Envy

by Amanda Robson

  ‘So what did you decide about the er … what is it called? Trimi … trimipramine?’ I ask, trying to make my voice sound casual.

  ‘Well.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Jonah’s computer is missing, so we can’t analyse it, but we assume he obtained the drugs from the dark net.’

  I suppress the laughter that bubbles deep inside me.

  ‘Maybe he didn’t want to kill Faye, just frighten her and finish himself off in her arms,’ DI Jones continues. ‘No sensible GP would have prescribed him more drugs so he must have got hold of them illegally.’ He pauses for breath. ‘Anyway, the case is closed. Ready to go to the coroner. Overwhelming evidence that he committed suicide, and attempted to murder Faye.’

  I push the laughter down again.

  214

  Erica

  Into the ward. This time I have chosen a bouquet of pink and white lilies. I walk past the nurses’ station and around the corner. Someone else is in Rose’s bed. A woman who is thinner than Rose, with longer hair. This is good news. They must have found a home for her. I picture her resplendent at last in a colourful bedroom, with photographs and ornaments all around her. A room with a view of all the flowers that she loves: roses, lilies, freesias.

  I walk back to the nurses’ station. Three nurses are having a doubtless much-deserved break, cradling cups of tea and chatting. I stand by the station and wait. After a while one of them turns around and smiles at me apologetically. A tall woman with a strong almost masculine face.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

  ‘I came to visit Rose Kennedy. Please can you tell me where she is?’

  The nurses exchange a glance. And as soon as they do that, I know. The tall one steps out from behind the nurses’ station and walks towards me.

  ‘Are you a friend?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  Her face stiffens. She takes a deep breath. ‘I’m very sorry to tell you that she died last week.’ A pause. ‘Her funeral was held at the crematorium, yesterday.’

  My arms and legs feel hollow. Tears prickle in the corners of my eyes. ‘What happened?’ I ask.

  ‘She had a heart attack. She died peacefully in her sleep.’

  ‘What day did it happen?’

  ‘Last Tuesday night.’

  ‘I wish I had been able to say goodbye,’ I mutter.

  ‘Her ashes will be spread in the flower garden at the crematorium. So you will be able to visit.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I turn away, tears in my eyes, wending my way through the hospital corridor towards the exit. I take the wrong turn and become trapped inside the hospital, winding and turning. Knots tighten in my stomach. At last I arrive at the shiny hospital foyer and manage to step outside. Cool evening air whispers across my face and calms me a little.

  I do not want to visit the flower garden at the crematorium. Flowers growing in bodies burnt to ashes seems to me to signify the pointlessness of life, not its energy. I take the bus back to Twickenham. I walk through the centre of town, down Church Street. Past the Wren church and the museum, turning left to follow the tow path along the river, towards Richmond. The air is sharper here. I breathe more easily.

  Walking and watching the river flowing gently soothes me. The river will be moving long after all our lives have passed. I stand beneath a weeping willow tree, throw the bouquet into the river and watch it float on. The river has energy and movement. Energy that will last for ever. Rose’s voice and eyes shout into mine. You still have life. Mine is over. Everything gone, taken. Please enjoy what is left. And suddenly I realise that still having life, when Rose has none, gives me the responsibility to live. To really, really live.

  215

  Faye

  I need to talk to Phillip. I slide out of bed and pace around the room, stretching my arms above my head to release the tension. I snap on the light. Phillip stirs. He sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes. I walk to his side of the bed and sit next to him. My eyes prickle with tears, which I push back by swallowing. Tears never help.

  ‘I’m still being watched.’

  He takes my hand and squeezes it. ‘No. Faye. No.’

  ‘Yes. Every time I take the children to school. Every time I pick them up. When I go to the agency. To a photoshoot. To the supermarket. Someone is always there, watching me.’

  ‘Faye, you know that isn’t true.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me.’

  I look down at my trembling hands.

