Envy Read online

  He walks into the sitting area of his living room. I follow him. He stalks up and down in front of the window, wringing his hands and glowering at the rain. I walk over to him and put my hand on his arm.

  ‘The rain isn’t going to hurt you.’ I pause and look into his anxious face.

  Grey-brown eyes stiffen. ‘It wants to.’

  ‘It can’t, remember? As long as you stay inside.’

  His eyes soften. He frowns. He sighs and flops down into the middle of the sofa. I sink into the easy chair opposite him.

  Mouse. Thirty years old. Nicknamed Mouse because of his timid personality and grey-brown hair.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asks.

  ‘Been busy.’

  ‘Because of Faye?’

  ‘Yep.’

  He leans across and takes my hands in his, face pressed towards mine. ‘But you’re here today.’

  I squeeze his hands. Mouse has difficulty reading emotions and suffers from phobias. I have confidence issues because of my upbringing. Perhaps one day I will be able to overcome them. But Mouse won’t recover from his issues. He just has to learn to live in this world despite them. That’s why Mouse’s father has done so much to support him. Mouse’s father is my hero. I wish I had a father like that. But I do not have a father. My mother never knew who my father was.

  We sit in silence for a while.

  ‘I’ve bought something at the charity shop,’ Mouse eventually announces as he pads across the room. ‘I’ll show you.’

  Rain forgotten now that I’m here, he opens his living room cupboard and pulls out a large cardboard box. He places it in the middle of the sitting area, lifts out a silver and bronze chess set, the pieces finely etched, and puts it on the floor. He stands up, shoulders back in pride.

  ‘That looks fantastic,’ I tell him.

  He smiles at me. A broad, effervescent smile. When he smiles, despite his rough-hewn features, Mouse is good-looking.

  ‘Do you want to play chess with me?’

  ‘You’ll have to teach me.’

  ‘That’s fine. I bought it for both of us so that we could play together.’

  My heart lurches. What would I do if I didn’t have Mouse?

  I close my eyes and feel again my mother’s heat as I lay clamped against her, waiting for her to wake up. I feel her breath steady and even, not the agonising rasping I heard when I first called the ambulance. Eleven years old. A man stepping towards me, to prise me away. A man who smells of nicotine and mint. The social worker in charge of my case. I shudder inside and push the memory away. My mind is back. Back in Mouse’s comfortable flat.

  ‘Come on, Erica, I’ll teach you how to play chess,’ he says, flicking his grey-brown locks.

  4

  Faye

  Home from the gym. In my bedroom, trying to rescue my hair. I have managed to wash it. But Georgia has woken from her morning nap, so drying it will be a problem.

  ‘I’m not Georgia any more,’ she tells me. ‘I’m a kangaroo.’

  She bends down, face plastered in a mischievous grin. ‘I need to do my hopping practice.’ She begins to hop around our bedroom. Even though she is only three years old, she is heavy enough to make the floorboards vibrate. I shouldn’t have let her sleep for so long. Now she is full of energy. She picks up my Chanel perfume.

  ‘Kangaroos like perfume,’ she announces, spraying it into the air around her.

  I snatch it away and put it in a drawer. ‘They don’t like perfume. They like grass.’

  ‘Come on then, Mummy, let’s go outside and get some.’

  ‘I can’t go outside, I need to dry my hair.’

  ‘Well I’ll go then,’ she says, jumping towards the door.

  I lean across and lock it. ‘No. No. You can’t go alone. I’ll come outside with you later.’

  ‘OK, Mummy, I’ll wait.’

  She jumps up and down on the spot. She bounces towards the dressing table, and picks up my new eyeshadow.

  ‘Kangaroos like wearing make-up too.’

  ‘No they don’t. Kangaroos like sitting on their mummy’s bed watching films.’

  I sweep her into my arms and lift her onto the bed. I snap the TV on and find The Jungle Book, her favourite film, on Amazon Prime. I sit at my dressing table, brush my hair and switch the hairdryer on. She slips off the bed and moves towards me. She shakes my leg to get my attention.

  ‘Where do shadows come from?’ she asks.

