Envy Page 6

  Anna must have been waiting for me because the door opens immediately. As I step into the red-carpeted hallway, she gives me a tired smile.

  ‘Sally is ready. You can go straight upstairs.’

  Sally invites me into her bedroom with an artificial smile, and a thick Brummie drawl. She is wearing a silk dressing gown that is too busy; duck egg blue with birds flying across it. Too many beaks and feathers.

  ‘Welcome,’ she says taking my coat and hanging it up behind the door.

  ‘Did Anna tell you I want you to wear a wig?’ I ask, looking into her pale green eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  I rummage in my briefcase and pull it out, black tresses freshly washed and styled.

  ‘If you sit at the dressing table I’ll help you put it on.’

  She walks towards the dressing table, continuing to smile. I step behind her. She sits down and shakes her shoulders a little to relax them. I lift the wig carefully in my fingers, holding its crown wide open and gently, gently, starting at her forehead, coax it onto her head.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asks, standing up and shaking her head so that the bottom of the wig vibrates lifelessly against her shoulders.

  ‘Not bad. But your eyes are the wrong colour. They need to be violet.’

  ‘Next time I’ll wear coloured contacts,’ she says as she walks towards me, and starts to undress me. When I am naked she pushes me onto her bed, onto her floral counterpane that has seen better days, and removes her dressing gown, revealing sagging white breasts. So unlike your perfect curves that I have to turn her around and enter her from behind, burying my face in the wig. My crescendo takes a while as the girl is so unresponsive. In the end I manage, by playing with the curls of the wig and imagining I am rubbing up against your sweetness, Faye.

  34

  Erica

  On my way back from my morning run in the park, it feels as if someone is pushing a steam roller across my stomach. I can’t keep moving. I have to stop for a break. I rest awhile and find myself staring at the noticeboard pinned to the school gate.

  Lunchtime assistant required.

  My stomach lurches in hope. They need help to serve the school lunches and help to wash up afterwards, for two hours a day. Fair pay, minimum wage. I re-sat my maths GCSE last year and managed to gain a B. My maths teacher even wrote me a glowing reference to help me get a job. Serving food. Washing up. Nice and simple. I know I’ve not managed to get a job for ages but I could apply for this. Oh yes, I could apply for this job watching over Tamsin. Getting to know her first.

  35

  Faye

  Georgia and I are holding hands, tripping slowly through town, on the way to the agency. Georgia is clutching her weekly treat, her oversized bag of sweets. She chose one of almost everything in the shop, and six white chocolate mice.

  My stomach tightens as I think I see Jonah’s car. I haven’t seen him for a while. Much to my relief, ever since I explained my feelings honestly, he hasn’t been waiting for me at the school. He must have accepted my decision. But I have been feeling guilty. A leaden heavy feeling pulling me down.

  All the times he has approached me and I have brushed him off successfully – why did I succumb to his advances in the end?

  Because of Jamie Westcote. Because of Phillip.

  Phillip suggesting my modelling career is drawing to an end, before it’s taken off. Jamie Westcote putting the boot in. The tightening in my stomach becomes painful as I remember what happened between Jonah and me.

  For whatever Phillip’s current views about my career, he is the centre of my family, my rock. And I do not want my family life to disintegrate. I feel as if I am suppressing a constant volcano of panic, as if my life as I know it is about to end at any moment. But however awful this feeling is, my behaviour caused it. I am going to ride through it. Live with it until it fades. I will move through it in the end.

  What is Jonah doing here now, hovering in the traffic near the agency? Is he on the way to make an architectural visit? I do not want him to wind the window down and talk to me, so I sweep Georgia into my arms and walk around the block to approach the agency from the other direction.

  Mimi’s hair is more flamboyant than ever today. Purple and pink and green. A triple-tipped Mohican. More of her head is shaved. Her piercings are multiplying. Georgia sits on my knee, looking at her, transfixed by her chains.

