Envy

12

Faye

Sitting on a sofa with Jonah, feeling light-headed and floaty because I’ve had too much to drink. Jonah’s hand is massaging the base of my spine and I know I should be pushing him away, but he is making me feel relaxed. So relaxed. The image of Jamie Westcote’s eyes running over my body keeps rolling across my mind, alongside Phillip’s words. I am playing a game in my head, imagining Jamie Westcote is leaning towards me and speaking, his words contorting to say what I wanted to hear, Phillip standing beside him nodding his head.

‘I love regular looks,’ Jamie whispers. ‘Your breasts are magnificent.’ His whisper rises to a shout. Everyone at the party is listening. I see faces turning towards him. ‘Regular looks are where it’s all at now.’

But it isn’t Jamie Westcote who is speaking, it’s Jonah. Jonah is speaking, and massaging the base of my spine. He pulls me towards him and kisses me. When he has tried to do this on previous occasions I have pushed him away. But tonight, I find myself kissing him back. It is so long since anyone except Phillip has kissed me that the novelty of someone else’s touch burns my skin like fire. Jonah is looking at me admiringly, making me feel special. Admiration is incendiary tonight.

13

Erica

The moon is high. An owl hoots from the trees in the park across the road. I yawn and tighten the top button of my duffel coat. People have been leaving in dribs and drabs, the host and hostess seeing them off.

The door opens. It is you at last, wrapped in a blond man’s arms.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll walk her home,’ the man is saying, smiling at the hostess.

The front door closes. You walk down the drive, stones crunching beneath your feet, holding on to the man for support. Loose-limbed. Face flushed. When you reach the end of the drive you turn left not right. Where are you going, Faye?

14

Phillip

At the Digital Marketing Conference in Harrogate. The hotel is large and Victorian and has seen better days. The dinner is held in a function room in the basement, with no windows. Dark red patterned carpet. Violent red walls. White linen tablecloths and solid silver cutlery add a touch of sophistication. The man sitting to my left has a pale face and stale breath. The woman to my right is punchy and interesting, so punchy and interesting she makes me feel tired. The food is as it always is at conferences. Acceptable. Unremarkable. But I am not a foodie, so it doesn’t matter to me. I wash it down with plenty of wine. The speeches aren’t too bad. One of them is quite amusing and makes me laugh.

And now dinner is over and we are free to proceed to the bar. The man on my left at dinner sticks to me like a leech. He buys me a large glass of wine and himself a double whisky, and slurs his words as he eulogises about Professor Torrington’s lecture on algorithms earlier.

I excuse myself by pretending I need to go to the toilet, and return to my room, where I drink two cups of peppermint tea in an attempt to sober up, and watch the Sky evening news. I text you twice. You don’t reply. I hope you’re having a good time. You were worried about going to the party alone. I want to touch base and speak to you. I never feel right when I can’t reach you. Tired but restless, I try to settle to sleep but my mind is too alert. I miss your warm body lying next to me. I think back to the day we met.

I was twenty-five. You were twenty-three. I was a digital marketing executive for a small company that had offices on Upper Ground, between Waterloo Station and the river, round the corner from The London Studios. You had just joined the company as PA to my boss. I got chatting to you as I waited to go into a meeting with him. Asking you to come for a drink tripped naturally off my tongue; the pretext for me to tell you about the company. You agreed readily, and a few evenings later we met on the pavement outside the office and hailed a taxi to Tattershall Castle, an old paddle steamer converted into a pub restaurant, moored on Victoria Embankment.

It was a soft summer evening, warm breeze from the river caressing our faces and arms. The grey Thames sparkling to silver and diamonds. You sat opposite me and leant forward. I was mesmerised by your violet eyes.

‘Tell me everything about Digital Services Limited. All the gossip. The full rundown,’ you demanded.

Before I could begin to hold forth, we were interrupted by a waiter asking us what we wanted to drink. I ordered pale ale. You ordered a white wine spritzer. Do you remember, Faye? And then I told you everything I knew. The services we provided. The names of our major clients. The personalities and foibles of our managers. Somewhere in the middle of my diatribe our drinks arrived, and a small dish of cashew nuts. I wolfed the nuts down; you didn’t touch one.

We ordered another drink each. The alcohol was beginning to relax me; soften my edges. You put your hand on my arm.

‘Phillip, you know so much.’

Desire rose inside me like an electric current. ‘What about you, Faye? Tell me about yourself. I’ve rabbited on for long enough.’

‘I want to be a full-time model. So far I’ve just had a few jobs.’