  I snap the hairdryer off. ‘Go back and watch the video. Ask Daddy tonight,’ I suggest. ‘He knows that sort of thing.’

  Phillip knows so many weird random facts. As soon as I met him I admired his intelligence.

  She tosses her head disapprovingly. ‘You just want to dry your hair, not talk to me, Mummy.’

  ‘I need to dry my hair, Georgia – it’s wet.’

  She stoops into her kangaroo position again, hands like paws, bent in front of her chest. I scoop her in my arms and place her on the bed again in front of The Jungle Book. I sit next to her with my arms around her, to try and calm her. Then when she is engrossed in the movie, I creep away and continue to blow-dry my hair. When I have finally finished smoothing my hair, I turn the TV off.

  ‘Come on, we’re off to the shops,’ I announce.

  She wriggles off the sofa and slips her hand in mine.

  ‘Can I walk, Mummy? Leave the buggy here?’

  Her walking is more of a totter than a walk. But she smiles at me, and as soon as I see her smile, I melt. So after wrapping up against the rain, brandishing a brolly this time, we leave our modern town house, holding hands. Georgia is now tired of being a kangaroo. Just when I would like to go quickly, we move like snails. Turning the corner past the line of fine Victorian houses, towards the high street. Right onto the main road. Past the green, beneath the bridge. Dust from passing traffic spitting into our faces as we slowly progress towards the centre of town. At last we arrive at a narrow doorway between the bank and the chip shop. The entrance for Serendipity Model Agency. The scent of the chip shop assaults my nostrils as I press the buzzer. The speaker attached to the buzzer vibrates. I lean my weight on the door and we tumble inside.

  Slowly, slowly, still holding hands, we pad upstairs to Serendipity Model Agency, run solely by my agent, Mimi Featherington. She has ten clients, and a room above the chip shop that always smells of burnt fat.

  I knock on the glass door at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Come in,’ Mimi invites, opening the door to welcome us. ‘How lovely to see you.’

  Georgia stares at Mimi’s purple Mohican hair. Mimi, a forty-year-old punk rocker, with a neat face spoilt by a plethora of pins sticking into it. We follow Mimi into her office.

  ‘So good to see you,’ she simpers.

  My heart sinks. Mimi always simpers when she hasn’t any news. And I so wanted her to be telling me I had a new modelling contract.

  ‘I just thought I’d pop in and see how things were going,’ I say with a shrug of my shoulders.

  ‘Do sit down,’ she says gesticulating to the chair in front of her desk. I do as she requests and Georgia scrambles onto my lap.

  ‘What did you want to know?’ Mimi asks.

  My insides tighten. It’s obvious, isn’t it? When will she send me some decent work? I’ve done reasonable work before, haven’t I? I need the Serendipity Model Agency to really, really pull their finger out. To get me the work I deserve.

  ‘Just wondered whether you’d heard from the estate agent yet?’ I ask, putting my head on one side in an attempt to look as nonchalant as possible.

  Mimi’s eyes flicker. ‘I’m afraid it’s a no. They liked you a lot but …’ She crosses her legs and folds her arms.

  I wrap my arms around Georgia and pull her towards me. ‘But what?’ I ask, smiling bravely.

  ‘They wanted someone a little younger.’

  The words I have dreaded for so long, finally spoken. I inhale the scent of Georgia’s young skin and for a second, instead of lo
ving her, I envy her.

  ‘But I’m only thirty-four for heaven’s sake,’ I splutter.

  Mimi shakes her head. ‘Mid-thirties – a difficult age group to market.’

  Anger incubates inside me. If I do not leave quickly it will erupt.

  My smile stretches tightly. ‘Well let’s just hope something else crops up soon. I’d best be off. Time to pick Tamsin up from school.’

  ‘Mummy, Mummy, please can we buy sweeties first?’ Georgia asks.

  Too weak to argue, I reply, ‘Yes. Yes. Of course.’

  5

  Erica

  I look out of the window. It is still raining. I am still in Mouse’s flat. Still playing chess. Or at least Mouse is playing. I’m pretending to, but not really concentrating. I am thinking about you, Faye. About wanting to be like you. A better version of myself.

