Envy

by Amanda Robson

  ‘Apologise!’ she shrieks.

  ‘Sorry,’ I splutter.

  She pulls on my arm again and pushes my shoulder back into its socket. The pain immediately begins to diminish.

  ‘Any more from you and next time you’ll have to get the hospital wing to sort it out.’

  131

  Phillip

  Today, Jonah is standing on our doorstep in front of me. Overdressed as usual. Wearing a double-breasted suit and an alarmingly wide grin, tapping his foot impatiently, eager to come in.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say as nonchalantly as possible. ‘Not much progress made yet. Nothing for you to check on.’

  ‘I really don’t mind coming even though it’s only just started.’

  He steps towards the door. I broaden my shoulders and cross my arms to block him. ‘After the way you’ve behaved, I don’t want you in my house right now.’

  His eyes darken. ‘It wasn’t just me.’

  ‘Oh yes it was. I know all about doctoring photographic images.’

  He grins, a mocking grin; broad and flamboyant. ‘Do you now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There is a pause. He holds my gaze. ‘I need to come in because the builder has asked to see me.’

  ‘What about?’ I demand.

  ‘The drainage.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Jonah. That’s not your area of expertise is it?’

  He puts his head on one side and grins again. ‘I’m not just your architect. I’m your project manager, remember.’

  ‘Yep. But I only needed you to keep a rough eye on things in the first place, so I’m keeping an eye on things myself now.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed,’ he replies with a shrug.

  I sigh inside with relief as I watch him walk away. He was once my friend but now I can’t bear to have him anywhere near me. Or anywhere near you, Faye. I keep looking back at all the time the three of us have spent together. Did you really used to flirt with him? Was this all your fault?

  132

  Erica

  Another week. Another battle with the treadmill. But it is becoming easier all the time. Twelve minutes down, eight to go, pumping my legs, thinking about how much I hate Sylvia, what a bitch she is. Pumping, pumping, the spectre of Sylvia disappearing from my mind. She says I am a low-life, but I know it is the other way around. Six minutes left. Worrying about Faye. Is she looking after Tamsin and Georgia? Is she still shagging Jonah? What is wrong with the woman? Doesn’t she believe in the sanctity of family life? I breathe deeply. I continue running. Running away from Faye, into my own life.

  I look at the digital display in front of me. Five minutes in. Pain diminished, legs like air now, I close my eyes and think of Mouse: playing chess, making beans on toast, tidying his flat. His image moves towards me. His strong face. His thick head of brown hair. I know I will see him soon. He is visiting me in two days.

  Four. Three. Two. One. The rubber mat slows and stops. My legs buckle with relief. I bend over double, nursing a stitch that feels like a metal staple inside me. I reach for my water and gulp it down like nectar. The best drink in the world. Sweeter today than the finest champagne. And now the moment of truth. Legs wobbling I step from the treadmill and walk towards the scales. I remove my trainers, take a deep breath and step on.

  I’ve reached my target weight.

  133

  Faye

  Georgia has started at nursery school now, so I have five mornings a week to myself. Although I am feeling despondent after what happened with Tamsin, and frightened by the permanent threat of Jonah and Phillip’s arguments, I know I’m looking good. Preened and polished. I spend so much of the day out of the house trying to avoid Jonah that there is no end to the amount of pampering I have been lavishing upon myself.

  But still I am emotionally fragile. Frightened of the world. Blaming myself for what happened. Blaming myself for everything. Today I am going to be brave and pop into the agency. I haven’t heard from Mimi since just after Tamsin was abducted. She knew I was having a break. I haven’t contacted her. But life must go on. I must get back in the swing. So, I am walking along Twickenham high street, towards Serendipity Model Agency. Past charity shops and nail bars. I drag up the stairs to the agency and knock on the glass door.

  ‘Come in,’ Mimi shouts.

  I open the door, make my entrance and smile broadly.

  ‘Hello,’ I say as enthusiastically as possible, elongating my syllables. I have been watching a motivational TED talk.

