Envy

by Amanda Robson

  Sophie’s mother is looking at me, eyes wide, as if she can’t believe my negligence. ‘A group of us go and check it every Friday and then we complain to the Head, immediately, in the hopes she will alter it. But she always ignores our comments.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I was just wondering what you think?’

  I feel dizzy and sick. ‘Now you’ve pointed out the problem I will take a look. Thanks,’ I say and smile weakly, holding my hands together on my knees so she won’t notice their tremor. I slide my eyes across to the clock. I know I need to leave in less than three minutes. She follows my eyes.

  ‘The film will be over in two seconds,’ she says. ‘Life’s such a rush, isn’t it?’

  I nod my head. Relieved to hear the theme tune of Beauty and the Beast resonating around the kitchen, I stand to leave. For a second, as I glance through the kitchen window, I think I see the back of Jonah’s head as someone walks past outside. My already palpitating heart beats faster. It isn’t him, I realise as I watch him turn to cross the road. In fact this man looks nothing like Jonah. I must be becoming paranoid. I breathe in and out, slowly, deeply. My heart begins to slow a little.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ Georgia exclaims as she leaves.

  She has had such a good time with Sophie that she skips all the way to the school gate, helping me push the buggy. When we arrive I think for a second I see Jonah’s car parked on the double-yellows. But when I look again the car has gone. It wasn’t him. I tell myself. Please. Please. It wasn’t him. But then not many people drive a lilac Jaguar. So my heart pulses again, like a forge hammer, loud and all encompassing, beating against my eardrums.

  Standing in the playground now, I look down at Georgia, sitting peacefully in her buggy, eating a healthy snack that Sophie’s mother gave her, waiting for my other daughter – feeling empty inside. As if I am walking on the edge of an abyss. If I fall the wrong way I won’t survive.

  The other mothers are standing heads together talking quietly, almost whispering. Oh no. Erica is here, walking towards me brandishing her high-wattage smile. I am not in the mood for Erica. But it’s not her fault. I’m not in the mood for anybody right now.

  ‘Wotcha,’ she chirrups, standing too close to me.

  ‘Wotcha,’ I reply, feeling so sick I might vomit.

  ‘Would Tamsin like to come and play with Rosalie one day next week?’ she asks, eyes glittering with enthusiasm.

  I swallow to push back vomit. ‘That’s very kind. I’ll ask her,’ I manage.

  ‘No. Don’t ask her. Keep it as a surprise. I want to take them on a special treat.’

  I am feeling so shaky and confused. ‘A special treat?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s Rosalie’s birthday you see.’

  ‘Which day?’

  ‘Well it’s her birthday on Wednesday – but I’m not sure which day I’ll be able to arrange the treat.’ She puts her hand on my shoulder and leans towards me. ‘I’ll have to let you know at short notice.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, relieved to see Tamsin coming out of school and walking towards us.

  As soon as she sees Erica, her face lights up, like before. I grab Tamsin’s hand and rush away as quickly as possible. I need to get home away from the School Gate Mafia and try to relax. I walk home holding Tamsin’s hand.

  ‘Are you friendly with a girl called Rosalie?’ I ask.

  ‘No. I don’t know anyone called Rosalie.’

  ‘Are you sure? Erica’s daughter?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. I can remember everyone’s name in class.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Jane, Juliet. Ann S. Ann T. Sophia. Cathy. Jeremy …’

  ‘OK, OK, Tamsin, I believe you. You don’t need to recite the whole register. Rosalie must just have a preferred middle name, or nickname, or something. That lady Erica definitely has a daughter called Rosalie. She wouldn’t come to school to pick up an imaginary girl now, would she?’

  Tamsin giggles. ‘Course not, Mummy.’

  Back home, still feeling sick and trembly, I cook fish fingers and beans for the girls’ tea. Tamsin and Georgia relax in front of The Lion King. As soon as I have cleared up, I join them. I close my eyes to listen to the soundtrack. ‘Can You Feel The Love Tonight’ resonates in my head. The love I have for my family builds inside me. It sears across my mind and pushes my fear of Jonah away. I will not let Jonah destroy my family.

