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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

He nodded, smiling, and we turned together, without speaking, away from the house, towards the sky. Our arms brushed in a friendly way, fellow spectators at the light show. Could this be it? I wondered. Another man, a friend of Jake’s. A simple way to hurt him. A pleasurable one, probably. I imagined pulling Antonio to the side alley, where no one could see us, wrapping my hands around his neck. I could almost feel his fingers moving down my body, reaching inside me. When we moved back, we would be against the bin, the recycling bin, the blue one . . .

I let out a small laugh, without meaning to, some smoke coming with it, a splutter in the cold air.

What? He turned to me.

Nothing. I exhaled slowly. I could feel his stare, the prickle of his looking like a touch on my face.

You seem to be doing okay, he said. After – after everything.

So, he definitely knew. Everyone knew. I drew on my cigar­ette for a beat too long, filled my lungs with the chemical rush. Why was I the one who was looked at as damaged, faulty? Jake had been unfaithful, but somehow this reflected badly on me, I could tell. Just a housewife, really. Nothing achieved, no publications under my name. Not worth staying faithful to.

For the whole party, meanwhile, Jake had seemed relaxed, laughing with friends, moving his hair out of his eyes. I still thought – one last time – about reaching for Antonio. He would go along with it, I sensed. But Jake: what would he feel? He had never been jealous. I could imagine him shrugging, even smiling.

Good for you, Luce, he might say; he might not be hurt at all.

24

24

When Antonio and I got back to the house, people were starting to leave, drunkenness washing away the last of their politeness:

Where is Jake? Tell him to fuck off if you need to (this in a whisper). Arsehole. Do the kids know?

I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows at this last question. Oh yes, I imagined saying. We told little Paddy and Ted all about the way my husband started fucking his co-­worker in hotels after work. Once, we said to them, Daddy had sex in a train toilet! Isn’t that brilliant?

Goodbye, I said instead, keeping my face tight and serene. Take care, see you soon; I played the gracious hostess well, seemed genuinely sad to see them go.

Mary was the last to leave; the sex had left her looking touched-­out, pouchy, as though kept up all night by a teething baby. In fact, I had seen her in that state too: it was an accur­ate comparison, hair coming loose, clothes pulled around. After she left, I shut the door, turned the lights off, locked up, walking straight past piles of the party’s activity, not stopping to clear away a single glass or half-­eaten pie.