Envy Page 8

  Sally is taking her time in the bathroom. I can hear rustling and wonder what she is doing. She was naked in the first place; all she needed to do was to slip a thong and a nightie on. Maybe she is pepping herself up with some pills, leaving me alone in her boudoir, which gives away nothing about her. The busy floral pattern takes attention away from the fact that otherwise it is bare, no remnants of an ordinary life. Does she have a personal life, a world away from here?

  She is an empty vessel, except for what happens between us. I never think of her between encounters. As soon as I step out of her bedroom door, in my mind she no longer exists. It is another person who sits at the till at Tesco. A person I will never know.

  Not like you, Faye. I want to know you inside out; everything about you. Your thoughts. Your fears. Your every sexual fantasy.

  49

  Erica

  Sitting in my flat, studying myself in the make-up mirror I bought in Boots this morning. So highly magnified, it shows every burst blood vessel, every pore, every blemish. Despite my shortcomings, analysing my face at such close quarters is fascinating. I really need to concentrate on looking after myself.

  And I’ve had a spending splurge on Rimmel. I lay my purchases on the dresser by my mirror. A khaki eyeshadow palette. Mascara. Eyeliner. Bronzer. Lipstick. Slowly, carefully, I begin to apply the eyeshadow, drawing and then colouring in almond shapes across my eyelids. Moving on to the bronzer, stiff brush strokes from cheekbones to ear. Carefully shaded lips. A final flourish with eyeliner and mascara.

  Make-up done, I bound upstairs to see Mouse. I knock on his door, and without waiting for a reply, turn the handle and step inside. He is tidying his bookshelves. Mouse likes his possessions to be in order. He looks up.

  ‘Wotcha. Good to see you.’ He steps towards me, eyes softening. ‘Oh, Erica,’ he says. ‘You look really, really, nice.’

  50

  Faye

  Rushing to the school pickup, bumping Georgia along in the buggy. It was a battle to force her into it, as now she always wants to walk. But we were so very late, after picking her up from her play date, that I didn’t have any choice. I ignored her screams of protest, the way she stiffened her back and arched her neck, as I lifted her in.

  Now, as I enter the school playground, I am still paying for it. She remains wailing with temper. The other mothers have taken one look across at my screaming child, and as usual, are keeping well away from me. Will I ever become one of them? Part of the school-gate banter?

  The other mothers seemed to know each other before their children started at this school. I am not sure how. From church? From nursery school? Whatever. They seem like quite a clique.

  I stand a little away from them and strain my ears over my daughter’s wailing to try and listen to what they’re saying. I think they are talking about the headmistress.

  ‘She always supports the teachers,’ a woman with rabbit-like front teeth announces, with a snarl on her face.

  Is this wrong? For a head teacher to support her staff? Their words merge together in my mind as Georgia finally stops crying. If they asked my opinion, what would I say? What do I think? Then the snarly woman – Ashmolean’s mother – makes an announcement.

  ‘Ashmolean is going to St Paul’s Girls’ when she leaves here. We think it’s the best school for miles,’ she announces. ‘What do you all think?’

  And now they are all nodding their heads and talking so fast I cannot make out any individual words. I sigh inside. How does she know which secondary school Ashmolean is going to? Ashmolean is only six. I am standing watching them all when I notice an Amazonian woman walking towards me. She has square features and perky hair sticking out at odd angles that rather suits her. She looks a bit quirky, wearing an expensive cashmere coat and shabby old boots.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, ‘I’m Erica, Rosalie’s mother.’

  ‘Tamsin’s mother,’ I reply.

  She raises her eyes to the sky. ‘Is that all we are, somebody’s mother these days?’

  I laugh. ‘Sorry, my name’s Faye.’ I pause. ‘And this is Georgia. She has only just stopped screaming.’

