Envy

by Amanda Robson

  You shrug your shoulders like an awkward teenager. ‘You just think I’m getting too old, losing my looks. That’s why you’re commenting.’

  I shake my head. ‘No.’

  ‘This is my career you’re mauling. You’re behaving like a chauvinist, not supporting me.’

  The word chauvinist sears into me. ‘I have always done everything to support you. Taken the children to the crèche. Dropped them off and picked them up from school.’ My voice is raised and barbed.

  I look across at you frowning towards me, the perfect lines of your face contorted, and I realise why I am more possessive about other men looking at you than I used to be. Because you always seem exasperated with me. I feel vulnerable because you don’t respect my opinion any more. You used to adore me just the way I was. I never had to try too hard. Now I say or do something wrong every day.

  41

  Erica

  The school dinner I am serving looks good today. The children’s favourite. Pizza and chips, followed by jelly and ice cream. Nothing like school dinners in my day when everything seemed to be accompanied by boiled cabbage so fresh from the field it still had bugs in it. Pizza is not only the children’s favourite, it is my favourite too. But I have to deny myself such things now, as I am the upcoming star of the slimming club. Slimmer of the week.

  I am standing behind the counter brandishing my serving slicer, waiting for Tamsin to arrive. I used to think she wasn’t as pretty as you, Faye, but the more I see of her the more I grow to love her looks. She is as beautiful as you, it is just her beauty is more subtle, more delicate. Her attractions discreet. I have been smiling at her every day and now she is beginning to look out for me when she comes to collect her lunch. Yesterday, for the first time, she smiled back. And that is a big thing for a child who seems to be inherently shy. The extra portions of pudding I have been giving her have helped.

  Tamsin’s class are filing into the dining room. I am so used to looking out for them I am beginning to recognise some of her classmates. There is a chubby girl who looks rather like I used to when I was young. Her hair is dull. Her clothes need washing. But she is always smiling, showing too much of her red gums. When she tries to talk to Tamsin, Tamsin moves away. Tamsin hangs around with a tall skinny boy with owl-like glasses, who always seems to wear navy and black, and a tiny girl they call Ashley – whose real name is Ashmolean – with shoulder-length blonde hair, and brown eyes. The class seem to dote on the girl with blonde hair so it seems to me that Tamsin is in with the in crowd.

  She is entering the dining hall holding hands with the owl boy and laughing. They are both chatting to Ashley. As usual their teacher accompanies them. Mr Parkinson – nicknamed ‘Parky’ – a jaded middle-aged man with a red face, whom they all seem to adore.

  Today as every day, he sits at one of their tables, pouring himself a glass of water, waiting for his food, while the children queue. One of the cooks scuttles over and places an extra-large portion of school lunch in front of him. He smiles as he thanks her, his dry face almost cracking as he moves it. I think he must have psoriasis. It really isn’t normal to have a face as red as that.

  Tamsin and the owl boy are standing together in the food queue, heads together, discussing something serious now. Are they talking about you, Faye, do you think? About the way you are too involved in your infidelity and never seem to do your duty?

  The queue moves quickly. Tamsin is standing in front of me, raising her plate towards me. Fine black hair brushed and shiny. Wearing a pink dress patterned with rabbit shapes and matching cardigan. Pink tights. Pink patent leather shoes with large white bows. Party clothes. Not suitable for school. But that is your influence isn’t it, Faye? Trying to turn your daughter into a model like you, repressing her individuality, her freedom. You are damaging her personality with your vanity.

  My heart lurches as she looks at me with piercing eyes like yours. You are so lucky to have a daughter like this. So gentle, so fragile. Someone to love and protect. Slowly, slowly, looking into her eyes, I balance a piece of pizza onto my slicer and place it carefully onto her plate.

  ‘Would you like another slice?’ I ask.

  Her eyes widen. ‘Parky said we were only allowed one.’

  ‘Well it’s a secret that only I know. Special girls are allowed two.’

  ‘Am I a special girl?’ she asks with a giggle.

