Envy

by Amanda Robson

  Court officials pace. My duty solicitor arrives, black bags beneath her eyes. More exhausted than ever. She slips behind a table near the front of court and starts whipping through her notes. From behind, her shoulders look frail and brittle, like the carcass of a cooked chicken. I feel sorry for her because I can see that she is riddled with early osteoporosis.

  My barrister strides in adjusting his wig, and smiles across at me. A smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. I try to smile back but it doesn’t work, and I nod my head instead. The prosecution barrister is here. A man who wants to destroy my life. A man who hates me and wants me to die. Young and foppish, with blond hair that he keeps pushing from his eyes. This man, so young his life has hardly begun, wants to take my life away. I close my eyes and think about my therapist, Jessica. Her voice floats towards me.

  Focus. Focus. Change the dynamic in your mind.

  Focus. Focus. Change the dynamic in your mind.

  I open my eyes and I see him, sitting down, bat-wing gown wrapped around him. A young professional doing a job, that’s all. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  Mouse walks in, and my body lightens. The only real friend I’ve ever had is giving me a high five across the courtroom. I want to feel his hand against mine like I used to, so much that I have to swallow to prevent tears. He smiles at me, and for a second he looks so handsome, like the man he might have been. Then his frown settles, and he is Mouse again.

  He sits in the viewing gallery. I sit looking at him. He is wearing the leather jacket that his father bought him last year. The jacket he is so proud to own.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said, when his father gave it to him, ‘I’m a real man about town.’

  We both laughed.

  ‘What exactly is a man about town?’ I asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know.’

  We laughed again.

  One of the clerks strides out of court and returns with the jury. I try not to stare at them. I look at my feet. I look at the floor. But my eyes are like magnets. They can’t keep away.

  Three young women dressed in trendy clothes. Topshop, New Look sort of girls. A grandad figure with grey hair and cosy glasses, studiously reading the notes in front of him. A woman who looks as if she works in an office. A woman who is glossy. A pretty Asian girl with a stud in the side of her nose. A man with a black bushy beard. A man with designer stubble. A man with his hair in a ponytail. He is nice-looking. I like the ponytail. It’s interesting. Maverick. Two dark-suited men with short hair and straight faces. Lawyers? Accountants? Maths teachers?

  I feel sick as I sit watching them. All the DBT in the world isn’t going to save me from their assassination. That’s what they want to do. Assassinate me. The word reverberates in my mind. I need to take control. To stop this from happening. To make my thoughts slow down. Turn my reaction into a positive.

  Panic sears into my stomach. I keep staring at the jury, watching their every move. As they turn to one another, eyes down, muttering a whispered comment. As they wriggle in their seats.

  Should I pretend they are my friends, not my enemies? My nurses and doctors? My carers? Should I pretend they are the ones who are exposed? Sitting there cold and naked?

  Judge Peterson arrives, and everybody stands. He sits down. Everybody sits down. Puppets, following the judge.

  I look across at Mouse’s familiar shoulders and tell myself: Erica, you can cope. You can handle this.

  113

  Phillip

  I’m sitting in front of my computer screen. And despite all this worry with Tamsin, and Erica’s trial, and you being so uptight – Jonah’s words still hammer through my brain.

  ‘I hate to tell you, Phillip, but she finds me attractive too.’ ‘Can’t you see the pull between us?’ ‘Why did she seduce me?’ I want to go back in time and shout, ‘Of course she didn’t seduce you, you stupid prick.’

  I want to punch him so hard in the stomach that his spleen ruptures.

  You and I dealt with it; spoke about it the next morning. ‘What happened between you?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing, I swear,’ you replied, voice cracked. ‘Jonah’s a destructive monster.’

  I held you against me, feeling the rushing beat of your heart, so wanting to believe you it hurt.

  ‘He’s a destructive monster who wants to ruin my life,’ you continued. You began to cry. Gently at first. Bursting into racking, pitiful sobs.