  Erica. Different from the other braying mothers. Smiling down at Georgia. Beaming at me intently, as if she finds me interesting. We are interrupted by Tamsin running out of class, running towards us. She stands stock still as soon as she sees Erica and gives her a high-wattage smile, then she tickles her sister, and runs to hide behind my legs. Erica bends down to Tamsin’s level and peeks around my legs.

  ‘Peek-a-boo,’ she says.

  51

  Erica

  Tamsin hides, giggling, behind your shapely legs. She looks so vulnerable today, so much in need of my love.

  ‘Well,’ you say, ‘nice to meet you. Best be going home. Stuff to do. Tea to cook.’

  And then you walk away holding Tamsin’s hand. I think Georgia has fallen asleep in the buggy. You are leaning your head towards Tamsin, listening to what she is telling you.

  But you don’t deserve to have her to listen to, do you? Two-timing whore, with a high opinion of yourself. Adulterer. Liar. You deserve to lose your children, like my mother lost me.

  I close my eyes and that ache engulfs me. The ache I get when I remember the children at school calling my mother a slag. The jeering and bullying, which began on the walk home from school when Tommy Hall hit Geoffrey, spread like wildfire, in the classroom, in the playground. I had to tolerate it for the rest of my primary school life. From that day forward I regularly heard, ‘Her mother’s a slag,’ like a whisper on the wind, wherever I went. Geoffrey stopped walking home with me. He didn’t want to get hurt again.

  52

  Phillip

  ‘Jonah wants to come around again tomorrow,’ I say, unbuttoning my shirt, as we get ready for bed. You are pulling off your underwear and slipping into your negligee. The black lacy one with the rosebuds around the collar that I bought you last Christmas. As soon as I mention the word ‘Jonah’ your gentle curves become hard-edged. Neck taut. Head raised.

  ‘With the builder?’ you ask.

  ‘No. On his own again.’

  Your violet eyes darken to purple.

  ‘That’s ridiculous. He only came last week. He shouldn’t need to come again. You know I think he stole my nightie and some knickers.’

  I sigh inside. I don’t believe you. Why would he do that? Jonah and I go back a long way. He was always surrounded by women. One new woman after another, even though they never hung around very long. With so much sexual opportunity in his life, why would he need to do something weird like steal a pair of your knickers? But I really don’t want this argument to start again, so I toss my shirt into the laundry basket, and ignore your statement.

  ‘He just wants to check the measurements, one last time,’ I reply.

  You stand staring at me, hands on your hips, as if you are about to shout at me like a fishwife. Again.

  I sigh inside. ‘Faye, what’s worrying you?’

  ‘You know. I told you. He’s a pervert and a thief.’

  ‘That’s quite an accusation.’

  You sit on the bed and burst into tears. For years I have put up with men ogling you, friends fancying you. I have never had your glamour, your allure, so it is hard for me to understand just how careful you have to be, but I really do hope it’s not pushing you over the edge.

  53

  Faye

  He is upstairs again, pretending to check the loft measurements but I guess, like before, he is rifling through my things. I had to agree to his visit otherwise Phillip would have asked me even more questions about why I was reacting against him. I cannot bear for Phillip to know the truth about what happened between us. If he does he will never trust me again. Lack of trust is a killer, damaging even the best of relationships. I am living on a knife edge because I need to preserve my family life. I need to fight to keep us together.

  I so want to forget what happened, but it’s clear that Jonah does not intend to allow me t
o do that. He seems quite content with the idea of ruining my life, my relationship with Phillip. I am so surprised by his attitude. I know I made a terrible mistake but I would have thought it was quite clear that it was just a casual fling.

  The truth is I don’t remember very much about the evening. I remember him kissing me at the party. His kiss excited me. We walked back to his house from the party, arm in arm, laughing and chatting. I remember him unzipping my dress and it falling to the floor. Proud of my body, I wanted him to admire me. I needed admiration that night.