  ‘The police checked the flat. Erica isn’t there. Jonah is dead. No one is watching you.’

  I look up into Phillip’s dark eyes. ‘You’re lying. I thought I saw your car outside school the other day. You’re worried too.’

  ‘No, Faye, no.’

  He leans towards me and pulls me into his arms. He holds me against his chest. ‘You must go and see a GP, Faye. You really need help.’

  216

  Erica

  I turn around. Mouse is standing in the kitchen area, by the kettle, waiting for it to boil.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asks, getting some mugs from the cupboard.

  ‘Yes please.’

  He reaches for the Nescafé. ‘You aren’t watching her for as long these days.’

  ‘Well I didn’t just come back for her. I came back to see you, Mouse.’

  His eyes widen. ‘Really, Erica?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. When I was in prison, and when I was living in Weybridge, I missed you very much – and I miss you when I go back to sign on.’

  He is standing, teaspoon hovering, over the coffee jar. ‘Do you really, Erica?’

  I smile. ‘Of course I do, Mouse. I miss you very much.’

  He puts the teaspoon on the counter and steps towards me. ‘Then I need to talk to you about something. Something very, very, special.’ He takes my hand. ‘Come and stand in the middle of the sitting room.’

  What is he doing now? Is it like the day he got the chess set? Has he bought something for us to share? Has he booked a holiday? His eyes are glistening. Lips slightly apart. He bends down on one knee, still holding my hand in his.

  ‘Erica, I love you. Please will you marry me?’

  I close my eyes. I can’t have heard him right. Mouse, the closest friend I have ever had, has just asked me to marry him. We’ve only ever been friends. We have never even flirted with one another. Let alone kissed properly. Rose’s words reverberate in my head. I open my eyes. He is looking at me intently, waiting for an answer.

  ‘Do you really think our relationship could be like that?’ I splutter.

  ‘We are close friends already. I’ve read that’s the hardest part.’

  Close friends indeed. The closest friend I’ve ever had.

  ‘We could try the other stuff, Erica, see how it goes? What do you think?’

  His eyes shine.

  ‘I think that’s a good idea, Mouse.’

  He stands up. His body moves closer. My stomach fills with dancing bubbles. It has never danced like this before. Slowly, carefully, as if I was made of Dresden china he puts his arms around my back and pulls me towards him. He is warm. Smelling of musk and vanilla. And mint. He kisses me. Softly, gently at first, and then as my body relaxes into his, his kisses become more urgent, more insistent. He puts his tongue in my mouth and my stomach rotates. I don’t want him to stop. I want to kiss him for ever. But he pulls back.

  ‘What do you think, Erica?’ he asks.

  ‘Not bad for starters,’ I say with a jubilant laugh.

  217

  Phillip

  You are in with Dr Hale, your GP, as I sit in the waiting room flicking through magazines. I am so worried about your mental health. You are looking good, getting modelling jobs, but your mind is not holding together well. I am keeping such a careful eye on you. You are my responsibility. I have never felt as responsible for you as I do right now sitting in the waiting room of our local surgery, waiting to drive you home. If only I had taken better care of you in the first place that bastard would not have
been able to get anywhere near you. I am watching over you now.

  218

  Faye

  I am sitting in the patient’s chair opposite my GP, a thin, worried-looking woman who looks even more anxious than me. Her body language, legs crossed, shoulders rounded, hands together on her lap, looks defensive. How did Phillip persuade me to come and see her? He is sitting outside in the waiting room. Here to support me. Supporting me or following me?

  She’s a trained GP. A top academic. Of course she will be able to help. But someone is whispering in the corner of my mind: no one can help. You have no place to hide. No security. Anyone can stalk you. Any time. Any place.

  The GP uncrosses her legs and leans forwards. Her body relaxes. Her shoulders widen. ‘How can I help you?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve had a few problems recently,’ I say, eyes filling with tears.

  ‘What sort of problems?’ she asks.