  ‘The ice-cream photoshoot was a success,’ Mimi says, smiling at me and folding her arms. ‘They’re using the film for an ad in the local cinema, a large still will be up on a bill board by the library.’ There is a pause. ‘Plus the local magazine ad, as was originally discussed.’

  ‘When will I get my fee?’

  ‘Soon. Soon. They won’t let you down. I’ll chase it,’ Mimi promises, leaning back in her chair and stretching her legs out in front of her.

  ‘Now – you’ve been offered another job.’

  I lean forwards, keen to listen.

  ‘It’s to advertise some riding stables in the next county. But you need to be able to ride a horse.’

  ‘No problem,’ I lie, wondering whether Jonah is still in the vicinity, ‘I learnt when I was a child.’

  36

  Erica

  ‘So, Mouse,’ I say as I sink into his sofa, ‘my first job interview in years is over.’ I pause. ‘And I have to tell you I felt sick with nerves.’

  ‘What happened?’ Mouse asks, standing in front of me, looking down. ‘Your face is flushed; you’re pleased. You’re excited aren’t you?’

  The grin I cannot contain widens. ‘Yes. Very. They asked me if I could start as soon as they had done a background check.’

  ‘Fantastic, Erica.’ He grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet. ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance to celebrate?’

  His face is so serious, and his suggestion so flippant, I can’t help but giggle. Frowning, he turns his speakers on and a waltz begins to play. He takes my arms and leads the way. One two three, one two three, one two three. I get in a bit of a muddle and stand on his feet.

  ‘No. No. No, Erica.’ He shakes his head. ‘Let’s start again.’

  He starts the music from the beginning, puts his right arm around my waist and guides me around the room again, leading with his left foot and arm. We manage three times around the room perfectly before I stand on his feet again and we collapse in giggles.

  ‘No. No. No. Erica, stop laughing. We need to get this right. I am going to make you do it again.’

  37

  Jonah

  Because I can’t have you yet, I am only managing to contain myself with help. She opens her bedroom door slowly with a wary smile. Her blue contacts do not compare to the Liz Taylor violet of your eyes. The sultry wig too limp to match your hair. Her face is not yours. But I need this. I step into her room and close the door.

  ‘Take your dressing gown off,’ I command.

  It slips to the floor. She is naked. She moves towards me, and kneels in front of me. She unzips my trousers, pulls my pants down and tries to take my coil of softness in her mouth. I push her head away.

  ‘No,’ I bark.

  She looks up at me, strange blue eyes sad and pleading.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asks.

  ‘You know what I want to do to you.’

  Her eyes cloud with fear and that turns me on. I feel myself becoming erect. I grab her breasts and twist her nipples so hard she cries in pain. My erection is throbbing now. I grab her by the shoulders and throw her onto the bed. I kick her legs apart and thrust into her dryness. I thrust and thrust. She cries because I am hurting her. I am hurting myself too, but there is a fine line between pleasure and pain, and I am really enjoying this.

  38

  Erica

  Slimming club again, sitting shivering by the electric fire, waiting for the other weight watchers to arrive. Julia, the elfin woman, pointy and ethereal, is standing at the back of the church hall, texting on her iPhone. The others start arriving i
n dribs and drabs, laughing and chatting, making small talk. Their laughter surrounds me and makes me feel lonely. Faye, you and I are two of a kind, aren’t we? Never quite part of the group.

  I think of you, and your irresponsibility, and how much Tamsin and Georgia need to be taken away from you.

  ‘Time to start,’ Julia announces, putting her iPhone in her pocket and walking across the hall, to stand in the middle of the space in front of us, beyond the chairs.

  She stands next to her major weapon, the scales. Her body is small and neat, but her grin is wide and fixed. ‘Let’s weigh ourselves first.’

  We come every week. We know what to do. We queue in front of Julia, holding our record books. Chattering still envelops me, without including me. I watch the woman in front of me stand on the scales, her ample thighs pushing against the material in her skirt and stretching it.

