Envy

by Amanda Robson

  ‘Sexist are you? My baby is a girl,’ she spits. ‘Yes. I did need to take her. I didn’t just think she was in danger, I knew it, but no one would believe me.’ Her eyes are shining. She is almost in tears. ‘And now she’s in care; and I am locked up in here.’

  Aggressive, difficult, but now she has told me her story I feel sorry for her.

  Unsure what to say, I whisper, ‘I was in care, but I’m all right now. I’ve survived.’

  ‘Depends what you mean by all right,’ she says, jaw tightening. ‘If you are all right now, how the fuck did you end up in here?’

  140

  Faye

  ‘Look,’ Mimi says. ‘Let me show you. Don’t the photographs look good?’

  She pulls a file out from the cabinet behind her, and opens it across her desk.

  Large airbrushed photographs of me spill across her desk. Close-ups of my face, hair tumbling out from beneath a riding helmet. Speed photographs of me, open-mouthed as I cling to the horse’s neck, wide-eyed and exhilarated, pearls of sweat on my upper lip.

  ‘They’re going in the local magazine, and maybe a national magazine too. The clients are considering forking out for more press coverage.’ Mimi’s words are running together; she is almost breathless with exhilaration.

  Her hair today is monotone. Stiff and blue.

  ‘I’ll send your money when it arrives – minus my commission of course. Five thousand quid. Better than a kick up the arse.’

  She puts her head back and laughs.

  ‘I’m getting lots of enquiries about you. I think it’s because of the photographer – Sandy. After this shoot, he keeps telling people how photogenic you are when you are stimulated; scared suits you.’ There is a pause. ‘Soon you will be inundated with work.’

  Sandy. Putting in a good word for me. For a moment I am back at the end of the photoshoot, smelling the faint aroma of nicotine on his breath, trying to suppress my tears, as he told me they needed to reshoot with a model who could ride. Funny sometimes how bad turns to good, and good to bad. Sandy putting in a word for me when I thought I had let him down is quite a surprise.

  141

  Erica

  Next morning at free-flow, I walk along the corridor with all the other prisoners on the way to their jobs. Today I will be late for mine. I help to clean the gym. Occasionally that guarantees me an extra session. I deliberately left my cell a few minutes before Sylvia so that I didn’t have to walk along the corridor with her. I wouldn’t have minded an empathetic cell-mate. Some people seem to find them. Some love each other so much they walk along together, arm in arm, in pairs, claiming to be soulmates. But I don’t need a prison girlfriend, I have Perdita, Jessica Bell, and my visits from Mouse.

  I sit outside the governor’s office, stomach churning. Has something happened? Are they keeping me in? The 9:30 bell for jobs trills. The governor opens the door.

  ‘Erica Sullivan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Step inside.’

  The governor and a prison officer. She sits behind her desk. The officer at my side. Her office looks like two empty prison cells, poorly decorated, inadequate light. Sparsely furnished: a desk, a chair for her, two chairs for visitors and four filing cabinets. Nothing luxurious to confirm her status. She looks too young to have such a senior position. Mid-thirties. A similar age to me. A pretty woman, with neat cheekbones, which even her large statement glasses don’t detract the eye from. She sits studying some paperwork, mine presumably, forehead folded in concentration.

  I sit back straight, stomach churning more heavily than before, feeling as if I am about to vomit.

  She looks up.

  ‘Erica Sullivan, I just wanted to talk to you. As you know, your release date is fast approaching. In view of the positive statements the therapist has made about you, I wanted to ask whether you feel your time with us has been beneficial?’

  My stomach stops churning. My shoulders widen with relief, and for the first time in hours I can breathe without thinking.

  ‘I do indeed. I have found the DBT most helpful.’

  ‘I also wanted to ask you whether you would consider writing a profile statement for our files, for when we are next inspected, describing the benefits of your time here?’

  ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  She takes off her glasses and wipes them with a cloth, which she pulls from a drawer in the desk in front of her. Without her statement glasses, her eyes look smaller and her face seems bare. She puts them back on and catches my eyes in hers.