  Mimi stands up and walks across her office to greet me. Her hair is bright green today. It doesn’t suit her pale colouring. It makes her look seasick. As if she is about to vomit.

  ‘Faye, how lovely to see you.’

  She hugs me, holding me tight against her. As if I am a long-lost lover. Then she steps back.

  ‘You’re looking good,’ she continues. ‘Really good. How have you coped? I’ve been worrying about you.’

  Worrying about me so much, she hasn’t even contacted me. Mimi has always had a loose way with words.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she instructs.

  I do as I am asked. ‘Just thought I’d pop in and see how things are going.’

  I sit back in the hard chair and widen my shoulders to try and look as relaxed as possible.

  ‘You won’t believe this, I was just about to ring you.’

  I silently agree with her. It is hard to believe.

  ‘Don’t look like that, Faye. It’s true. It’s true. I’ve got some exciting news.’ Mimi runs her fingers through her bright green hair. ‘Mrs Matterson has changed her mind. She wants to use your photographs from the photoshoot.’

  ‘Mrs Matterson. The horse riding job?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But … But … What’s happened? Why?’ I stutter.

  ‘She tried two other models and even though they were better riders than you, the photographs came out rather flat.’ She pauses to fiddle with one of the studs in her right ear cartilage. I wince as she turns it around. ‘After she rejected their photographs, Sandy finally persuaded her to look at yours properly. She had initially refused, because your riding wasn’t technically good enough.’

  Mimi is running her words together quickly, with excitement. I have never seen her like this. ‘She said your photographs were vibrant. Full of energy. She sends you her apologies.’

  My body is tingling. Am I dreaming this?

  I leave the agency feeling as if I am floating. But from the corner of my eye as I step outside, I see Jonah’s car cruising slowly past, and my heart turns to cement.

  134

  Jonah

  I will get in and see you this time. It is 8:15. So early you can’t have left yet. I stand on your top step by your pot of pansies and ring the doorbell. You answer. My luck is in. You are dressed in a short black velvet dressing gown, which shows off your legs. No make-up. You look good. So natural and delicious. I want to sweep you up and eat you.

  But as soon as you see me your face collapses into a frown.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ you rasp.

  ‘I need to check the property urgently, as the building inspectorate are making an urgent inspection. They only let us know last night,’ I say loudly. I pause. I step towards you and inhale your scent of mint and lavender. Your hair is still slightly damp. You have just showered and cleaned your teeth.

  ‘I needed to see you,’ I whisper.

  Your body stiffens. I am disappointed, Faye.

  You step through the hallway, into the dining room, and I follow you. Phillip is sitting at the dining table, reading the news on his iPad. He looks up and when he sees me his face contorts.

  ‘Why are you here, again?’

  I decide not to tell him I just need to get close to you. To feel your heat, to inhale your scent. So I repeat the lie I just told you. You smile at him and shrug your shoulders. I don’t like the way you are both communicating across me. It makes me feel excluded. I will be talking to you about that, Fa
ye.

  ‘OK, OK,’ you say with a sigh. ‘Come with me.’

  You begin to climb the stairs. I follow your perfect legs, your sumptuous velvet, your fresh scent, and my erection pulsates. I grab your arm on the landing to stop you disappearing into your bedroom. You turn towards me.

  ‘If you don’t tell him soon that you are running off with me – he is going to be given some more proof that we have made love,’ I continue.

  Your eyes flicker now. Your face tenses. Your lips curl downwards. ‘Fuck off, Jonah. He didn’t believe you about your stupid photograph, why should he believe you about anything else?’

  You pull away from me. You step into your bedroom and lock the door. Oh, Faye, you will regret pushing me away. It will not get you very far. I hear voices chatting. You are in there with your children. Why have you locked yourself and them away from me? We need to bond. I will be responsible for you all one day.

  I pad up to the loft area. The smell of drying plaster burns into my nostrils. I move a few tools around to make it look as if I am doing something, and then stand looking out of the window on this soft spring day, blossom blowing in the wind like confetti. Is that an omen? Not long to go until our wedding, Faye.