  Sobs and cries that built and built, increasing in anguish until they reached a crescendo and began to diminish. ‘I love you so much, Phillip, that I can hardly bear it. I never want to lose you. Nothing must ever drive us apart.’ I kissed you. As I touched your lips time stopped. ‘I love you for ever,’ you said. I hold on to that moment, on to those words, but still can’t get an image out of my head, of you and him together naked in bed. My wife and my oldest friend.

  114

  Erica

  Another day of the trial. Two weeks feel like two years. My DBT is on the back foot. Instead of confronting issues and turning them into positives I am dissociating myself. Pretending it is happening to someone else. How am I supposed to apply DBT to this? I don’t know what is happening, how long I might spend in prison. How can I turn uncertainty into a positive? People need certainty to anchor them, and nothing is ever certain, except for the fact we will die. So we wrap ourselves in as much certainty as possible to cushion ourselves. At the moment I can’t do that.

  The barristers are arguing again. Their words twist in my mind. First I am a demon. Then an angel who has had a difficult life. How can the same person be so different? And neither of those people is me.

  Mouse turns his head from his seat at the front of the public viewing gallery to look at me, eyes clouded and anxious. I smile at him to try to reassure him. I want to hug him and whisper, ‘Please don’t worry, Mouse.’

  He doesn’t smile back. He frowns. My heart quickens. Doesn’t the judge understand how difficult this is for me? Doesn’t he understand that I need to get out? I need to help Mouse’s father look after Mouse.

  115

  Jonah

  I am tired of waiting, Faye. I have been patient because of your problems with Tamsin, caused by that monster Erica. But my desire for you is rising uncontrollably, and I can no longer stem its force. When my breath has calmed I grab my phone and text you.

  Phillip knows about us. Your marriage is over. We are free to escape.

  116

  Faye

  My phone vibrates. I pick it up. A text from Jonah.

  We are free to escape.

  My body stiffens. I feel sick. I rush to the bathroom and vomit. I’ve denied everything. Told Jonah I don’t want him. Surely he must realise it’s time to move on? I’ll have to try to speak to him again.

  117

  Erica

  I sit in the dock waiting for judgement, body simmering with dread. Perdita is sitting next to me. Looking straight ahead, as worried as me. Mouth in a line. She senses me looking at her, and turns her head towards me. She reaches across and takes my hand in hers. I pull my eyes away from her, and look across to Mouse. He is staring straight in front of him and doesn’t look around.

  Waiting. Waiting. As if we will wait for ever. Time and movement stop in my mind. I close my eyes. Here but not here. Back in Mouse’s shiny flat playing chess. Mouse has made a move and trapped me, eyes glistening with pleasure. I shrug my shoulders and laugh. Back watching Faye holding Tamsin’s hand and pushing Georgia in the buggy, on the way to school. Back holding Mouse’s hand.

  ‘The rain won’t hurt you, Mouse. I will never let anything hurt you.’

  Back on the bed in the Premier Inn with Tamsin. She is kicking and screaming.

  ‘I want to go home.’

  The more I think about her spoilt behaviour the more I wish I had taken the opportunity and brought her under control.

  No. No. No.

  I stop myself. She doesn’t belong to me. Not my responsibility. How can I have
let my mind ramble like this?

  Perdita is nudging me, pointy elbow digging into my ribs. I open my eyes. The jury are arriving, ambling in. I cannot bear to watch them, to try and second-guess what they are about to say. So I sit ignoring them, looking at the floor in front of me. Wooden planking. Old and cracked. Perdita nudges me again. The judge is arriving and everybody stands. The judge sits down and we follow.

  ‘Have you come to a decision on the charge of abduction?’ the judge asks the jury.

  The foreman stands. He is the grandad figure with grey hair and cosy glasses. He looks as if he should be at home wearing slippers and sitting in a rocking chair.

  ‘Yes,’ he replies.

  ‘Is it the opinion of you all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please inform us.’

  ‘We find the defendant guilty.’

  Guilty.

  My heart sinks like a stone. I knew this was coming, but hearing it out loud in court makes me feel so bad. Guilty of what? Trying to save the life of a child? Stealing a bit of money to help me do it? I feel sick.