  ‘Of course,’ I tell her as I balance another slice onto my utensil and lean towards her.

  I lean across so close I am almost touching her pale skin. The slice wavers as it tumbles onto her plate.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says and gives a smile that is a replica of yours.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  I watch her walk away, towards the woman serving chips. Watching her frail body, which needs my protection so very much.

  42

  Phillip

  ‘Jonah rang me today. The planning permission for the loft came through – he wants to come and check the measurements again, before he brings the builder to meet you next week,’ I say as we sit eating our supper, after the girls are in bed.

  You stiffen.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. I think the loft conversion is a waste of money.’ Your voice is strained and waspish.

  ‘But … But … You were so keen on this project. It was your idea in the first place.’ You don’t reply. You sit looking at your almost empty plate. ‘What’s made you change your mind?’ I ask.

  You sigh and lean back in your chair. I watch you bite your lip. ‘I think it’s too expensive.’

  ‘It’s a lot cheaper than moving.’ I pause. ‘Look, Faye, we discussed this, really carefully. I thought the decision was made. You wanted the extra room so that your parents could come and stay from time to time. Give you a break. Help you look after the children.’

  You bite your lip again. ‘We’ve been managing pretty well on our own.’

  ‘Faye. You’re confusing me. You wanted this so much.’

  ‘If we do go ahead, I don’t think we need Jonah to supervise the building work.’

  ‘Why are you being awkward about Jonah? You’ve always got on well with him. I’m flabbergasted. It was you who suggested we use him in the first place.’

  You raise your hands as if you are pleading with me. ‘I’ve just had second thoughts. We hardly need a loft conversion and we can’t afford to have Jonah to supervise. I’m getting too old to be a model and I didn’t ever earn much money in the first place.’

  I sigh inside. Not the age thing again. ‘He’s included his fee for that in the price we’ve already paid.’ I shake my head. ‘I thought you knew that.’

  ‘If that’s the case, get him to pay us some money back.’

  ‘Faye, what on earth’s the matter with you? You know things don’t work like that.’

  43

  Jonah

  I am walking up the steps to your front door, carrying my briefcase containing your plans. Your loft conversion. What a good excuse for keeping in touch with me without Phillip becoming too suspicious. Is that why you dreamt up the idea in the first place, because you were besotted with me? But actually he took a while before getting back to me with official permission to come today, so maybe he is beginning to guess about our relationship? It always used to be Phillip and I who had a relationship: at school, at university, drinking and chatting. He was always so quiet. I was always buoying him up until he got the upper hand. You.

  In my dreams, my fantasies, I see you every day. Then, as we make love, you are so clear, so greedy for me, so passionate. I savour the expression on your face at my every touch, as we make love. I know what you like, Faye. The memory of your pleasure sears across my mind. The way you moved, the way you breathed. I only have to close my eyes to feel you close to me.

  The door opens and you are standing in front of me, wearing your skin-tight jeans, and a pink cashmere jumper that caresses the curves of yo
ur breasts. I step into your compact hallway. I can see through into the living area; Phillip is not around right now.

  ‘Hello,’ you say, face crumpling in embarrassment.

  ‘Hello,’ I reply, trying to hold your eyes in mine.

  But your eyes do not want to play games today. You close the front door behind me, and lead me into your living room. Your house is so small. Downstairs you really only have one room; no wonder you need an extension. We stand in the debris of your life. The living room floor cluttered with toys. A plastic tea set. A row of Barbies. Soft toys. Scattered jigsaw pieces. Books.

  ‘I think we need to clear the air,’ you say. ‘I regret what happened and there is nothing between us. That’s all. That’s it.’

  ‘Do you really think it’s that simple when I’ve wanted you for so long?’ I ask. ‘I’m a patient man, Faye, I can wait until you change your mind again.’

  Your eyes harden. ‘I do think it’s that simple, and if you don’t you’d better leave.’

  I shrug my shoulders. ‘You’ve commissioned me to do a job – so I’ll have to stay for a while, at least.’