  ‘I also want to remind you of your release conditions.’

  Release conditions. I have been trying not to think about them.

  ‘As you know you cannot return to Twickenham,’ she continues. ‘The Bakers applied for a restraining order, and it was granted. You must live at least ten miles away. You are to have no contact with Faye, or her family, and must not travel within ten miles of Twickenham, at any time.’ She pauses. ‘I hope you realise that if you breach these conditions you will be straight back in here. You could serve up to five years for breaching this order. I needed to speak to you to ensure there is no misunderstanding about this.’

  ‘I do understand. I have the written order I was handed in court. When I get out I am going to live in Weybridge, ten miles away from my old home.’ I pause. ‘But Twickenham was my life, so I’m worried about it.’

  ‘It’s the Bakers’ life too, and under the circumstances they have priority.’

  I nod my head and try to look understanding. But just the thought of not going home to be near Mouse makes me feel raw inside. I have been coping by not thinking about it. Every time I have imagined getting out, I have imagined going home to my flat with Mouse living just above me. Being near Mouse was what kept me going.

  142

  Faye

  Phillip has insisted that we sit down and talk to Jonah. All three of us, openly. As far as I am concerned it will be a disaster. But on the surface I had no rational reason not to agree. So I am sitting in our living room waiting for him to arrive, while Phillip paces up and down our galley kitchen. I hear his shoes pounding on our Amtico tiles.

  We have declared a no-alcohol rule. Alcohol will inflame the situation. I have been taking St John’s Wort for several weeks now to try and help me feel calmer. So far it hasn’t started to work. But friendly advice from the internet assures me it will. I close my eyes. Inhale. Exhale.

  143

  Phillip

  Pacing towards the kitchen window, I watch Jonah walking towards our house. Sterile and smart. Old man’s jacket, with wide lapels. No one of our age wears jackets like that any more. He sees me and waves. A cheery wave; as if we were meeting to plan a holiday.

  Jonah is in our hallway.

  ‘Hello, mate.’

  Mate. Once we were mates. Drinking together in pubs in Cambridge. Languorous evenings spent sitting by the river at The White Swan in Twickenham, on hot summer nights. How did we all end up in Twickenham? Was it just a coincidence? A twist of fate to prolong our friendship? For many years now he has been trying to drown me with his superiority. His knowledge of facts so obscure I cannot challenge. Expertise on wine I can’t afford. Condescension towards my choice of reading material.

  Is trying to steal my wife his final show of dominance? A final show that he is not going to get away with. He thinks I am a wimp, but I am not. I am a stag, and stags fight.

  144

  Jonah

  I sit on one sofa. You sit holding Phillip’s hand on the sofa opposite. You do not need to hold his hand. Are you doing this to provoke me?

  ‘It was so kind of you to be concerned about me in the pub, saying I need help because I’m delusional,’ I start, ‘and to insist we have this meeting.’ I take a deep breath and stand up. ‘But I need to clarify the situation. Faye and I made love. Come on, Faye. This is your big opportunity to come clean about it.’

  Slowly, slowly your eyes widen, and you shake your head. ‘You’ve always been
besotted with me. You’ve got emotional problems. You’re the one who’s lying.’

  Phillip stands up and walks towards me. ‘You need therapy, Jonah.’ There is a pause. ‘And you need to find a real relationship.’

  I turn to leave. He follows me and stands with me on the doorstep, eyes spitting into mine.

  ‘I have found a real relationship. You’re both in denial because of your family,’ I tell him, voice and eyes calm. ‘You need to confront the situation as soon as possible.’

  145

  Phillip

  It’s not just the words, it’s the look on his face that makes me lose it. So confident. So sanctimonious. So believable?

  I am not sure about that, and yet I close my eyes and see you lying naked on your back, thighs open, waiting for him. I see him moving towards you, erect and naked. I watch him put his hands on your thighs and open your legs further. He moves his head slowly down between your legs and kisses your butterfly mole. So gently.

