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wrist again. ‘If I find out you’ve been missing them again—’ He stops. He pinches the flesh at my waist. ‘You’re losing weight,’ he says. ‘Have you eaten today?’
    ‘I haven’t had time,’ I say. ‘There’s been so much to do.’
    Always put the needs of the rest of the family above your own.
    ‘Eat something before they get here,’ he says. ‘Is everything ready?’
    ‘Almost,’ I say.
    ‘Do you need any help?’
    Never bother your husband with domestic matters.
    I shake my head. ‘I just need to make the halibut stew.’
    Hector looks at his watch. ‘I’ll go and get ready then,’ he says, turning around and leaving the room.
    *
    Some time later, after I have finished in the kitchen, I listen in the hallway for signs of Hector. After a few minutes, the floor creaks and I know he is in his study. I climb the stairs. In the bathroom, the fan whirrs. I shut and lock the door, turning on the shower, watching the water begin to flow, turning the air to steam. Removing my clothes, I feel disgusting, itchy with accumulated dirt, and I long to be clean again. In the mirror, my collar bones rise through the white skin, my breasts suspended, small and flat, from my chest. The sagging skin of my stomach is loose and wrinkled.
    The water runs hot, and already the edges of the glass have begun to steam up. It’s excruciating, but I make myself bear it. My hair dampens and clings to the back of my neck. I lather the soap between my palms and wash my body slowly, making sure not to miss an inch of skin. When I am clean, I close my eyes and focus on the darkness behind my lids, the hot wet flow of the water on my chest. I stand there as long as I can.
    When I open my eyes, I’m outside the shower cubicle, looking in. I can hear the rush of water, and through the misted glass I make out the girl’s silhouette. She is singing to herself: no words, just a hummed tune, vibrating under the water and through the echoey bathroom. I peer through small clear circles in the glass. She has her eyes shut, but she’s smiling, her skin white and smooth under the bathroom lights. Her blonde hair has darkened, slicked back, moulding itself smoothly to the shape of her curved shoulders and back. Her hips jut out from her waist and her ribs protrude from her chest. She has no breasts. I can see the thick blue veins beneath her white skin, and there are fine hairs all over her body.
    Her eyes snap open, clear and grey, and I step backwards, out of sight. The humming has stopped now, and I listen, trying to hear her again. But there is only the sound of the water drumming into the empty base, and when I step forward, her pink silhouette is gone.
    I reach back into the cubicle and switch off the water, looking around me at the duck-egg blue of the tiles, Hector’s shaving things by the sink, his robe on the back of the door. I am shivering; my teeth chattering, and I pull a towel from the rail and rub myself with it, hard. I stand there for some time, watching the empty shower cubicle, tracing my wet footprints across the carpet.
    Looking over my shoulder, I see myself in the steamed mirror. I don’t want to push the girl away, to deny these things I have been seeing. There’s a sense that it would be fruitless anyway: like trying to sink a cork in basin full of water. It will always rise to the surface again.
    *
    In the bedroom, I go to the wardrobe. I am careful about choosing what I want to wear, running my finger along the selection of clothes. Tonight feels important and I want to look my best.
    A good woman can be judged by the neatness of her dress and how well her children behave.
    I want Kylan to be proud of me.
    I choose a red pencil skirt with a matching jacket and a white shirt. Perhaps I will wear heels too.
    At the back of the wardrobe, I catch a glimpse of crumpled white material. I reach in and touch it, the lace edge slipping through my fingers. I haven’t thought about this in years. Pulling it out, I