  ‘I sentence the defendant, Erica Sullivan, to twelve months in prison,’ the judge announces.

  Twelve months.

  Mind and fingers trembling I try to focus. Twelve months. My solicitor has told me that my sentence is likely to be halved for good behaviour. I’ve already been in for two. Possibly only four months to go. Four months. Not long. I want to sing for joy. To dance on the ceiling. My heart is racing. I want to laugh. To cry with happiness. I look across at Mouse and smile. This time he smiles back and his smile lights my world. His eyes are shining.

  ‘I have sentenced at the bottom end of the sentencing guidelines,’ the judge continues, ‘because I am particularly struck by the defendant’s excellent response to DBT therapy. She is full of remorse. There is a very low risk of re-offending. However I am granting the prosecution the restraining order requested.’

  My spirits dip again.

  118

  Faye

  ‘Twelve months, for abducting my child – and she’s already served two?’ I shriek down the telephone. ‘She’ll be out in four months’ time. What wanker came up with that?’

  I hear Phillip breathing down the phone line. I hear him swallow.

  ‘You’re too worked up, Faye. I’m coming home. Right now.’

  119

  Phillip

  I drive home, body trembling. Breathe. Breathe. I need to contain my anger to help you. But I am as angry, if not more angry, than you. My anger towards Erica unleashes my anger about Jonah into a tsunami, about to crash and break up our relationship. The car moves on automatic pilot. Why does Jonah of all people, someone I thought was a friend, want to destroy what I have? To save it I need to trust you, Faye. Can I do that?

  I pull into the drive and my normal world begins to come into focus. Our neat little town house, garage in the basement, brick steps to the front door. Pansies in a pot. Brass door knocker.

  My head is aching. It feels as if it is about to explode. Breathe. Breathe. Slowly, slowly, in and out. Listening to my tape of white noise. Ten minutes is all it usually takes. But ten minutes is not enough today. Twenty minutes later I step out of the car rubbing my temples, head still throbbing. Walking up the steps to our front door.

  But before I have even begun to rummage for my keys, the door has opened and you are standing in front of me.

  ‘What were you doing sitting in the car for so long?’ you ask, voice clipped and brittle.

  ‘Listening to my tape.’

  ‘What about me?’ you shriek.

  ‘Calm down, Faye. You sound like …’

  ‘Sound like what?’

  You move towards me and pummel my chest with punches. You let out a feral scream. I put my arms around you, and your punches begin to lose their intensity. Your body softens and folds into mine. You are crying now, tears streaming down your face.

  ‘I’m sorry. So sorry,’ you whisper.

  Tangled together we move into our sitting room and sit curled up on the sofa. Your tears are still falling.

  ‘Faye, please, please, don’t worry. The restraining order was granted. She can’t come near us. We’re safe.’

  120

  Faye

  In the changing room at the Anytime Leisure Club, getting ready for boxercise. I smile at familiar faces, as I stuff my clothes and phone into my locker and fill up my water bottle from the fountain in the corner.

  Into the exercise room, I find a space at the back, where there is more room to be in my own zone. The music begins. A slow warm-up. Leisurely muscular movement, pushing my mind back to freedom and peace. Back to when I was younger, in another life. Imagining I would grow up to live in a perfect world without worry.

  The music quickens. Now we work in pairs. My partner is a girl with strawberry blonde hair, wearing navy blue Lycra. I hold the guard and she punches first. Sweat drips from her forehead.

  The music changes. It is my turn now. Punching my partner’s pads to the rhythm of the music. I tighten my fingers inside the glove and go for it. Take that, Erica. Erica, get the hell out of our lives. I see Tamsin’s and Georgia’s eyes, Tamsin’s so like mine, Georgia’s like Phillip’s, widening as they talk about the bad lady. In their minds she has been minimised by therapy, by careful handling, to a pantomime character, far away and distant, whom the world will protect them from.

  But to me she is real. A threat, a menace. Take that, Erica. I punch so hard, so repeatedly, I see my partner tighten her lips and wince. Her face becomes Erica’s. I tighten my whole body and swing my right arm, faster, further. Take that, Erica. I up the ante. My partner’s cushion vibrates. She steps back. She raises her arm.

