Read Online How to Be a Good Wife by Emma Chapman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emma Chapman
Tags: Fiction
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decide to wear it tonight, my secret. A corset: a wedding gift from Hector. When I used to wear it, it was fastened on the tightest clasp, but these days even the loosest is too tight, and I struggle to turn the material around my middle. When it is on, I can feel the slight bulges of skin along the edges of the wired material: I feel restricted, but I decide that it is not altogether a bad thing.
I remember trying the corset on in the changing room of a department store, on our last trip to the city. We had been shopping all day, for clothes for my new married life, a special treat. We agreed it was a good day, wandering around the sunlit city, stopping for a coffee in one of the wide tree-lined avenues. I remember Hector smiling, wiping away a trail of white foam from his lip. It wasn’t long before the wedding and it was summer.
Now though, I am taken back to the stuffy smell of the changing room. My hands shook as I attached the clasps and I had to ask Hector to help me with the top few. I remember how cold his hands felt. I adjusted it behind the curtain, slipping my arms through the straps, but though the material sagged, it was suddenly too tight, and I couldn’t breathe. I pulled at it, my face hot, but it wouldn’t come off. Eventually I got myself out of it, and pulled on my clothes: an old jumper of Hector’s and some black trousers, too big. For a long time, I wouldn’t come out of the changing room, and Hector had to persuade me, first with kind words and encouragements, then quiet threats, whispered through the thick velvet curtain which divided us.
Would your daughter like some help?
the changing-room attendant asked, and even through the curtain, I could feel Hector’s quiet rage.
After we had paid, Hector took me by the arm and we walked through the streets. I couldn’t keep up with him, and I remember how his grip tightened. I wanted to do the right thing, but everything I did seemed to annoy him, and his eyes were dark, his lips tight. He muttered at me to hurry up. Eventually, we came to a hairdresser’s salon and Hector pulled me inside.
I can smell the alcohol of the salon again now. I breathe in: just beyond it, there are other things, and I wait. There is the feel of the leather seat under my fingers, the huge mirrors in front of me. In the reflection, I see myself, but I look different, almost unrecognizable.
I remember the hairdresser asking me when I had last had it cut, her voice filled with thinly veiled disgust as she held the ends up to the light. I shook my head, feeling the eyes of the other people in the shop. The music, the laughter, the chatter, all existed beyond an impassable wall. Hector sat by the window affecting boredom, casting glances across at me, a magazine juddering on his knee. He had tried so hard to get the knots out, even suggesting he cut my hair himself. The tears rolled down my cheeks. I could feel his embarrassment as the hairdresser knelt down beside me, her own hair gleaming under the lights, and whispered that it would all be all right.
She gave me a hot sweet cup of tea, which I drank quickly to make her happy, burning my tongue. Then, according to Hector’s instructions, she cut it all off, gave me a fringe, and dyed it brown. Watching the ground and the long wisps that fell, I listened to the determined metallic sound of the scissors.
When she switched off the blow-dryer, I let myself look. My head felt lighter, and although I didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror with the dark bob and heavy fringe, I knew it was me. Hector put down his magazine and came over, smiling widely. He thanked the hairdresser, then bent down to me.
‘Do you like it, Marta?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘It must be a relief to get rid of all that hair,’ he said. ‘You look like a different person.’
He turned around, walking to the till, and I watched the girl with the dark hair get up and follow him.
For all these years, I have thought of that day in the city as one
I remember trying the corset on in the changing room of a department store, on our last trip to the city. We had been shopping all day, for clothes for my new married life, a special treat. We agreed it was a good day, wandering around the sunlit city, stopping for a coffee in one of the wide tree-lined avenues. I remember Hector smiling, wiping away a trail of white foam from his lip. It wasn’t long before the wedding and it was summer.
Now though, I am taken back to the stuffy smell of the changing room. My hands shook as I attached the clasps and I had to ask Hector to help me with the top few. I remember how cold his hands felt. I adjusted it behind the curtain, slipping my arms through the straps, but though the material sagged, it was suddenly too tight, and I couldn’t breathe. I pulled at it, my face hot, but it wouldn’t come off. Eventually I got myself out of it, and pulled on my clothes: an old jumper of Hector’s and some black trousers, too big. For a long time, I wouldn’t come out of the changing room, and Hector had to persuade me, first with kind words and encouragements, then quiet threats, whispered through the thick velvet curtain which divided us.
Would your daughter like some help?
the changing-room attendant asked, and even through the curtain, I could feel Hector’s quiet rage.
After we had paid, Hector took me by the arm and we walked through the streets. I couldn’t keep up with him, and I remember how his grip tightened. I wanted to do the right thing, but everything I did seemed to annoy him, and his eyes were dark, his lips tight. He muttered at me to hurry up. Eventually, we came to a hairdresser’s salon and Hector pulled me inside.
I can smell the alcohol of the salon again now. I breathe in: just beyond it, there are other things, and I wait. There is the feel of the leather seat under my fingers, the huge mirrors in front of me. In the reflection, I see myself, but I look different, almost unrecognizable.
I remember the hairdresser asking me when I had last had it cut, her voice filled with thinly veiled disgust as she held the ends up to the light. I shook my head, feeling the eyes of the other people in the shop. The music, the laughter, the chatter, all existed beyond an impassable wall. Hector sat by the window affecting boredom, casting glances across at me, a magazine juddering on his knee. He had tried so hard to get the knots out, even suggesting he cut my hair himself. The tears rolled down my cheeks. I could feel his embarrassment as the hairdresser knelt down beside me, her own hair gleaming under the lights, and whispered that it would all be all right.
She gave me a hot sweet cup of tea, which I drank quickly to make her happy, burning my tongue. Then, according to Hector’s instructions, she cut it all off, gave me a fringe, and dyed it brown. Watching the ground and the long wisps that fell, I listened to the determined metallic sound of the scissors.
When she switched off the blow-dryer, I let myself look. My head felt lighter, and although I didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror with the dark bob and heavy fringe, I knew it was me. Hector put down his magazine and came over, smiling widely. He thanked the hairdresser, then bent down to me.
‘Do you like it, Marta?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘It must be a relief to get rid of all that hair,’ he said. ‘You look like a different person.’
He turned around, walking to the till, and I watched the girl with the dark hair get up and follow him.
For all these years, I have thought of that day in the city as one
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