  For you look like the woman I might have been, if I’d had a solid start in life. The day I first saw you, walking past my flat, after you had turned in to the school playground I sat on the sofa in my musty home, and yet again studied my mother’s photograph, now creased and faded with time. I found myself staring at the once fine lines of her face, knowing that many years ago she must have looked like you. I glanced at my chubby face in the mirror, and knew that I could look like you too, one day, if I wasn’t so overweight.

  Inspired by your glamour, my first step to improve my looks was a visit to the local Oxfam shop. As soon as I walked in the scent of stale clothing assaulted me. The shop assistant was paler than pale. Frizzy brown hair. Pinprick eyes. Looking bored and sorry for herself, as if she would rather be doling out food in Africa, or building pot-bellied children a new schoolhouse.

  I began to flick through the racks of clothes. What had happened to the people who used to wear them? Where were they now? Alive only in other people’s memories? I stroked a jaded green party frock and tried to imagine the party it went to. A tea dance in an upmarket hotel. A young girl waltzing with her partner, looking into his eyes wistfully.

  I looked across at the row of tweed sports jackets, imagining the elderly men who used to wear them, oppressed by the reminder that the father I never knew has probably died too.

  I rummaged through the mixed racks. There was nothing I liked. I sighed inside. Even though I hardly had any money, I wanted to treat myself to something special.

  Giving up on the racks, I began to walk around the edge of the shop, looking at the wall displays. Second-hand books. Antique wine glasses too small for modern life. Greetings cards, I didn’t have anyone to send to.

  Then I turned the corner and came across handbags and shoes; rummaging to try and find something right. Too big. Too small. Too frumpy. I finally found a pair of suede boots: trendy and grungy. I pulled my trainers off and thrust my feet into them. One glance and I knew I’d buy them. But my feet would be so much more attractive than the rest of me, and I knew I needed to start work on everywhere else.

  ‘Are you all right, Erica?’ Mouse asks, grey-brown eyes darkening. ‘Are you playing chess, or are you sitting looking out of the window and daydreaming?’

  I squirm in my seat. ‘I’m thinking about chess of course,’ I lie.

  Mouse grins. My stomach twists. Mouse has a lovable grin.

  ‘I can tell you’re not concentrating because you are giving away pieces too easily. If you were concentrating properly I think you would win.’ There is a pause. ‘It’s your turn now; show me what you’ve got.’

  I grin back at him. ‘OK then.’ I deliberate for a while and then move my knight to take one of his pawns.

  ‘Not too bad, I suppose.’

  He starts to plan his next move. I begin to daydream again. I’m going to be slim, and beautiful. Like you, Faye. I have started a diet. And a few weeks ago I went jogging for the first time. Fifty paces walking slowly. Fifty paces walking fast. Fifty paces jogging. Twice around Marble Hill Park.

  Because I’ve not been able to follow you today, Faye, I’m imagining your movements in my head. Monday. Legs, Bums, and Tums. Stomach crunches galore at the Anytime Leisure Club. If I had enough money I would join a club like that.

  ‘Checkmate,’ Mouse announces. ‘I’ve beaten you for the third time today.’

  Mouse is grinning at me, dimple playing to the left of his broad mouth. Mouse with his pondering personality that slows the movement of his face.

  The alarm on my watch beeps. Twenty-five past three. In five minutes I’ll watch you walk past again.

  6

  Faye

  Sitting at the dining table in our living room, the girls settled in bed.

  ‘How was your day?’ I ask my husband Phillip, as I watch him spooning pasta into his mouth.

  ‘Fine,’ he replies, without looking up.

  ‘Oh come on, I’m at home with the kids. Give me a break, let me hear something about your work environment,’ I say.

  He looks up and frowns. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re bored at home?’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Not at all.’ I pause. ‘I just asked about your day.’

  He leans back in his chair. He shrugs his shoulders. ‘I drove to work. Parked the car. Walked across the car park.’ He pauses and smiles. ‘And then, the really exciting bit, I fastened the top button on my coat.’

  ‘Did you get a good parking space?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

  ‘Did the buggy wheels rotate smoothly today?’ he replies.