  ‘Calm it. Cool it.’

  I am breathing so rapidly, I cannot reply. My heart pumps blood against my eardrums. I bend over double and slowly catch my breath. ‘It’s an exercise class, not a fight,’ my partner says. She is standing, arms curved, boxing gloves resting on her hips.

  ‘I got carried away. I’m sorry.’

  ‘OK OK,’ she says. ‘Let’s go. But be gentle this time.’ There is a pause. ‘And I’ll start if you don’t mind.’

  I nod my head, step back and stand, guard up. She taps her foot to the beat of the music, then gently begins to punch. Her face becomes Erica’s again, and every punch, however insipid and gentle, is eating me up. Erica’s face is pushing towards me laughing. ‘You can’t look after your children,’ she is saying. ‘I will take them away from you.’ Panic rises like a wave of electricity inside me. I step back, raise my arm and shake my head.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well today. I can’t do this.’

  I leave my gloves and guards in the box by the door and walk back to the changing room, without waiting for her to reply.

  The changing room is peaceful. I do not like it when it is full of other women. They chat so much. Boasting about their children. Their A level results. Their top university applications. They spread their toiletries and underwear all over the communal bench. I keep as far away from them as possible, in the corner by the door. If they look my way I nod and smile politely. If they ask me a question I give a closed answer. I never encourage them by asking one back.

  I am so pleased to be escaping early, as I do not want to have a post mortem with the sweaty strawberry blonde. I open my locker, throw my coat over my gym kit and walk briskly to pick Georgia up from the crèche. I have to be patient. Lively after her nap, she is busy climbing and sliding into the elaborate bright blue and orange plastic ball pit in the centre of the children’s area.

  She eventually runs towards me red-faced and grinning, opening her arms. I bend down. We wrap our arms around one another, clamping together like ivy.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy you’re early. I’ve not even had a drink and biscuits.’

  ‘Well then, let’s go to McDonald’s for a treat.’

  She pulls away from me and jumps up and down, squealing with pleasure. I have nev
er been sure what it is about burgers, ketchup and chips looking and tasting like cardboard that causes this reaction. But with the promise of such delicacies ahead I manage to rush her into the buggy and strap her in with ease. Being Georgia, vacillating so effortlessly between liveliness and exhaustion, she immediately falls asleep.

  As I step out of the lobby into the car park, I see a lilac Jaguar with a man sitting in it hovering outside. Jonah. The tremor I was suppressing in my fingers increases as I hold my head high and walk towards him. Just as I am level with the car he winds the window down and grins at me.

  ‘Get in. We need to talk.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you ever again.’

  121

  Phillip

  ‘Thanks for supper, Faye.’

  I lean across the table and kiss you.

  ‘I’ll just go and check on the children and then shall we have a glass of wine?’

  ‘Thanks,’ you say, attempting a grin, which doesn’t quite work. You widen your lips a little and the skin around your eyes crinkles.

  I pad upstairs, past all our photographs on the landing, taken in happier days. Into Tamsin’s bedroom. She is fast asleep, lying curled up on her side, thumb in her mouth, surrounded by an overdose of pink. Pink pillow. Pink duvet. Sickly candyfloss pink. So vulnerable. So innocent. How could that woman have thought it was all right to take her away from us? No wonder you are in such a state, Faye. I lean across the bed to give Tamsin a kiss. A soft gentle kiss on the top of her head so as not to wake her. Her hair feels like silk.

  Slowly, on tiptoe, I creep out of her room to see Georgia. Georgia is lying flat on her back, chubby arms stretched above her head, mouth open, duvet falling off. I pull it back over her, and kiss her forehead. She doesn’t stir.

  Back downstairs. You have cleared up. I open a bottle of Merlot and pour us each a glass. I flick the Sonos on. Beethoven. The composer Jonah and I always used to listen to at university. The composer we still both love. My anger towards Jonah isn’t going to stop me listening to my favourite music.