  58

  Phillip

  Sitting in the Horse and Hounds, my favourite pub in town; oak beams nailed with horseshoes, sipping a pint of Adnams, watching Jonah walk towards me. Jonah. My oldest friend, who I have known since nursery school. The first words he said to me were: ‘I’m three and a half. How old are you?’

  Today he is overdressed as usual, in what looks to be a Brooks Brothers suit and double-cuffed shirt. The smartest man in the pub. Even though he went to the same state school as me, he developed superior tastes as we grew older. His accent changed overnight before we had finished celebrating getting into Cambridge, his Southern Counties accent suddenly posh enough to rival members of the aristocracy. But he was always such fun; the life and soul of the party. Sometimes when I was with him I would laugh so much I almost cried. The laughter has faded. He hasn’t made me feel like that for a long time.

  He rang me at work today wanting to come to our house again, because of some discrepancy with the plans. So he doesn’t get your back up any further, Faye, I’ve arranged to meet him for a quick drink after work to sort things out.

  He flings his coat across the chair opposite me, his aftershave almost giving me asthma. When did he start overdosing on aftershave?

  ‘Can I get you a drink, mate?’ he asks with a grin.

  ‘Just got myself one.’

  ‘Asked at the right time then,’ he says and laughs.

  He ambles to the bar, and returns with a whisky. He sits down on top of his coat and starts to sip it.

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

  ‘The sequence of the job.’

  I frown a little. ‘But we’ve already agreed it, with the builder, by email and copied you in.’

  ‘I just wanted to make certain we’re all on the same page,’ he replies spreading a copy of the plans across the pub table. ‘Are you happy with the plans?’ he asks.

  ‘You know I am. I’ve confirmed by email.’

  He leans towards me, holds my eyes in his and frowns. ‘I just wanted someone to take a last look.’

  ‘Is there something in particular that’s worrying you?’ I ask, casting a cursory glance over the drawings.

  ‘No. No. I’m just very thorough.’

  Thorough or pedantic? Has someone sued him? Has something gone wrong? He usually has such an air of confidence.

  ‘I tell you what, I’ll check them again at home one last time and then email you? Please don’t worry. It’s all cool.’

  ‘Well, we do need to check the order of works, as well.’ He smiles, a long slow smile. ‘If you’re too busy I can easily run through them with Faye, in the day?’

  I stiffen. ‘That won’t be necessary. I’ll run through them again, and get back to you. Is there some aspect you’re particularly concerned about?’

  ‘The whole running order needs to be precise. For example what about storage?’

  ‘Storage?’

  He sips his pint and then looks up at me. ‘Where are you going to put all those boxes of photographs, while the work is going on?’

  ‘In the garage.’

  How does he know they are photographs? Is Faye right? Has he been snooping?

  ‘What will you do with all that stuff if you split up?’

  His words burn into me. ‘What do you mean? Why would we split up?’ I snap.

  A leering smile. ‘Women as good-looking as Faye don’t tend to be reliable.’

  What has got into him? ‘Of course Faye is reliable – looks don’t affect reliability,’ I say, aghast. ‘You’ve known her for years. Almost all the time we’ve been together.’

&n
bsp; ‘Good-looking people have more sexual opportunities,’ he continues. ‘More self-confidence. More likely to experiment with different partners.’

  Anger incubates inside me. ‘Are you trying to tell me that’s what Faye’s been doing?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her? Ask her yourself.’

  59

  Phillip

  You step into the hallway to greet me.

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ I begin.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You’re right, Jonah is behaving strangely.’

  Your violet eyes tighten. ‘He’s over-interested in me, Phillip. I know from the way he looks at me.’ There is a pause. ‘Why? What has he done now?’

  ‘He asked to come here again and I thought you would be annoyed so I arranged to meet him at the pub.’

  ‘Why did he say he needed to see us this time?’

  ‘Some discrepancy with the plans. It turned out that there was no reason to meet up. He was just going over things we’ve all discussed ages ago.’ I pause. ‘He made some rather weird comments. He said women as good-looking as you don’t tend to be reliable. Basically implied I should ask you whether you were playing around.’