  I take a deep breath. Did I ever find quips like this interesting?

  ‘Is this really how you want to communicate with me this evening?’ I ask. ‘When I’ve had a problem arise that I would like to talk about?’ His eyes soften in concern. ‘For the first time, a client said I was too old for the job,’ I continue.

  Repeated, the barbs of these words penetrate my mind more deeply. He leans across the table and takes my hands in his. ‘You’re still beautiful, Faye.’ There is a pause. ‘But that day was bound to arrive.’

  ‘So you agree?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Oh yes you did.’

  7

  Erica

  Saturday morning. On my own for the weekend as Mouse has gone to see his dad. His dad’s name is Angus. Angus is tall, much taller than Mouse. Handsome, like a grey-haired Robbie Williams, with a ready smile and a rectangular face. Mouse looks a bit like him but not quite. Everything about Mouse is not quite. His problems really messed him up when he was younger, but now he is thirty, after special schooling and help from his father, he has learnt to cope with living in society. He recognises signs of emotions now. He understands how he needs to respond to comply. He has a raw honesty in his reactions that I find refreshing.

  Saturday morning. Up super-early. Yoghurt and fruit for breakfast. Out for my run.

  I count to ten, take a deep breath and start. Fifty paces walking slowly, watching my legs wobble as I move. Fifty paces walking quickly, heart beginning to pound. Running next, breathing quickly. The running hasn’t killed me yet. Walking again, the fat on my legs vibrating. Quickly, quickly, heart pulsating. Running again, stabbing pains lacerating my sternum. A stitch-like pain like an iron staple to the right of my groin making me bend over as I walk. How am I going to make it twice around the park?

  Visualise. Visualise. I try to picture my rolls of fat. Visualise. That is what it says in my self-help book. I visualise the rolls of fat that circle my back. The lumps of cellulite nestling on my buttocks. The loose skin folds on my inner thighs. Visualising. Forty-nine. Fifty. Walk fast. One, two, three … Jogging, jogging around the park.

  I end up doubled up at the park gate. About to vomit. Heart pumping. Chest aching. Feeling light-headed, as if I am about to faint. When I have recovered a little I amble home.

  The musty smell of my flat crawls into my bones and cradles my nostrils as I limp towards the shower. I turn the water on and wrap myself in a towel whilst I wait for it to warm up. The plumbing
grunts and creaks, like an old man climbing stairs. The water runs brown before it turns clear.

  I test the water with my fingers. It still feels like ice. I am tempted not to bother, to just get dressed without a shower, but that is the start of a sort of slovenliness that I don’t want to be guilty of.

  I wait another five minutes and then I step into the shower. The water is hot and satisfying now. It pummels my body and the more it presses against me, the more I relax. I soap myself with the lavender shower gel that Mouse bought me last Christmas. I start by lathering my generous thighs. Not taut and firm like yours yet, Faye, still dimpled with cellulite; down, down, towards my tree-trunk calves and broad ankles.

  I massage and rub. It feels so soothing. So liberating. Upwards, upwards. Fingers circulating around my gelatinous breasts, my rolls of stomach fat. Fingers soaping into skin crevices. One day, Faye, if I keep working hard, my fat will dissolve, and I will be toned and slim like you. Showered and dressed. Jeans and a jumper. Grey duffel coat that I have had for twenty years, and a black beanie hat. I step out into a cold sunny morning and wait at the bus stop across the road from your house. Every time a bus comes I ignore it.

  Your front door opens and your Zac Efron of a husband steps out carrying a suitcase. A weekend bag. He waves his car keys. Lights flash. The boot opens. He flings the suitcase inside and drives off.

  I continue watching your house. Buses that I do not get on continue to lumber past. I look at my watch. Nine a.m. Your curtains still haven’t opened, but the girls must have been awake for hours by now. Are you ignoring them? Rolling over in bed and trying to catch a little more sleep?

  Nine-thirty a.m. The living room curtains are opening and you are standing looking out at the day wearing your short velvet dressing gown, displaying perfectly tanned golden legs. How have your legs become so golden? I didn’t see you going to the tanning shop. I must add it to my places to watch.