  ‘Same as last week,’ Julia announces. ‘You’re stabilising. Don’t lose heart. That often happens after the initial weight drop-off.’

  But despite Julia’s encouragement, the woman turns to go back to her seat, eyes facing down.

  ‘Remember keeping slim is a constant battle. We are not on a diet, we need to live a healthy lifestyle – all the time,’ Julia continues. ‘Next please.’

  I step forward, wriggling out of my jumper and kicking off my trainers. I step onto the scales.

  Breathe out. Pray. Pray I am losing weight.

  The numbers on the digital scale reach a desirable weight, and do not rise any further.

  ‘Congratulations, Erica, you’ve lost a stone in a month.’

  39

  Faye

  I enter the office, which looks like a stable itself, a wooden barn of a place with copious beams and a high ceiling; difficult to keep warm. A young girl is standing behind a wooden counter looking cold and bored. The counter is decorated with leaflets, trinkets for sale, baskets containing packets of crisps and biscuits. There is a coffee machine behind her and a shelf laden with fizzy drinks.

  ‘Kate’s running late.’

  ‘OK – how late?’

  ‘About twenty minutes.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll just sit and wait.’

  ‘Can I get you anything to drink?’

  Having taken note of her additive-laden selection I immediately snap, ‘No thanks.’ My skin can’t tolerate drinks with additives.

  I sit on a bench that runs around the edge of the ‘office’ and, feeling bored already, pick up a leaflet about the riding school. I flick through shiny photographs of young girls sitting on horses decorated with a plethora of rosettes. Of horses running freely through open fields. My stomach contracts. Why have I agreed to this? I’ve always been frightened of horses. I don’t even like walking past them if we meet them in a field on a country walk. And it’s not as if I’m even a country walk sort of person in the first place. I push my fear away and fiddle with my iPhone, engrossing myself in Facebook gossip and BBC News.

  When Kate finally arrives she is short and stocky, with a grin so straight it could be mistaken for a grimace. But deep-voiced and square-fingered, there is something resonant and reassuring about her.

  ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. Let’s get started.’

  I stand up and walk towards her.

  ‘You’ll have to leave that in a locker,’ she says, pointing to my iPhone. ‘Sure-fire way of making a horse bolt.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll soon get you licked into shape for the photoshoot. They only need a few photographs, don’t they? I’ve got the most gentle horse in the world ready for you. She’s a beauty. Her name is Whisper.’

  When I am deemed to be correctly dressed and briefed, I am allowed into the arena to meet her. Dappled white and streamlined, saddled up and ready to go. She is eyeballing me, head high, neck arched. My insides quiver as Kate holds her reins and barks instructions.

  ‘One foot in the stirrup, swing your other leg over.’

  I do as I am instructed and somehow find myself sitting in the saddle on Whisper’s back, feeling unprotected and vulnerable. Despite the hard hat that is pressing into my skull and giving me a headache. Despite Kate’s eagle eye watching me.

  Nothing is holding me.

  I should be wearing a seat belt or a safety strap. Whisper is stamping her right front hoof, moving her head and neck from side to side, making me feel dizzy.

  ‘Horses and ponies are very sensitive,’ Kate says. ‘They sense fear and lack of confidence. You must sit tall and calm, and let her know who’s in charge.’

  I straighten my back and tighten my thighs against her body.

  ‘Is that better?’ I ask.

  ‘Taller, calmer,’ Kate replies. ‘Squeeze your thighs and she’ll walk forwards, pull the reins and she’ll stop. Off you go. I’ll watch.’

  I look down at the ground and my dizziness increases. I look up again at Kate, who nods at me. Taking a deep breath, I squeeze my thighs against the horse’s flanks. She sets off slowly. So slowly. But my stomach churns at her every move. Even though she’s only just started to go, I want her to stop. I pull the reins. She keeps moving. I pull them again. She moves faster. What am I doing wrong?

  ‘Let her know who’s in charge,’ Kate barks from the edge of the arena.