  There is a pause. You shrug your shoulders. ‘OK. Go upstairs and look at the loft again. There is no need for me to come with you. I’ll stay down here. I’ve got a few phone calls to make.’

  I make my way upstairs alone. The landing walls are crowded out with photographs of your family. The arty-farty type. All four of you tumbling together in lines and laughing, hands on the person in front’s shoulders. Looking so casual, so relaxed, so modern, and yet so quirky in faded brown and white.

  Your pretence of a happy life.

  I walk past Tamsin’s bedroom with its frilly pink counterpane, and flouncy curtains. Fluffy cushions, soft toys, books about Jemima Puddle-Duck. Past Georgia’s tiny snug. The door to the master bedroom is wide open. I step inside and close the door. I close my eyes and inhale your scent. Vanilla and musk. You must have just put your perfume on before you came downstairs.

  I open my eyes and pretend you are here with me, reaching your hand out to pull me towards the bed. The bed looks dishevelled; you haven’t made it properly. I throw myself onto it and put my head on your pillow. I can smell your hair, your breath. I rummage beneath your pillow and find your nightdress. I hold it to my face and smell you on it. My breath is coming quickly as I slide off your bed and stuff your nightdress in my briefcase. Now all I need is some underwear. I reach into your bedside drawer and help myself, before smoothing down your duvet and leaving your room.

  Up one more floor to re-inspect the loft area. The loft is walk-in. Through a cupboard in the top bedroom. I step inside and switch on the light. Boxes everywhere. I’ll check the contents of these boxes next time. I’ve been gone too long. I’m coming back downstairs to talk to you again, Faye.

  44

  Faye

  As soon as I walk into my bedroom after he’s gone I feel confused because I don’t remember making the bed so carefully. I was in such a rush to get Tamsin to school and Georgia to her play date. I don’t remember leaving my knickers drawer open. I never leave it open – I hide my private things in there. My contraceptive pills. My vibrator for when Phillip is away. I shudder inside as I snap the drawer closed. Surely Jonah would not have dared to come in here? But then again his behaviour has always been worrying. Maybe I have been too naive not dwelling on it; always reckoning he would find a woman of his own, not just spend for ever ogling at me.

  I step back in time, remembering all the times he has come on to me over the years, whenever Phillip’s back was turned.

  A group of friends, on a cold winter night, walking into central Twickenham to a restaurant. He and I were chatting and ended up behind the others. To catch up we cut along the pathway at the side of the old bakery, out of sight of passers-by. As soon as we were alone, he put his arm around me. I stiffened. He clamped his arm more tightly across my shoulders.

  ‘What’s the matter, Faye? I’m only being friendly.’

  Only being friendly. He was invading my personal space. Touching me like that made me feel uncomfortable. Looking back I realise he has always made me feel uncomfortable. So what happened the night after the party? Did he tap into my vulnerability? Or had he spiked my drink?

  45

  Erica

  No need for all that fifty slow steps, fifty fast steps palaver, I am jogging, really jogging now. Really beginning to enjoy it. It refreshes me. Makes me feel calmer, happier. It must be true what they say: exercise releases hormones that give you a high.

  I jog every afternoon for forty minutes, after I’ve finished serving school lunch. Making sure my route always goes past your house.

  Taking it slowly past your house.

  Today as I admire your neat modern home with its mock-Georgian front door and double-glazed windows, winter pansies spilling from a pot by the door, I see a man leaving, wearing a grin so wide it almost cracks his face in two. His blond hair shines in the watery winter sunlight.

  Why are you still messing with him, Faye?

  46

  Phillip

  As soon as I arrive home from work, you step towards me, eyes burning.

  ‘Jonah’s been in my knickers drawer,’ you announce.

  I frown, confused. ‘Jonah?’

  ‘Jonah. Your best friend. Our architect. Do you remember him? Did you forget he was coming?’

  I wince at the way you are speaking to me. You sound like a fishwife, Faye.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s been here, snooping on me.’