First and foremost, you’ve always wanted to be a model. You still want to be a model. However hard I work to give you a comfortable lifestyle with the girls, our life together isn’t enough to sustain you. You want others to admire your body. The more time goes on the more I question how comfortable I am with that. Sometimes I wish you were less good-looking and we didn’t have all this angst.

15

Jonah

You are sitting on a sofa, in the middle of my drawing room. I’ve admired you for so long I can’t believe you are here in my home, visiting me alone. The first time I saw you was ten years ago, when I visited Phillip in London. You were, and still are, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, with your long dark hair, your chiselled cheekbones and violet eyes. It was your eyes that unnerved me most; the way they slipped into mine, like velvet.

I hadn’t met up with Phillip for a few years at that point and was surprised my computer geek friend had managed to attract such a glamorous girlfriend. He’d never been much of a ladies’ man. The three of us met up in a Pizza Express near Charing Cross – Phillip’s suggestion, not mine – I don’t usually frequent pizzerias or chain restaurants. I survived the ordeal by looking into your eyes as I choked on an overdose of basil and tomato.

Tonight, so many years on, still besotted, ‘Would you like a nightcap?’ I ask.

‘Just a small one thanks, nothing too strong.’

‘Gin and tonic OK?’

‘Lovely thanks.’

My hand slips as I pour the gin, so I give you quite a slug. We sit next to one another on the sofa sipping our drinks. Softly, gently, I put my arm around you. You lean in to my body. I hold you more tightly and take your hand in mine.

16

Faye

I am standing in front of Jonah. I feel confused; sad and happy at the same time. I know I ran into him at the party and that I have gone back to his house. His sitting room is spinning around me. Slowly. Quickly. Slowly. Now I am holding on to him to keep standing.

‘Let me look at you, really look at you,’ he says.

His arms are behind my back and he is unzipping my dress. I work so hard toning my body, working on almost every muscle, or at least every muscle I know about, so I want to show him, really show him. I am not embarrassed. I am proud of my shape.

I feel my dress slip over my skin and fall to the floor. I am standing in front of him in my new red silk bra and panties, decorated with Chantilly lace. The room is slipping from side to side, making me feel as if I am on a boat. He is admiring my body. He is smiling. His eyes are caressing me, just like they have always done. I know he thinks I am beautiful. I need to be beautiful tonight.

17

Jonah

You are moaning beneath me, neck stretched in ecstasy. So tight around me I can hardly breathe. I’ve never known a woman who wants me so much. And I cannot believe, after waiting so long, that woman is you. I try to close my mind to all sensation so that I don’t climax too quickly. I pretend I am back at school, standing behind my desk, reciting the alphabet backwards. Before I reach V, you are finished, spent. And I can relax again.

My crescendo starts gently, slowly, a sweet sensation that feels electric. I pump into you more deeply and it intensifies into a burning heat. Pain and pleasure merge. You are holding me so tight. Your legs and feet push into my back as if you want to force me more deeply inside. It is delicious. Too much. I am not sure how much longer I can bear it. It’s rising, it’s increasing. I am soaring. One last thrust so sweet I feel ready to die in your arms right now. And it’s over. Tangled in your arms I gasp for breath, and wait for my heart to calm.

18

Faye

I wake up, Beethoven pounding in my ears. Mouth parched. Head throbbing. My hair is damp and I am naked, clamped in a stranger’s arms.

Heavy inside, I untangle myself from him and sit up. No. Not a stranger. Jonah, my husband’s old friend, our architect, who I ran into at the party last night. What have I done? I squint at my watch in the dark: 3:30 a.m. I pull myself up to standing, panic rising inside me.

My marriage. My children. The babysitter.

I snap the light on. I look down at Jonah, sleeping like a baby, penis withered into a small crinkled knot. He doesn’t stir. What happened? Jonah has never been my type. The first time I met him he said he thought footballers were overpaid wide boys. I asked him what he thought architects were then, and he gave me a supercilious grin that tightened the knots in my stomach. His long-vowelled voice smacks of superiority, even though he went to a local comprehensive, like me and Phillip. I had a drunken aberration last night, one I will regret for the rest of my life.

Heavy with remorse, I reach for my clothes. I find them scattered across the sitting room, and pull them on. My coat and handbag are in the hallway. I remember leaving them there. I wrap my coat around my shoulders; its familiarity comforts me a little, as I step outside into a bright moonlit night.

I pull my iPhone out of my bag. Fifteen missed calls. Thirteen from the babysitter. Two from Phillip. What am I going to say? I need to get used to making up lies. First I text our babysitter.

On the way home. Sorry. Party went on really late. Got carried away.

Then I check on Phillip. Only two missed calls, and not too late. Just didn’t hear those because of the noise of the party. Nothing to explain. I exhale with relief.