  I think I was culpable, lying on the floor, naked, pulling him towards me, allowing him to enter me. I don’t remember his climax. I don’t remember mine. I woke up, mouth parched, head throbbing, disgusted with myself. Still disgusted with myself. I will be disgusted with myself for ever. What happened to me? Why did I do this? I am beginning to question whether I was in control, or whether I was pushed.

  54

  Jonah

  Phillip, although academically bright, with a maths degree from Cambridge, is very gullible. Fancy believing I still need to check the measurements of the loft. Maybe the press are right: most university degrees are not what they’re cracked up to be; not designed to sharpen the mind. My architecture course at the same university was much broader. Encouraged more lateral thinking.

  I never quite understood why you were so attracted to him in the first place, Faye. He was always too amiable and pleasant; the sort of man women pushed around. Initially, that was why I enjoyed his company so much. He was bland and easy. He soothed my edges. Calmed me down. I used to envy him his lack of colour, the way he always blended in, like a chameleon. I was always a bit too obvious. A bit too standout. I am trying to forgive you, Faye, for becoming entangled with such an average guy, when someone like me would have been far more stimulating. But we all made mistakes when we were young, didn’t we? And you were far too young when you met him. You should have waited until you had ripened, before you allowed yourself to be tied down.

  I move past the sycophantic family photographs, smiling down on me from your landing wall. I don’t like to look at them. I don’t like to see a still of your husband touching you. I do not want other men to touch you, Faye. Soon you will be mine, and mine alone.

  I stop outside your bedroom door and my heart quickens. This time I’m after some perfume. Smells are evocative. If I take some of your perfume, I’ll be able to take a little whiff of your scent wherever I go. I turn the door handle but it won’t move. I clench my fist and force it. But it still won’t move. I lean my shoulder against the door and rattle it. The door is locked.

  Oh, Faye, why are you trying to shut me out of your life? You can’t lead me on and push me away. I am a full-blooded man, not spineless like Phillip.

  I know the measurements off by heart. I do not even need to take my tape measure out. I stand by the window of your compact fourth bedroom and look down to the pocket handkerchief garden below. Hardly any room for your girls to play. When they come to live with me they can have whatever they want. A tree house. A tennis court.

  I move across to the wardrobe, climb through to the loft space and flick the light on. At the moment it is cluttered with pile upon pile of plastic boxes. They’ll have to go in the garage when the work starts. Real hoarders you and Phillip. A lot to sort out when you split up.

  I climb over some of the boxes and push some aside so that I can sit cross-legged in the midst of them, on the floor of the loft. They are labelled in your handwriting, Faye, bold and curly. Phillip – school reports. Phillip – memorabilia. Phillip. Phillip. Phillip. No thanks. Not interested. Faye – photographs. Now you’re talking. I stand over the box labelled to contain your photographs and pull the plastic lid off. A horizontal line of A3 manila envelopes, individually marked. Hands trembling, I pull a handful out. Holidays. I open that envelope and pull a few photographs out. The first one is of you as a teenager, sitting in a rock pool grinning at the camera. So curvy. So cheeky. So devilish. A brief bikini. Not a stitch of make-up.

  Perfect.

  I put all the other photographs and envelopes back into the box and snap the lid back on. I have so many photographs on my phone of you and Phillip, but not one as special as this, of a younger you, totally alone. Holding my treasure carefully against my chest with one hand, I clamber out of the loft and snap the light off. I stand and look at the photograph. If I had met you then, before you met Phillip, you would not have been saddled with him. I slip the photograph into my briefcase, and pad downstairs to look in your violet eyes again.

  55

  Faye

  At last. I hear his footsteps thumping down the stairs and I brace myself to escort him out of the house with as little interaction as possible. He steps into my living room and stands in front of me, half leering, half grinning.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Next time I come I’ll bring the builder with me.’

  ‘Fine. Good,’ I reply, beginning to move towards the hallway to lead him straight out.

  He puts his hand on my arm. I turn to face him.

