.

None of them have come back. Only this.

~

21

21

As I tidied the living room, I felt her gaze over everything. I knew Vanessa would have noticed the teetering sub-­Ikea furniture, guessed that the only good pieces – a large rug, a solid wooden table – were passed on by relatives who no longer needed them. She would have seen how dust had built up along the skirting boards, giving the house its own light grey fur, a lowering darkness. She would, without needing to think, believe that I was responsible. I had not cleaned the bathrooms while the children ate breakfast, as a mother at school told me she did.

Such a nice house, Vanessa had said to me last year, her fingers curled lightly around her ridged plastic cup, as though reluctant to touch it. Her nails were painted, a French manicure, white moons on dusty pink arcs. Her hair was coiffed – I could think of no other word to describe it – not fashionable but elegant nonetheless, a symmetrical loop around her features, a bow on the genetic gift of her face.

Something must be really wrong if he fucked an old woman. This would, surely, be what everyone was saying. But perhaps I should have been proud of Jake for so thoroughly failing to conform to the stereotype. At least she was not one of his graduate students, with a firm body and loose mind, someone I would have had to approach with an almost maternal scorn. She was so much older than either of us. She was of the generation that had it all, supposedly: the ones who were said to have taken everything for themselves, until there was nothing left.

When Vanessa had complimented the house, I had rushed to clarify, red-­faced, holding a plate of mince pies: It’s only rented. Not ours. I wish!

Who was I pretending to be when I spoke like that? Stupid cunt. I whispered this under my breath as I sprayed the glass coffee table, wiping fresh streaks across its surface. I didn’t know who I was talking to but it felt good in my mouth anyway, a small wet kiss. Cunt was the best word for it, we had been told in a women’s self-­defence class at university, the most feminist choice.