  And something inside me explodes, as he stands on our doorstep about to leave. Body and mind pumping. With pulsating blood. With electricity. I have never felt this angry before. Anger flashes inside me like hot metal. I do not know what I am doing. A higher being has stepped inside me and taken over. My fist clenches, so tight that it is no longer a fist but a ball of metal. I pull my ball of metal back, I swing it forwards and I smash it into Jonah’s face. Blood spurts. My ball of metal becomes a fist again, and I step back covered in blood, nursing knuckles that ache.

  146

  Jonah

  Phillip hits me in the face and steps back. But he is such a big wuss, I hardly feel it. Blood drips from my nose to the ground, but I know it’s just a scratch. I have had enough of him now. He needs dealing with. I have been putting up with his nonsense for too long. I don’t know why you are still putting up with him, Faye. He’s boring. He’s overprotective. He doesn’t give you the lifestyle you deserve. He needs to learn a lesson, starting a fight with me. I’ll show him. He is such a fool to mess with me. I know exactly how to do this.

  I clench my fist and sock him one of my best. Doesn’t he remember I boxed to an almost professional standard when I was at Cambridge? He is just a jerk, who throws a punch like an insipid football hooligan. I catch him unaware as he is stepping back, shaking his fist to relieve the pain in his knuckles. On the side of the jaw – a perfect sideswipe. His head snaps to the side. He slumps to the ground.

  147

  Phillip

  I am lying in bed on stiff white cotton sheets. On a pillow so hard it makes my neck ache. I move my head a little and it feels as if it is full of lead weights, pulling on threads running through my brain, making pain reverberate. Pain upon pain.

  I open my eyes. I cannot see at first. Then a blur of machines next to my bed begin to separate and come into focus. I am in hospital. I must be. But what has happened? Why? Have I been in a car accident? I turn my head. The balls of lead in my head clash together and pain overwhelms me in a flash of white heat. You are here, Faye. Moving towards me. I cannot see the detail of your face. I see your silky black hair, your piercing violet eyes, and I smell your perfume. Your heady perfume of vanilla and ginger envelops me and comforts me, for a second. But then panic overwhelms me.

  ‘Where am I? Are you OK, Faye? Have we been in a car accident? Where are the children?’

  You hold my hand. I feel your fingers brushing against mine. You lean across and softly, gently, kiss me on the forehead. I feel your heat. Your love.

  ‘We’re all fine. Nothing has happened to us.’

  My fist aches, as you squeeze my hand. My body stiffens. Then I remember what happened. I hit the bastard first.

  148

  Faye

  It tears my heart in two to see you like this, beaten up by my one-night stand. My body and mind tremble as I stand looking at you, struggling to move your head. You are thin and lanky, kind and non-competitive. No match for a conniving, treacherous bastard like Jonah. And it’s all my fault.

  I kiss your forehead. I hold your hand. I tell you that I love you, with tears streaming down my face. For the hundred millionth time I wish I hadn’t behaved as I did. If only I could roll back the clock.

  The doctor is here. A young man, wearing a pink polo shirt, with a stethoscope around his neck. He checks the machines monitoring you. He reads the notes at the end of the bed.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks you.

  ‘Been better,’ you reply.

  ‘You soon will feel better, but we are keeping you in for observation for a few days.’

  He turns around to me and smiles.

  ‘Mrs Baker, please don’t worry, all his vital signs are fine. After someone has been knocked unconscious it is just routine to keep a careful eye on them, and hospitalise them for a while. He has had a brain scan, which showed only mild swelling. I have every reason to believe that you will have a healthy husband back home before too long.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I try to smile back but my lips don’t move. I hear his shoes tapping confidently along the ward as he leaves. I look at my watch: 9 p.m. I need to go and pick the girls up from Ashmolean’s house. Her mother picked them up from school and has been looking after them for me this evening. I hardly know her. But I had to ask. When I think about not being there for the girls, worry simmers inside me. After what happened. After Erica. Panic begins to press against me. Now I know you are all right I need to get home, to get back to them.

