How to Be a Good Wife by Emma Chapman

allow it.’
    I clear my throat. ‘Do you mind if we stop talking about the wedding?’ I say.
    Katya stares, blinking. Everyone is looking at me. Taking a mouthful of food, I can taste little but the salt.
    ‘What do you do for a living, Katya?’ I ask, when I can’t stand the silence any longer.
    ‘I work in advertising,’ she says.
    ‘Is that in an office?’ I ask.
    Katya nods. ‘It’s a small agency but we’ve done some quite big campaigns.’
    ‘And do you think you will keep working once you are married?’
    ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘We don’t see the wedding changing that much in our lives really. We already live together.’
    ‘But you want to have children?’
    ‘When we are a bit older,’ she says. ‘I don’t think we’re ready for that yet. We’re too selfish, I suppose.’ She looks at Kylan and they laugh.
    ‘And too young,’ Hector says.
    ‘I was younger than Katya when I had Kylan,’ I say. ‘You didn’t think it was too young then, Hector.’
    ‘It was different then,’ Hector says. ‘You didn’t have a career.’
    ‘But you won’t work when you have children,’ Matilda says.
    ‘I might,’ Katya says, ‘when they are a little older. I haven’t decided yet.’
    ‘I think you’re all getting a bit carried away,’ Kylan says, smiling. ‘We certainly aren’t planning on any children for a good few years yet.’
    ‘Having children is an amazing experience, though,’ I say, looking at Kylan. ‘It’s just a shame they have to grow up.’
    Kylan smiles and then looks down at his plate.
    ‘It’s inevitable,’ Katya says. ‘That’s why I think I’d like to keep working.’
    I stare at her. It feels like an attack, and I want to say something, but I have promised Kylan I will make an effort.
    The only sound is the scraping of the metal cutlery against the china. It makes my stomach churn. Closing my eyes, I see a white plate, rimmed with blue flowers, a steaming mound of beef stew and mashed potato, enough to feed four men. His big hands dwarf the cutlery, scraping the plate clean; his teeth grind.
    When I open my eyes, the guests are observing me, their faces turned towards me in the candlelight.
    I see myself then, a blank-faced marionette, like the porcelain dolls in the cabinet in the hallway.
    I wonder if I was talking, if I said something I shouldn’t have.
    ‘What?’ I say abruptly, the word stuttering around the table.
    There is a pause.
    ‘Nothing, Mum,’ Kylan says. ‘We were just saying how good the food is.’
    I think of the long trail of white salt, disappearing below the surface of the stew. Why are they lying to me?
    They watch as I sip my champagne.
    Hector is staring at me, a warning look, and the fear tightens in my stomach. I need to behave myself.
    Once everyone is finished, I get up and start clearing the bowls. Walking through to the kitchen, I keep checking to see if Hector has followed me, but he doesn’t come.
    I remember his hand on my back in the shady hallway of the hotel we stayed in on our honeymoon. It was dim compared with the sunshine reflecting off the outside paintwork, making the trees around the fjord paint the water with sparkling green.
    The hotel was only a short drive from the chapel, and I was still wearing my wedding dress: I remember the difficulty of climbing the wooden stairs without tripping. There was champagne in an ice bucket in our bedroom and a fruit basket wrapped in cellophane on the dressing table. Hector locked the door to the room from the inside, then walked out onto the balcony. I began unwrapping the fruit, the plastic creaking under my fingers.
    ‘Don’t open that now,’ Hector called through from the balcony, ‘we’ll go for dinner soon. Come out and look at the view.’
    I followed him, resting my small hands on the white wooden rail next to his larger ones. The fjord stretched before us, and from the darkness of the water, I could tell it was deep. There was barely a ripple on the silky surface,