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Back The Harpy
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

It was at this moment that Mary looked up: the words had already left her mouth, but she flattened her hand there anyway, as though to stop them getting too far. Her expression – of glee, passion, something close to arousal, her face pinking, her lips wide – moved downwards, a mime artist wiping a hand across their face, changing it entirely. All of the energy – the glow that had been making her hair shine, her eyes flicker – shifted through her features, lowering them in pity.

Lucy, we were just saying. We were just – how are you? How are you – doing?

She held out an arm, as though to wrap me in it. A mother – Mary had four – offering solace, a breast to cry on. Someone came out of the bathroom and, ignoring the queue, I went inside, calling out a reply as I pulled the door behind me.

I’m good, thanks – see you in a sec!

I let the toilet seat fall noisily, heard through the door as the group moved, muffled words, the tone of self-­reproach ebbing away, top notes of scandal still echoing.

We all lived in our own version of parentworld, the place where nothing happened. We streamed TV to remind ourselves what it felt like to lead lives where things happened, where life could transform in one night. In our world, babies had happened, and they were something. But few of us had babies or even toddlers any more, and we spoke of those days with the kind of quiet reverence that elderly people use to speak about the war, our eyes misting over with the memory of the atmosphere, the breathy physicality, the murky blending of space and time.

Now most of us had careers that were still on hold or had moved, somehow, to a forever part-­time, lower-­waged track. We were still many years away from the trickle of divorces that would begin just as our children became teenagers, their rebellions reminding us, in bodily, unavoidable forms, of worlds where things happened. For now, families were steady. In this place, most husbands had highly paid jobs, travelled a lot. Most wives, despite their multiple degrees, did all the school runs, counted the days until their men returned from Stockholm or Singapore. When something broke through – a disease, a death, a divorce – it was like a meteorite, something cosmic landing in our lives.