  I open my mouth and everything spills out. The way I ran into Jonah at that party. What he did. How he died. And Erica. How she hated me. And the eyes. The eyes that are following me.

  She listens, looking transfixed, as if I am as interesting as a Netflix crime series.

  ‘You’ve had a truly terrible time, you need to see a therapist,’ she announces when I have finished my outpouring, ‘to help you talk through this.’ She leans forwards and takes my hand in hers. ‘With the right help you’ll soon feel better about yourself. About your life.’

  219

  Faye

  I am standing in the hallway, about to leave for my first visit to my therapist, Martin Bayliss. You step out of the kitchen, car keys in hand.

  ‘I’ll drive you.’

  I shake my head. ‘No thanks. It’s only by Strawberry Hill Station. It’s a five-minute walk.’

  Your eyes darken. ‘It’s no problem.’

  There is a pause. ‘I like to walk.’

  ‘And I like to look out for you. Check you’re OK.’ You spin the car keys around on your right middle finger. ‘I insist, Faye.’

  We clamber into our dilapidated Volvo, and drive around three corners, coming to a halt outside Martin Bayliss’s Edwardian house. I lean across to kiss you.

  ‘See you later.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you.’

  I feel heavy. Leaden. I never seem to go anywhere on my own these days.

  ‘No need.’

  ‘It’s no problem.’

  I shudder inside, slide out of the car and slam the door. I walk across the colourful Moroccan-style tiles that line the path to the house, and ring the bell. The door opens and blue eyes simmer into mine.

  ‘Faye Baker?’ a man about the same age as me asks. I nod my head. ‘Please step inside.’

  I do as instructed and enter a long, thin, beige-carpeted hallway. The walls are painted a warm peach and covered with local watercolours. Paintings of the river, Bushy Park, Ham House, Petersham Meadows.

  ‘We’re first on the right.’

  Into his sitting room. Jazzy. Full of trinkets. Red walls. Funky tiled fireplace. The room smells musky; as if he is burning joss sticks, but I can’t see any. Perhaps it is stale cannabis.

  ‘Do sit down.’

  I sink into the middle of a golden fabric sofa; it feels so soft. Soft as fairy dust. Just being in this strange, cluttered world makes me feel more relaxed. He sinks into the maroon velvet chair opposite and crosses his legs. I cannot help noticing his muscular thighs. They look as if they are about to burst out of his skin-tight jeans, but they don’t so I guess the fabric is stretchy.

  He grins at me, eyes holding mine, and my heart stops. Seriously handsome. Too good-looking. Embarrassed I pull my eyes away and pretend to concentrate on the carpet in front of him. But I’m not concentrating on anything; his physicality is filling my mind.

  ‘So, Faye, what’s going on? How are you coping?’ he asks.

  I lift my head and try to resist the pull of his eyes. I try to look at him nonchalantly from the distance of my thoughts. But even though I am trying not to be drawn in, I cannot help but admire his film-star looks. His strong nose. His perfect cheekbones.

  ‘I’m coping because my husband is my rock.’

  My voice sounds thin and strained. Artificial.

  ‘Isn’t that a bit claustrophobic? Wouldn’t you rather be coping by yourself?’

  220

  Phillip

  Always sitting in the car waiting for you somewhere. Listening to Radio 2. Now I am waiting for you outside your therapist’s house. I look at my watch. Three-fifteen. Your session has overrun by a quarter of an hour. What is happening? Why is it taking so long, Faye? Three more records. Ed Sheeran. Coldplay. Pink.

  And the door is opening at last. A man is showing you out. You are looking into his face and smiling. A young Rob Lowe type. About our age. Piercing blue eyes. Designer stubble. I thought you were coming out; but no, the session is continuing on his doorstep. You stand eyes entwined talking through another record; ‘One Kiss’ by Dua Lipa. You put your hand on his arm. You step away, a smile playing on your lips, and walk back to the car, shoulders back. Just one session. More confident already.