  ‘It’s not fine, good, the way you are treating me, Faye.’

  My insides tighten.

  ‘You have lied to Phillip by not telling him about us.’

  ‘There isn’t an us.’

  ‘You know there is and it’s just a matter of time before I tell him.’

  ‘How many times do I have to warn you I will just deny it, so it’s hardly worth your effort?’

  ‘How do you know I’m not recording this conversation?’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  He steps towards me and tries to take me in his arms. I stiffen my body and push him away from me but he overpowers me and presses me against the wall. He tries to kiss me but I close my mouth. He continues to kiss my face. I cannot move. I cannot speak. My heart is beating in overdrive. He breaks off from kissing me, and laughs.

  ‘So demure now, but no one knows as well as me, what happens when you let go.’

  He is pressing me against the wall more tightly now. I feel his erection through his trousers, pulsating against my stomach.

  I scream, as loud as I can for help. He holds his hand against my mouth so that I can hardly breathe. ‘The next time you scream for me it will be in pleasure, again.’

  56

  Jonah

  I hold my hand across your mouth and feel your body trembling. My erection pulsates and I want to open your legs and enter you right now. But that would be too sweet. Too easy. I want to prolong this. I pull my body away from yours, pad through the hallway and let myself out.

  Next time you will give me what I want. You know that don’t you, Faye?

  57

  Faye

  Just when I think Jonah is about to rape me, he releases my body from his grasp. I slump to the floor. Is this what happened? Did he rape me in the first place and just leave me feeling guilty about it? Or am I in denial, wanting to blame him instead of myself for what happened? I hear his footsteps pad through the hallway. I hear him open and close the front door. I pull myself up to standing, feeling as if I am wading through lead. As if I am distant from the rest of the world, enclosed in a bubble. Forcing myself to walk to Georgia’s play date to pick her up. Past houses where normal people live. People who haven’t been unfaithful to their husbands.

  I manage to breathe deeply in and out, and smile in front of Sophie’s mother as I collect my daughter. She answers the door in a denim apron and invites me in to her large pine live-in kitchen. Sophie and Georgia are sitting in front of a Disney video, a plate of untouched sliced apples and bananas between them. Georgia looks up and smiles, head on one side.

  ‘Please can I just watch the end of this, Mummy?’

  I look at my watch. Half an hour to school pickup. I look uncertainly at Sophie’s mother.

  ‘It’s only got ten minutes to run. Why don’t you just stay for a quick cuppa, if you think you’ve got time? I don’t need to dash today – Jodie Cooper is picking He
rmione up – we have a drop and pickup share. Such a big help.’

  Hermione is in Tamsin’s class. That is how Sophie’s mother and I got to know each other in the first place. Georgia and Sophie love each other. Hermione and Tamsin clash.

  ‘Lovely thank you,’ I reply.

  ‘Thank you, Mummy,’ Georgia says blowing me a kiss.

  Georgia must like Sophie very much. On her best behaviour today. No screaming. No pouting.

  Sophie’s mother makes a pot of tea and we sit on opposite sides of the pine bench table that runs through the elaborate living kitchen of this fine Victorian house.

  ‘I want to talk to you about the school lunches,’ she says. ‘A group of us don’t think they are healthy enough. What do you think?’

  I lift my teacup to my mouth, hand trembling, and take a sip. Still feeling Jonah’s erection pressing against my stomach. Still feeling my heart beating like a trapped bird’s wings.

  ‘Well, Tamsin hasn’t complained so far,’ I manage.

  Sophie’s mother leans towards me across the table. ‘Well she won’t will she. Children like chips with everything and greasy burgers ladled with all sorts.’

  ‘All sorts?’ I ask limply.

  ‘Processed cheese. Ketchup.’

  ‘I see. I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Don’t you look at the menu?’

  ‘No. I erm … where would I find it to look at?’

  ‘It’s pinned to the noticeboard every Friday afternoon, for the next week.’