We live so close to Jonah it isn’t worth calling a taxi. My footsteps resound across the pavement, as I stride through the solidity of darkness towards home. At least it is so late no one I know will see me. Five minutes later I am walking up the steps to our front door, turning the key. I step straight into our living room and turn on the light. The familiarity of my living room surrounds me like a sanctuary. My behaviour is out of step. But nothing here has changed. My normal world is waiting for me.

Lucy, our babysitter, stretches her arms in the air from the sofa, and sits up. Her long brown hair is tangled and crumpled. Her eyes blink as she becomes accustomed to the light.

‘I was so worried. Are you OK?’ she asks.

I walk towards her and sit on the sofa next to her. I shake my head slowly, and raise my hands a little.

‘Sorry. So sorry. Had too much to drink. Stayed too late. Got carried away.’

‘Are you sure you’re OK? Has something happened?’ she asks, looking shocked at my dishevelled appearance.

‘Course not,’ I reply. ‘I fell asleep on the sofa at the end of the party, that’s all. A bit embarrassing but all OK.’

‘As long as you’re all right,’ Lucy says, slipping off the sofa and reaching for her bag and coat, which she’s placed on the floor beside her: obviously keen to get away as soon as possible.

I rummage hurriedly into my handbag and pull out £100 to give to her. I hand it across.

‘That’s far too much,’ she complains, trying to hand it back.

‘No. Let me give it to you. I want to. I’ve inconvenienced you.’

‘Not really,’ she says.

‘But I worried you,’ I splutter.

‘A bit. But you’re a grown woman. I know you can look after yourself,’ she says, leaving the notes on the coffee table. She smiles at me as she pulls her coat on. ‘Please don’t worry. I’m cool. Everything’s fine.’

I scoop the notes from the table and press them into her hand.

‘I’m not accepting no for an answer. I want you to have this money. You must take it. Otherwise I’ll only send it to you in the post.’

This time her hand closes reluctantly around the notes. As soon as she has gone, I text Jonah:

We need to talk.

19

Phillip

Sunday evening. I pull the car into our drive. Lights smoulder down from the top of the house. I have flowers for you, Faye, and a soft toy each for the girls.

I let myself in and switch on the light. The hallway is filled with its usual clutter. The buggy. A row of shoes. A pile of old clothes to take to the charity shop. This evening the house is eerily quiet. Silence presses against me and the vision I had of you rushing to greet me, smothering me with kisses, echoes towards me making me feel sad.

Perhaps you are having difficulty settling our offspring. I leave my gifts on the dining table and slowly, quietly, move through our living area, and tiptoe up the stairs. Past Tamsin’s bedroom, past Georgia’s nursery. The lights are dim. I hear the repetitive sound of their gentle breathing. Into our master bedroom with its state-of-the-art bathroom, only recently installed, which I am so pleased to have been able to afford. More dim light. This time I hear electronic music. Pounding and trance-like. You are sitting, back arched, cross-legged on your exercise mat, arms stretched out like a ballet dancer. Not that I am an expert at this, but it’s Pilates I guess.

As soon as you see me, you snap the music off and slowly unwrap your body.

‘The wanderer returns,’ you say as you stand up.

‘Not a very exciting wander, I can assure you.’

‘It must have been much more exciting than staying at home,’ you say with a grimace.

‘Haven’t you had fun then?’

‘Depends what you call fun.’

‘Well I don’t call sleeping through lectures about computer algorithms fun.’

‘And I don’t rate being cold-shouldered by a sanctimonious prick who owns his own modelling agency.’

Your eyes are wide and glistening with tears. I take you in my arms and pull you against me. You clamp against my chest as if the world is about to end.

‘I ran into Jonah at the party,’ you murmur between sobs.

20

Erica

Did you really think no one would see you, Faye? I followed you, hiding in moonlight shadows. How could you disappear behind his shiny front door when you have a husband like yours? Handsome, in a solid way. Supporting you. Helping you with the children. I watch him through my binoculars whenever you leave the curtains open, hugging them and putting them into bed, reading them bedtime stories. I’ve seen him so many times walking up your drive with takeaways and flowers. Most women would give their right arm for a man like that.

How do you think your behaviour will affect your children? Do you know what it is like for children to have a mother go off the rails? Can you imagine what it was like for me?

And I am back. Remembering. My social worker visiting me in my second foster home. My foster mother flinging plates into the dishwasher, tidying up piles of washing. The social worker had only given us an hour’s notice. I helped her tidy up and by the time he arrived I was already drained and exhausted.

We sat opposite one another in the dining room. He sat hands together on his knee, mouth in a line. I knew something bad was coming.

‘Erica, your mother is dead.’

