Read How to Be a Good Wife for Free Online Page A

always to be bright and cheerful: a breath of fresh air.
    ‘Would you like some wine?’ I ask, gesturing at the half-empty bottle on the table.
    ‘No, thank you,’ he says. He looks at me. ‘Make that your last one. You know you’re not supposed to drink with your pills.’
    I keep my eyes on the table. Remembering the candle, I take the lighter out. The table glows.
    ‘Where did you get that lighter?’ Hector asks.
    ‘It’s the one from the kitchen drawer,’ I say.
    The accusing look in his eyes falters.
    ‘It’s been in there for years, for lighting birthday candles and things,’ I continue.
    He takes a mouthful of lamb and chews it slowly, still examining his plate.
    ‘Why was it in your pocket?’ he says.
    ‘I was going to light the candle,’ I say, looking at him calmly.
    ‘Oh,’ he says.
    I scrape my plate clean.
    I watch Hector eat, cutting his food up into small pieces before eating them, chewing slowly and methodically. This is rare for a man.
Better good manners than good looks.
    As I watch his mouth, I see another row of teeth moving faster and faster, shovel, swallow, shovel, swallow. No chewing. As he smiles, I see the food between them, on his tongue, imagine it travelling down his throat. I shut my eyes, thinking for a moment I am going to be sick.
    ‘Marta?’ Hector says. ‘Are you OK?’
    I open my eyes. A piece of lamb glistens on his fork. I swallow. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I just ate too quickly.’
    Take small mouthfuls of food, like a baby bird, and make sure to chew daintily with your mouth closed.
    I wait for him to look away.

5
    After dinner, Hector goes to the living room, leaving me to clear up.
    As I wipe the green sponge over the plates at the sink, the taste of bare china fills my mouth, cold and hard. My teeth ache deep into the gums and I clench them together, waiting for the feeling to pass. I take a swig from the wine bottle, swallowing to clear the taste in my mouth. When I pull the bottle away, it is empty.
    Opening the bin to scrape in the leftover broccoli, I step backwards: it’s filled with wet hair. I think I see something move: for a moment I think it is an animal, and I am about to call to Hector. But when I look back, there is nothing there. The edge of the cigarette packet is visible, underneath a pile of envelopes. I slam the bin lid down, hard.
    Reaching into the cupboard above my head, I pull out the small orange pot of pills. I hold it in my hands, touching the peeling edge of the label.
Marta Bjornstad. Take three daily with food.
No, I think. I won’t.
    The pills go back into their place. Opening a new bottle of wine, I pour myself a glass and go through to the living room.
    The clock above the mantelpiece reads 8:15. Hector has turned on the lamps and the room glows warmly. The thick cream curtains are drawn at the bay window facing the lane.
    He is lying on the sofa, propped up on one of the ivory cushions, his arms bent behind his head. One slipper hangs off his foot. His face is soft: his eyes are shut, his chest moving slowly and rhythmically. The creases on his brow have disappeared and he almost looks happy. Like a boy. I look at the grey hairs around his temples, his thinning hairline. He isn’t a boy, I think; he’s getting to be an old man now. As I watch him, listening to his laboured breathing, I feel a familiar rush of pity for him. There are twenty years between us.
    His eyes open, and I am caught.
    Hector sits up, rubs his eyes.
    We sit in silence, watching the television.
    ‘Kylan called earlier,’ Hector says. ‘While you were out. He’s coming for dinner tomorrow night.’
    I feel myself breathe in sharply. ‘He’s coming home?’
    ‘They’re coming for dinner and the night,’ he says. ‘They have work on Monday.’
    ‘Katya’s coming too, then?’ I ask.
    ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘You can meet her at last. They have some news.’
    ‘It’s about time he brought her home,’ I say. ‘It almost feels like she