  Your lips begin to tremble but the rest of your face is still. Unreadable. ‘I keep trying to tell you he’s gone off the chain. His behaviour’s become seriously weird.’

  60

  Jonah

  Faye, it must be so boring living with Phillip. He is so sincere. So biddable and pleasant. Women prefer a man who is more assertive. More dominant. A man like me. He must bore you stiff. I am keeping myself hot for you while you decide how you are going to tell him you are leaving him. Lying on my bed cradling your photograph. The one of you in the rock pool. You don’t have many clothes on. The photograph must have been taken almost twenty years ago, but you still have a hard body, don’t you?

  Lying naked on the bed thinking about you, reaching for my cordless telephone. I need to hear your voice, Faye. I need to hear you now.

  61

  Faye

  Ashmolean is here for a play date with Tamsin, and I am hovering, trying to stop Georgia from spoiling their games. Georgia is a pickle. Every time I remove her from the older girls and try to distract her, she escapes from my attention, and when I turn around she is back. Misplacing pieces from the jigsaw puzzle they have almost finished. Climbing into the den they have built from sheets and pillows in the middle of the living room. Interfering with whatever they are doing.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Ashmolean says, hugging Georgia. ‘I wish I had a sister.’

  And now all three of them are pretending to be ballet dancers, skipping around the living room, pointing their toes and stretching their legs. I am watching them, feeling exhausted. The telephone rings. I pick up.

  ‘Hello?’

  No reply. But I hear someone breathing.

  ‘Hello?’ I repeat.

  Still no reply. I put the phone down, and walk to the kitchen area to put the organic chicken nuggets with homemade breadcrumbs in the oven. Just as I close the oven door the phone rings again. I pick up.

  ‘Hello?!’

  I know I should put the phone down but I stand and listen, transfixed by the sound of the breathing becoming heavier and heavier. Heavier and heavier until it sounds as if a man is climaxing. I slam the phone down, feeling sick.

  62

  Faye

  I drove here this morning, countryside flying past in a blur, reliving the moment Phillip came home and told me that Jonah said he should ask me whether I’d been playing around. So my denials had to begin. Reliving the way Phillip took me in his arms. The way he held his body against mine. The way I want to step back in time, to before I slept with Jonah.

  That sinking feeling I experienced when I first woke up in his house and realised what I had done now follows me wherever I go. It surrounds me as I sit here, dressed and ready, waiting in the stables’ changing room, wearing my skin-tight beige pants, my black leather boots, and tailored black jacket. As I sit dosed up with antihistamine, and black coffee to keep me awake, make-up plastered onto my skin, blow-dried hair tickling my face. Pushing away the panic that is rising inside me. My panic ran into overdrive yesterday when he telephoned me. I know it was him, playing with himself. This man who I have known for so long, who is no longer my friend. Even the mention of his name makes me feel sick.

  ‘Photographer’s here, chop-chop,’ I hear someone shout in the distance.

  One last look in the full-length mirror. One last comb run through my hair. One last application of lipstick. I step outside. The sun is high in a cornflower blue sky. I inhale fresh air and for a second it calms me as the photographer walks towards me, and introduces himself as ‘Sandy.’

  Sandy. Shoulder-length hair the colour of honey, and soft brown eyes. White Wrangler jeans. Suede ankle boots.

  ‘Are you nervous?’ he asks.

  ‘Not at all,’ I lie.

  He pushes his verdant hair back from his eyes. ‘We need you to ride for about an hour.’

  I thought it was five minutes. My heart races but I manage to smile.

  ‘Come with me. It’s time.’

  I follow Sandy across the yard, to the arena, where my mount is waiting for me saddled up, stamping his right hoof. Phillip was right. He is young and lively, rippled with shiny muscles, gleaming from beneath his coat. Mrs Matterson, the owner of the stables, who has commissioned the adverts, is waiting for me too. She glowers at me, and nods. I widen my smile and nod back.

  63

  Erica

  Faye, now I am exercising and eating properly, my weight is dropping off. I’m on a diet of fish, chicken, fruit and vegetables. Proper food, which keeps me feeling full, and despite feeling satiated, I’m losing a few pounds every week. I feel lighter in mind and body. More confident. More positive. Finding the confidence to plan the abductions. Tamsin first. Georgia in a few weeks.