  ‘Snooping?’

  ‘You don’t have to repeat everything,’ you snap as you throw toys that are littering the floor into the basket in the corner.

  I begin to help you. ‘I wasn’t aware I was. What happened? What did he do?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s been in our bedroom. Some of my things have been moved.’ Tears begin to fill your eyes. ‘You know he’s always pestered me. I’ve told you so many times. You don’t believe me do you?’

  I step towards you. You push your body against mine, clinging to me. Crying and crying. I wrap my arms around you. What is the matter, Faye? Why would Jonah be snooping on you, after all these years of friendship? All my friends fancy you a bit. Is that so surprising? But no one’s infatuated with you enough to be snooping on you. I hold you against me and worry. I worry you are becoming paranoid. Over-focused on the power of your looks.

  47

  Erica

  I’ve dyed my hair black like yours and I’m growing it. It’s a bit edgy at the moment, sticking up on top, but when it gets a bit longer I think it’ll settle down. One day I want it to be as long as yours. I’m already a stone and a half lighter. Halfway there. Same again to go. And as I want your children to take me seriously I need to buy some new clothes.

  I am rummaging through the racks at the Oxfam shop again, looking for a bargain. The selection here hasn’t improved at all since my last visit. A row of limp blouses mourning their owners. And then on the next rack I stumble across something that doesn’t look too bad. A baggy corduroy dress in reasonable condition. I try it on. It hides my stompy figure and looks quite nice with the grungy boots I bought before. Looking at myself in the mirror of the changing room, in the poor lighting of the shop, I could be mistaken for a chubby yummy mummy.

  I pay for my clothes and then leave the shop wearing them. All I need now is an expensive coat. I step into the Italian restaurant on Church Street, so popular even though it’s the middle of the afternoon. A number of young retireds are already drinking wine and eating pasta. People always seem to be eating and drinking and whiling away time in here. Every time I walk past I wish I could afford to join them. A smiley young woman dressed in a black miniskirt and a white apron steps towards me.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

  ‘I hope so. I just popped in because I think I left my coat here last week.’

  She stands weighing me up, hand on hip.

  ‘W
hat’s it like?’ she asks.

  ‘A dark bluish black,’ I reply as non-specifically as possible.

  ‘I’ll go and have a look.’ She shrugs.

  She disappears through a doorway behind the bar, leaving it unmanned, and returns a few minutes later carrying two coats. One a black raincoat that looks like a man’s, the other an expensive bundle of dark blue cashmere that I could never afford in a million years.

  ‘That’s mine,’ I snap, pointing at it. ‘Thank you so much.’

  I must have sounded convincing because she gives it to me without hesitating, looking as if she is pleased to have been able to help. I slip it on. Fortunately it is a large size and fits perfectly. I walk out of the restaurant slowly, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, but my heart is beating like a trapped bird’s wings.

  I walk home, cradled in luxury, on my way to show Mouse.

  48

  Jonah

  I step upstairs towards Sally who is waiting for me, lying on the bed wearing nothing but the wig and contacts.

  ‘Put these on quickly,’ I instruct, throwing a bag at her, containing the clothes I stole from you, Faye.

  She gets up and bends to pick up the bag. I watch her walk to the bathroom. As I wait, I sit on the bed surrounded by imitation Sanderson prints; genetically modified roses and camellias. On the curtains, the duvet, the wallpaper. A fresh country look, so innocent and sweet. A masquerade in case the police come.

  Anna is masquerading as a normal landlady. Sally is masquerading as a normal girl, who works in a supermarket. I’ve seen her there, at the till, handling people’s groceries several hours after opening her legs for me.

  There is an undercurrent of sex games in every small town. Only the blind cannot see this. Sex games masked by the pretence of routine. Behind lunchtime trips to buy sandwiches that take too long. Supposed visits to the pub with long-lost mates. Madonna was right all those years ago. It’s sex that keeps the world turning, nothing more erudite or meaningful.