  You open the car door and slip into the passenger seat.

  ‘How was it?’ I ask.

  You nod your head. ‘Good. Good. I feel I really connect with him. He’s booked me in for two more sessions next week.’

  ‘Connect with him?’

  ‘He listens. Really listens. And it helps.’

  Your words sear into me. ‘But I listen …’ I splutter. ‘And I’m always here for you.’

  ‘I know you listen and you care. But we’re so close. Sometimes it really helps if someone listens from a distance.’

  ‘As long as it stays from a distance.’

  A frown ripples across your brow. ‘Why wouldn’t it?’ you ask.

  Don’t act the innocent, Faye. Haven’t you realised that I know? You need to learn to be more careful about what you say.

  221

  Faye

  The girls are in bed and I’m having supper with Phillip. He’s cooked a risotto but I am not hungry, so I am just sitting and pushing it around my plate. I take a sip of Chardonnay.

  He is staring across the table at me, a little too eagerly. Always so intense these days.

  ‘Excuse me, I just need to pop to the toilet.’

  ‘OK – don’t be long or I’ll need to heat up the risotto.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be all right.’ I don’t need to be told how long I can spend on the lavatory.

  I stand up from the dining table and walk into the downstairs cloakroom, which is entered from our diminutive hallway. Our tiny cloakroom, walls plastered with photographs of the children, pinned to a large corkboard. I do not need to be here. I just needed a break from Phillip. From his staring eyes. His intensity. I sit on the lid of the toilet seat, put my head in my hands, and close my eyes. Martin’s face appears in front of me. He is smiling at me. His smile smells of freedom. He’s going travelling later in the year; to India and Nepal. Imagine if I could join him.

  But then my heart lurches. I could never go away like that. I have the children. I feel heavy for a second but I know I wouldn’t swap my girls for anything. I sit looking at their photographs. Holding hands, as they run across a beach together. Christening gowns. First steps. First shoes.

  A knock on the cloakroom door. I jump.

  ‘Are you all right, Faye?’ Phillip asks. ‘You’ve been in there seven minutes.’

  I growl inside.

  222

  Erica

  It is our wedding day. I have to keep pinching myself to be sure it isn’t a dream, as I stand in the ladies’ toilets at the registry office in Weybridge, looking in the mirror, checking my hair and my make-up. We are moving here. Mouse has sold his flat in Twickenham and his dad has bought us a large conversion flat in a Victorian house, in the nicest part of town. A characterful flat with high ceilings and cornices. And a shiny modern kitchen, with every IKEA ut
ensil of my dreams. And, and, and, I have a job interview at a local care home, next week. I look at the perfectly made-up face, devoid of a double chin, that is staring back at me in the mirror. Is it really me – Erica Sullivan? I open my clutch bag, put on an extra layer of coral pink lipstick and smile back at myself.

  I step out onto the staircase of the registry office, up a few steps into the holding area where Mouse, his father and his father’s girlfriend Karen are waiting. Mouse steps towards me.

  ‘Are you ready? Are you sure, Erica?’

  ‘I’ve never been more sure of anything, but I am glad it’s not raining.’

  His father laughs as he steps towards me. He hugs me. Holding me against him. I smell the scent of his lemon aftershave. Then Karen hugs me.

  ‘Always remember,’ his father says, ‘you are not just marrying Mouse; we are a family now too.’

  A family. I have always wanted a family. For a second I see my mother’s face clearly. She is young again. Looking like me. Smiling, eyes buried in mine. Wishing me luck. Wishing me continuity.

  I am trembling: limbs, hands, lips. Mouse takes my hand. The couple before us are stepping out of the registry office. Smiles and confetti. A buzz of flashing cameras. We are surrounded by colourful clothes, people laughing and chatting. The registrar puts her head around the large wooden door and beckons us inside. She looks to be the opposite of the people she is marrying, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, blending into the background, eyes and shoulders flashing downwards.