  I feel my heart thumping in my ears. I pull the reins so hard I think I could be cautioned for animal cruelty, and she finally condescends to halt.

  ‘Praise her for doing the right thing,’ Kate instructs.

  I lean forward, stroke her neck and mumble ‘Good girl,’ into her ear.

  ‘Now you need to learn to trot,’ Kate continues. My hands and legs are trembling. ‘Squeeze your thighs twice and she’ll trot.’ There is a pause. ‘Lift up and down with her movement like I showed you.’

  Whisper begins to go. My stomach tumbles as I bounce. I grit my teeth and do as I am told. Up and down, up and down, butterflies in my stomach, the movement making me nauseous. In the end I can’t stand it a second longer, so I tug on the reins and Whisper stops. I need a break.

  ‘I need the loo,’ I lie.

  Kate saunters across the arena towards me, and takes Whisper by the bridle. She talks me through my dismount. Much to my amazement I manage to reach the ground without cricking my neck or damaging my back.

  I walk across the arena feeling bruised and shaken. Stepping into the cloakroom I catch sight of my face in the mirror. Puffed and swollen. Pink piggy eyes. Not only am I terrified of horses, I am allergic to them too. I’ll have to dose myself up with antihistamine for the photoshoot.

  40

  Phillip

  This evening you managed to get a babysitter, and we have broken free from home. Arm in arm, we step into the new wine bar in town. Quirky and stylish. Empty wine casks instead of tables. Candles instead of electric light. In an old basement, which has been made to look like a wine cellar. Stepping inside is like stepping into another world. A world of romance and secrets.

  But not quite.

  A man is ignoring his wife and staring across at you, as you edge behind the wine cask we have chosen. I watch him, watching you, and instead of romance and secrets I realise this wine bar is just full of the same thing as usual. Men who want to look at you. His eyes rest on your legs, then your buttocks. Then inevitably your breasts. His wife notices me watching him and looks embarrassed.

  It’s always like this; everywhere we go, someone finds you attractive. The constant attention makes me feel tired.

  The waiter saunters over, flashing a full-beam smile.

  ‘What can I get you, Madam?’ he asks, eyes brimming into yours.

  Your eyes shine back into his. What is happening? Are you flirting with him, Faye? I clench my jaw and pinch myself. Of course not. I must stop doing this. We’ve always been disproportionately attractive. Thinking about it too much will drive me mad. But I don’t need to worry about looks; you like me for my mind, don’t you, Faye? You’ve always respected my opinion,
haven’t you?

  The waiter returns with a bottle of claret, and pours us a glass each, flamboyantly, from a great height, a thimbleful of wine in an oversized glass. You ignore him this time. Perhaps you sense the way I am feeling. I sit admiring the contours of your face, flickering in the candlelight across the barrel.

  ‘How’s the horse riding going?’ I ask as I take a sip of my wine.

  You snort. ‘I’ll get away with it, as long as the pony they provide for the photoshoot is old and knackered.’

  ‘It won’t be. What’s the point of photographing a good-looking woman on a clapped-out horse?’

  Your eyes darken and your face stiffens. ‘Well you think I’m old and knackered. So there is every point. Two battle-axes together.’

  I sigh. ‘Why are you saying that, Faye?’

  ‘Can’t you remember what you said to me, Phillip?’ Your voice is sharp. Eyes spitting.

  ‘Yes I can.’ I lean back. ‘And I didn’t mean you were old and ugly and looked like a battle-axe. You are putting words in my mouth.’

  You lean across the barrel towards me. ‘What did you mean then?’ you ask, lips thin and stretched.

  ‘Just that we are entering a new phase. Early middle age. We need to put more emphasis on the children.’

  Shoulders raised. Arms crossed. ‘Are you saying that I don’t look after them properly?’

  I close my eyes for a second in exasperation. When I open them again your eyes stab into me. ‘No. I didn’t mean that. I just think they’re more important than your modelling career. It doesn’t matter to me whether you’re modelling or not, Faye. To me you are beautiful anyway.’