  I move towards you and kiss you on the forehead. ‘Take care. See you in the morning, my love.’

  But you do not hear me. You have fallen asleep again. I turn and walk along the ward to leave. Past other patients I avoid looking at. Trying not to invade their privacy, when they are so vulnerable. But my eyes slide inadvertently. I see pale worried faces, eyes riddled with pain. Hospitals depress me. I need to get out of here as quickly as possible.

  I reach the nurses’ station. Your nurse, a blonde curvy young woman, with a pale face and large round eyes, is busy with paperwork. I nod and smile.

  ‘Thanks. I’m off home now. See you in the morning.’

  ‘Mrs Baker, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The police are here. They’ve just gone to check on casualty and they’ll be back in a few minutes. Would you mind waiting? They asked for a quick word with you.’

  My stomach tightens. Police. Of course. I knew they’d get involved in the end. Do we press charges against Jonah? Has he pressed charges against you? I hover by the nurses’ station, pacing. Watching the nurse filling in forms. Listening to bleepers sounding. Too many bleepers. Too many forms. At last I hear footsteps resonating down the corridor. I stand still and wait. Two police officers appear around the corner, and move towards the nurses’ station. A man and a woman. Young. I guess they’re still in their twenties. The man has a heavy face. Mournful and severe. The nurse looks up from her paperwork. She gesticulates towards me.

  ‘Mrs Baker is waiting to talk to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the woman says, in a light frothy voice.

  They turn and walk towards me. ‘Let’s go to the waiting area at the end of the corridor,’ the policewoman suggests.

  ‘Fine,’ I mutter.

  ‘How’s your husband doing?’ she asks as we stride along the corridor.

  ‘Not too bad,’ I reply.

  Into the waiting area. Two blue brushed nylon settees. A water machine. A coffee machine. They sit down on one sofa. I sit opposite. Two pairs of eyes burn into me. One pair grey. The other brown.

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’ I ask.

  ‘We just wanted to tell you that Jonah Mathews has decided not to press charges against your husband.’

  ‘Charges?’

  ‘Yes. Jonah informed us, and it was corroborated by one of your neighbours, who was walking past, that Phillip started the fight.’

  ‘But … but,’ I splutter. ‘Jonah pulverised my husband.’

  �
��So do you think your husband might want to press charges?’

  ‘I don’t know. He has been so confused that I was worried he had a brain injury. We hadn’t got round to thinking about pressing charges. He hasn’t been well enough to think about anything.’ I pause. ‘I’m not sure he even remembers what happened.’

  The policewoman’s brown eyes soften. She leans across to put her hand on my arm. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks.

  ‘I think so. As OK as you can be when your husband’s been beaten up.’

  ‘But, Mrs Baker,’ the male officer says, ‘do you know why they were fighting? Were you involved in any way?’ He pauses. ‘Do you feel safe?’

  The word safe cuts into me.

  ‘Yes,’ I lie, keeping my trembling fingers behind my back.

  The policewoman takes her hand from my arm. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her card. She hands it to me, smiling with her eyes. ‘Please come to see us if you are worried. If anything else happens.’ There is a pause. ‘If you are worried about anything at all, ring the number on this card. You can talk to us anytime.’

  149

  Erica

  I’m getting out of prison. Release shouts in my mind as I arrive at my job in the gym. As I wipe down treadmills, bicycles and rowing machines with antibacterial liquid. As I vacuum the floor. As I shine the tap of the water fountain. As I lunch in the canteen, feasting on overcooked meat and stringy vegetables. As I try to exercise during association. Release. And anger that I cannot go back to Twickenham.

  By evening lock-down I am lying on my bunk in a state of hyper-excitement, planning exactly what I am going to do when I get out. How I am going to manage exclusion from my old home. How I am going to settle into Weybridge as best I can, inviting Mouse to come and stay with me as often as possible, learning to play chess with him properly – not just pretend.