  I wait ten minutes, thinking of you, dreaming of you. Of the way you stood in front of me in my drawing room, ripping your clothes off. Of the sight of your washboard torso. Your red silk underwear. The way you let me remove it. My erection pumps as I start to walk downstairs. I arrive at your bedroom door and turn the handle. Still locked. Still excluding me. Well I warned you, didn’t I, Faye?

  I pad downstairs to the living area where Phillip is eating his breakfast now: muesli with raspberry and avocado. His eyes snarl into mine.

  ‘Was it all OK?’

  ‘Yes. Tidied up a few things.’

  ‘What time is the inspector coming?’

  ‘He just cancelled.’

  Snarling eyes. Snarling eyebrows. ‘Very unreliable these inspectors, aren’t they?’

  ‘’Fraid so, yes.’

  Softly, quietly, I lean towards him. ‘You still don’t believe I’ve slept with her, do you?’ I almost whisper.

  He smiles, a steady slow smile. ‘You know I don’t believe you. Why bother asking?’

  ‘Just so you know, I love the mole on her inner left thigh. So small and cute. Shaped like a butterfly. So dangerously close to the mound of her buttocks, and her labia.’

  135

  Phillip

  So the manipulative bastard I used to call a friend knows you have a butterfly-shaped mole on your inner thigh. I’m going to really, really hurt him now. I’m going to do everything to protect my life, to protect my family.

  136

  Jonah

  Phillip wants to meet in his favourite pub to discuss our situation. I am glad I am getting beneath his skin, worrying him. So here I am waiting, weighing up his choice of destination. His selection of public house is very much as I would expect. Both the food, and the interior design, mediocre. The whisky selection poor. I manage to order a cheap whisky, and head to a table in the corner. The table is wobbly. The chair I am sitting in, uncomfortable.

  Phillip is five minutes late. He eventually ambles through the door, too casually dressed as usual. Jeans. Holed T-shirt (snagged, not designer). Dark eyes flash towards me as he approaches.

  ‘Good evening.’

  ‘Hello there,’ I reply.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asks.

  ‘Another whisky. The best they can manage. Thanks.’

  He walks to the bar. I watch his lean gangly body from behind as he chats to the barmaid. There is something too insipid, too insubstantial about him. You need me, Faye; a man with bite. When I compare myself to him I win on every level. Better educated – a better college at Cambridge. Better dressed – Hugo Boss and Brooks Brothers. Wealthier. More successful. Harder-edged personality. And judging from the way you climaxed with me, it’s obvious I’m better in bed. The question is not whether you will get rid of him, but when?

  He returns from the bar, cradling a pint of ale and a large shot of whisky, balancing the menu beneath his arm. He sits down, places the drinks on the table, and hands the menu to me.

  ‘What do you fancy?’

  I open the faux-leather plastic menu splattered with fat and beer stains. One quick look. Everything is deep-fried and served with chips, except the cauliflower curry, the vegetarian option.

  I put on a brave smile. ‘Scampi please.’

  He returns to the bar to order. Then he is back, smiling at me half-heartedly. ‘Come on, mate, spill the beans. What did you want to see me about?’ I ask.

  ‘Let’s have a few drinks before we talk properly,’ he says, sipping his pint.

  I know I’ve riled him, talking about your mole. He’s outraged. Pretending to be friendly. But I sip my whisky and play the game. He says let’s talk but he doesn’t start a conversation. He just sits watching me as he drinks.

  After a while he frowns. ‘Have you seen Once upon a Time, on Netflix, an amalgam of present time and fairy tales? My favourite character is Rumpelstiltskin.’

  Yawn. Yawn. No wonder you are bored of him, Faye. Fortunately we are interrupted by the arrival of our deep-fried lunch. The barmaid places them in front of us, and stands, hand on hip.

  ‘Can I get you anything else? Salt and pepper? Sauces?’

