The Liar's Chair by Rebecca Whitney Page A

texts lassoed me home, and now I’m here my punishment is his absence, leaving me guessing and worrying. Two wrongs do make a right in this house but I
don’t mind; it’s better this way, gives me time to tidy myself up, to regroup before the showdown and to polish my excuse. First there’ll be David’s loving concern, the
caresses and whispers that deliver the hidden threats. Then the silence – a tricky monosyllabic detour of hours or days depending on our resolve – and finally the point at which I fold
and explain my behaviour. When this comes, when I finally repent – which I always do – he’ll let me know he doesn’t care anyway. Games. We’ve become very good at them.
We have little else.
    I head for the kitchen, fill a glass of water and stand with my back to the sink in the immaculate room. Cabinets run in long undisturbed lines, and the worktops exude a show-home sheen of
sanitized happiness, a fantasy that David’s worked hard to mimic, so much so that he actually believes it’s true; we have arrived therefore we are happy. The few things on display in
the kitchen – the cappuccino maker that’s been taken apart for cleaning, plus the maple knife block – are there for a reason: they speak of success and privilege, attributes that
David has spent his life attempting to acquire.
    David’s broadsheet is spread across the marble kitchen table. Next to the newspaper is a cup of mint tea, half finished, still warm – half-an-hour warm. He prefers coffee, but allows
it only as his good-boy treat. The phantom of David’s action is held in the mug and newspaper – the
Financial Times
– the pages spewed apart where he’s flicked them
over, standing as he does with one hand splayed on the table for support, his other hand hauling the sheets across and wafting air in his face. If I dusted the table for prints, there would be one
complete palm next to the paper, fat and solid, pressed on to the table, his presence vast and close even in his absence.
    I open the fridge, look inside, close the door. Everything is packaged, bottled or sealed. Nothing leaks or breathes. When was the last time I’d cooked? Probably that fateful dinner, three
weeks ago. After the cleaner surmounted that chaos, the house has stayed clean. She comes twice weekly, but there’s no need really; nothing is used or gets dirty. I work late and can’t
be bothered with food, snacking on whatever’s available: bits of cheese, supermarket soup, stuff that doesn’t need putting together. Even opening a tin is an effort too far, and I buy
ready meals with only a film of plastic to puncture before the microwave. With my back to the sink I stand as I do now, spooning the food straight from the hot plastic tray into my mouth. A few
mouthfuls before I’m nauseous. David dines out mostly – supper at the club, power bars at the gym – so long as when it matters, when clients come round, there’s something of
value on the table; a meal that looks expensive and has been cooked by a wife who cares. Though we’ll be using caterers from now on.
    Next to our kitchen is the large open-plan dining room set inside a glass annex. Doors concertina the length of a whole wall, so that we have an uninterrupted view of the garden. ‘Where
your home and nature combine, bringing the outside in,’ the house particulars said. We’ve opened the doors only once, to air the paint when we redecorated. This room has tall ceilings
and the table is overlooked by the guest-bedroom mezzanine and en suite. Marble tiles, heated from underneath like an emperor’s palace, spread throughout the whole ground floor so that each
room flows into the next. A space big enough to house a small car showroom, furnished only with a telephone table, chaise longue and modern grandfather clock, is the central entrance, and on the
opposite side to this is another reception room with standard Eames chair and Noguchi coffee table, making the house perfectly