  Tamsin was in a chattery mood when I volunteered to help readers in Parky’s class last week. Bright little thing, isn’t she? She even knew the name of the farm you are going to for your photoshoot. But then you are so self-centred, I expect you have talked about it a lot at home.

  So I know it’s today, and I know where you’re going. I’ve taken the day off work, having borrowed enough money from Mouse to hire a car, and I’m following you.

  I follow you out of Twickenham, along the A road, onto the M3. Twenty miles down the motorway. You haven’t noticed you have a tail. But you never really notice anybody else. Every day you stand away from the other mothers at the school pickup. Every day when I try to talk to you, you hold me at a distance. Why won’t you communicate with me, Faye? It’s not as if you’re friendly with anyone else.

  You turn off the motorway. You stop to queue at the exit roundabout. You are checking your hair in the rear-view mirror. Hey, Faye, I want to tell you, don’t worry – you’re beautiful, you always look beautiful. Beauty isn’t your problem, it’s your lack of responsibility. We wind for another five miles along a B road dappled with gnarled trees and barn conversions. Until you slow down and turn right into Home Farm. I drive past. I need to give you a few minutes to park and get out of the car.

  My body is clenched and tense. This part of my plan is pivotal. I can’t afford to take too long now. What if I can’t find a turning place for twenty miles? What if the photoshoot is over before I’ve arrived? Eventually I come to a picture postcard village, with a church, a duck pond, a pub and a shop. I turn around on the side road that lines the village green, and wend my way back.

  I find the entrance to Home Farm again without any problems. The riding arena is well away from the car park. I know because I looked it up on Google Earth. As long as you are well occupied with the shoot you won’t see me. I pull in and park my car right next to yours. Your car is a tribute to your vanity: glamour magazines, mirrors, nail polish, a bag of spare tights.

  I take the screwdriver out of my pocket and stab it against the side of
your front-passenger-side tyre. The rubber doesn’t pierce. I bend down, hold the left side of the tyre to steady myself, push the screwdriver into the rubber as hard as I can, and twist it. I feel the release of air against my fingers as the screwdriver pierces the rubber. The sweet, sweet sound of hissing air.

  But this damage is not enough. You might have a spare. And even though you don’t look the type, you might know how to change a tyre. I change sides and raise the screwdriver again. But I am interrupted by the sound of an engine coming closer. A car is arriving, pulling into the car park. I run and hide behind the oak tree in the corner of the parking area, crouching behind the wide girth of its trunk.

  I close my eyes and listen. I pray silently to a god I don’t believe in. Whoever you are, be unobservant, go away quickly. Don’t go in and tell her she has a flat tyre. Do not give her time to call the AA.

  The car engine slows and stops. A car door opens and closes. Footsteps scratch across gravel. When the footsteps have faded I peek out from behind the tree trunk. Not a car but a van. A red post office van parked next to the car I’ve hired. I sigh inside with relief. A delivery. Soon the van will be gone.

  I remain crouched behind the tree and time stops. I try to relax by stiffening my whole body and then relaxing parts of it slowly, individually, starting with my fingertips. But I try three times and it doesn’t work. My body is as tight as a coiled spring. I count to one hundred and breathe slowly. But I still feel as if I am about to hyperventilate. Why doesn’t the postal worker come back? Is he or she a friend of the family stopping for coffee? I fiddle with my iPhone but there is no 3G here, so I can only look at old messages. At last when I am just about to risk carrying on anyway, I hear footsteps on gravel and guess it is the postal worker coming back.

  The sound of feet crunching into gravel becomes louder. I hear the van door open and close. The engine begins to purr, and tyres scrape across the gravel. I dare to peer from behind the tree trunk, and yes, the van has gone. I take a deep breath and step out from my hiding place, back to the driver’s side front wheel of your car. I clutch on to the screwdriver in my pocket, pull it out, stab it into the rubber at the edge of the tyre, and twist again. It bursts immediately, air rushing out.