  ‘Tartar sauce and cruet please.’

  ‘Cruet?’ she asks with a frown.

  ‘Salt and pepper,’ I snap.

  ‘Ketchup please,’ Phillip says.

  By the time the barmaid eventually returns with the cruet and a bowl of plastic sachets, my food has gone cold. I lace my grease and cardboard with salt and plastic sauce, and take a bite.

  ‘Delicious,’ I lie.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ Phillip replies, nodding his head.

  Doesn’t my old friend understand sarcasm?

  ‘Let’s order some dessert. This place is famous for its sticky toffee pudding,’ Phillip suggests when we have finished our main course.

  Famous? Get real, Phillip. But trying to be amenable, Faye, to your soon to be ex, I nod my head. We sit in silence. I hear the murmur of the barmaid chatting to her colleague in the distance. The sound of passing traffic. The clatter of our cutlery on the oversized pottery pub plates. The waitress pads over to take our empty plates. Phillip orders the special dessert for both of us.

  ‘You’re in for a treat,’ he says.

  137

  Phillip

  The waitress places the sticky toffee puddings in front of us. The toffee-caramel aroma rises in my nostrils and emboldens me.

  ‘Why don’t you order us a couple of coffees to have after dessert?’ I ask Jonah, and when he goes to the bar, I finger the vial of powder in my pocket. I lean across his pudding so that no one at the bar can see, then I tip the powder from the vial into his custard. I stir it with my spoon, and wipe my spoon on my serviette. I look up. Just in time. He is returning, carrying a tray with two coffees on. I smile at him as he sets them down.

  138

  Jonah

  I place the coffees on the table, sit down and start to eat my pudding. A weird combination of flavours, pudding too sweet, custard too bitter. Phillip devours his and takes a sip of coffee. He leans towards me.

  ‘I invited you for lunch today because I feel sorry for you. You are living in a fantasy world, where you think you are in, or have had, a relationship with Faye.’ He pauses. He puts his right elbow on the table. ‘She doesn’t love you.’ He bangs his fist on the table. ‘She never went to bed with you.’ Another volcanic thud of his fist. ‘You need to get help.’

  I want to get hold of that fist and ram it down his throat until he chokes. But I take it easy and smile. Staying calm will rile him most.

  139

  Erica

  Sylvia is watching The One Show. Still playing power games. Still refusing to let me choose anything on TV. Her programme choice bores me. So I am
lying on the bottom bunk reading. Across the dulcet tones of Matt Baker, I hear the electronic cell door buzzing open. A prison officer steps inside. The door closes behind her. She is of an indeterminate age, somewhere between middle-aged and elderly. She has rheumy eyes and pockmarked skin, and is standing in the middle of the cell. Shoulders wide, hands on hips.

  ‘Erica Sullivan, you have been summoned to see the governor at free-flow tomorrow morning. Please wait outside her office at 9:30. Is that understood?’

  My stomach quivers. ‘Yes.’

  I know my release date is only a few weeks away. It was set at trial. Is something wrong? Is everything OK?

  She leaves, accompanied by more electronic buzzing.

  ‘What’ve you been up to?’ Sylvia asks turning her head from the TV and narrowing her eyes at me.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s what they all say isn’t it? Nothing, Gov? Dark horse, ain’t you? If you’re up to something, don’t get me involved.’

  I close my eyes for a second. DBT. Think of my DBT. How do I turn Sylvia’s attitude towards me into a positive? Communicate, communicate, communicate, I whisper in my head. I take a deep breath and open my eyes.

  ‘I can assure you I’m not up to anything,’ I reply.

  ‘Nothing? Taking someone else’s child?’

  Her eyes are blazing. Spoiling for a fight. I inhale deeply again and turn my mind in on itself to concentrate.

  ‘I took Tamsin to try to help her. I suppose I felt responsible for her, as if she was my child.’

  Sylvia’s face is frozen, immobile with anger.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I continue. ‘Did you think your child was in danger? That you needed to have him to yourself?’