‘What happened to her?’ I spluttered, heart racing in my chest.

‘She died of a drugs overdose.’

There was a pause. ‘She was peaceful, Erica. She is living with God. Happy in Heaven now.’

Living with God, not with me? I felt empty. Bereft. I had always thought she would come back and care for me. Now I knew I was alone. I was too choked to cry. Bitterness pushed the tears away. Tears would have given me respite. Tears would have helped. But back then, nothing helped.

21

Jonah

I am parked outside your daughter’s school in my lilac Jag, waiting to see you. It smells of leather and money. That is why I like it so much. A present to myself for my thirtieth birthday, with some of the money I had just received from my great-grandmother’s trust fund. Years ago I tried to let you know you would be better off financially if you chose me. Now so many years on, you are beginning to see sense.

You won’t be long. School starts in ten minutes. I watch other mothers sidling past, looking so grey, so colourless. In comparison to you they all look dumpy and plain. I watch their body language as they talk to their children with a pious air.

My body sings as you come into sight. Walking past, coated in skin-tight Lycra. I am ready for you, ready and waiting, blood pulsating through my body. Waiting for you to drop Tamsin off. Waiting for you to get in my car and talk.

22

Faye

I slip into the passenger seat of his car, Georgia fast asleep in my arms.

‘Jonah, I’m ashamed about what happened on Saturday night. We both made a terrible mistake. I expect you feel the same about our one-night stand. That it was a total one-off.’

He leans towards me, eyes gleaming. ‘I was rather hoping we could go on seeing each other. When you’ve had a taste of perfection it’s good to make it last as long as possible.’

I sit looking at his fine-boned face. His slightly effeminate good looks. How much had I had to drink? I have never previously found him attractive, but somehow suddenly he seemed so empathetic on Saturday night. Being with him felt so right.

‘Please, Phillip’s your friend too; neither of us want to hurt him. I love him very much. Let’s just forget what happened.’

His mouth twists. ‘Funny way of showing your feelings, shagging his best friend.’

‘I know. I’m appalled by my behaviour.’ Tears fill my eyes. ‘And I don’t want him to know what happened.’

Brown eyes darken. ‘It’s really not going to be that simple. I can’t just let this drop. I’m in love with you, Faye.’

23

Erica

Where are you going? Why are you turning in the opposite direction to my flat? I need to watch you even more carefully now I know how irresponsible you are. Where are you taking Georgia? She needs stability. She’s used to the crèche at your leisure club.

I reach for my coat, slam the door, and race down the stairs to follow you. The pedestrian crossing slows me down. The lights take so long. I wait at the crossing and see you walking in the opposite direction, further and further away from me. A car is trailing you. A shiny lilac Jag with a personalised number plate. You stop. The car stops. A blond head of hair leans out of the window. Your boyfriend, the blond guy from the party. Why is he meeting you at school? Is your relationship serious? Are you going to put your children through the trauma of coming from a broken home?

24

Faye

Back in the changing room, after my spinning class, reaching into my locker, I hear my iPhone buzzing. A new message. An electric current burns through me. Not him. Please not him. I told him I didn’t love him. I warned him if he told Phillip I’d deny it, and Phillip would trust me over him. But as I stepped out of the car eyes shining into mine, he said, ‘I like it when you play hard to get.’

My whole body stiffens when I remember the wolf-like look on his face, his usual veneer of sophistication dissolved away. I take a deep breath. If he causes trouble I’ll just have to deny it. Deny. Deny. Deny. No one can prove that he is right. The phone continues to buzz. I sigh with relief as I reach across and pull it towards me, and press green. The agency.

Mimi wants to see me.

As soon as I arrive, she ushers me in. Mimi is dressed down today. Her hair, although still purple, is not gelled into a Mohican. She has forgotten to put the safety pin in her nose. I sit opposite her wondering why she’s taken it out. Does it get in the way when she makes love, when she kisses? She smiles at me, and the skin around her eyes crinkles.

‘I’ve got a job for you,’ she says.

I open my mouth and close it again.

‘Don’t look so surprised, I do place people sometimes,’ she says.

‘What is it?’ I ask.

She leans back in her chair and folds her arms as her smile widens. ‘An assignment for the local ice-cream company.’

It’s not a national campaign, but it’s a start. Just the start I needed. A reputable local company. My heart soars.

‘What do they have in mind?’ I ask.

‘A photoshoot. Two days at most. You walking in the local woods wearing a floaty dress licking one of their ice creams, soft-focus lens. “Dreamy and creamy”, will be the tag line, “Making you feel as if it’s summer all year.” They’re intending to run an ad on the back page of the Richmond Magazine, and make a film advert for local cinema.’