ENVY
Amanda Robson

Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Amanda Robson 2019

Cover design © Claire Ward 2019

Amanda Robson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008291877

Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008291884

Version: 2019-02-25

Praise for Amanda Robson

‘I absolutely loved it and raced through it. Thrilling, unputdownable, a fabulous rollercoaster of a read – I was obsessed by this book.’

B.A. Paris, bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors and Bring Me Back

‘Obsession is a welcome addition to the domestic noir bookshelf. Robson explores marriage, jealousy and lust with brutal clarity, making for a taut thriller full of page-turning suspense.’

Emma Flint, author of Little Deaths

‘What a page turner! Desperately flawed characters. Bad behaviour. Drugs. Sex. Murder. It’s all in there, on every page, pulling you to the next chapter until you find out where it will all end. I was compelled not only to see what every one of them would do, but also how they would describe their actions – they are brutally honest and stripped bare. This is one highly addictive novel!’

Wendy Walker, author of All Is Not Forgotten

‘A compelling page-turner on the dark underbelly of marriage, friendship & lust. (If you’re considering an affair, you might want a rethink.)’

Fiona Cummins, author of Rattle

‘Very pacy and twisted – a seemingly harmless conversation between husband and wife spins out into a twisted web of lies and deceit with devastating consequences.’

Colette McBeth, author of The Life I Left Behind

‘Amanda Robson has some devastating turns of phrase up her sleeve and she expertly injects menace into the domestic. It was clear from the very first chapter that this was going to be a dark and disturbing journey.’

Holly Seddon, author of Try Not To Breathe

‘A compelling psychosexual thriller, with some very dark undertones. Thoroughly intriguing. Amanda Robson is a new name to look out for in dark and disturbing fiction. High quality domestic noir.’

Paul Finch, Sunday Times bestselling author of Strangers

‘Compelling and thoroughly addictive’

Katerina Diamond, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Teacher

‘A real page-turner – deliciously dark, toxic and compelling.’

Sam Carrington, author of Saving Sophie

‘I absolutely tore through Obsession – compulsive reading with characters you will love to hate and an ending that will make your jaw drop.’

Jenny Blackhurst, bestselling author of Before I Let You In and The Foster Child

‘Mind games, madness and nookie in a tale that will give you pause for thought. 4 stars.’

Sunday Sport

‘A dark tale of affairs gone wrong.’

The Sun

‘One of the sexiest, most compelling debuts I’ve come across this year, it cries out to become a TV drama. But I recommend you read it first.’

Daily Mail

‘Gripping, tragic, and sometimes insane, Guilt is an intense exploration of love, sibling relationships, obsession, drug abuse, secrets, and rape.’

Seattle Book Review

‘Fast moving. Compulsive reading.’

Jane Corry, author of The Dead Ex

‘An addictive, compelling read, full of tension.’

Karen Hamilton, author of The Perfect Girlfriend

‘Absolutely powered through Guilt. Totally addictive and unputdownable.’

Roz Watkins, author of The Devil’s Dice

‘I read Guilt over one weekend, completely enthralled. This twisty and complex tale of twin sisters and the dangerous, damaged man who comes between them kept me guessing.’

Emma Curtis, author of When I Find You

‘Robson’s writing is sharp and emotive; the plot so tense and engaging. A fantastic read.’

Elisabeth Carpenter, author of 99 Red Balloons

‘Packed with shocking twists, Guilt is a gritty, page-turning read that is not to be missed.’

Petrina Banfield, author of Letters from Alice

Dedication

To my family.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Amanda Robson

Dedication

1. Erica

2. Faye

3. Erica

4. Faye

5. Erica

6. Faye

7. Erica

8. Faye

9. Erica

10. Faye

11. Jonah

12. Faye

13. Erica

14. Phillip

15. Jonah

16. Faye

17. Jonah

18. Faye

19. Phillip

20. Erica

21. Jonah

22. Faye

23. Erica

24. Faye

25. Erica

26. Jonah

27. Phillip

28. Faye

29. Faye

30. Erica

31. Jonah

32. Erica

33. Jonah

34. Erica

35. Faye

36. Erica

37. Jonah

38. Erica

39. Faye

40. Phillip

41. Erica

42. Phillip

43. Jonah

44. Faye

45. Erica

46. Phillip

47. Erica

48. Jonah

49. Erica

50. Faye

51. Erica

52. Phillip

53. Faye

54. Jonah

55. Faye

56. Jonah

57. Faye

58. Phillip

59. Phillip

60. Jonah

61. Faye

62. Faye

63. Erica

64. Faye

65. Jonah

66. Faye

67. Jonah

68. Erica

69. Jonah

70. Faye

71. Phillip

72. Faye

73. Phillip

74. Jonah

75. Phillip

76. Faye

77. Erica

78. Phillip

79. Faye

80. Jonah

81. Faye

82. Erica

83. Phillip

84. Erica

85. Jonah

86. Phillip

87. Erica

88. Faye

89. Erica

90. Faye

91. Erica

92. Jonah

93. Phillip

94. Faye

95. Jonah

96. Phillip

97. Faye

98. Phillip

99. Erica

100. Phillip

101. Faye

102. Erica

103. Phillip

104. Erica

105. Faye

106. Faye

107. Erica

108. Faye

109. Erica

110. Erica

111. Jonah

112. Erica

113. Phillip

114. Erica

115. Jonah

116. Faye

117. Erica

118. Faye

119. Phillip

120. Faye

121. Phillip

122. Erica

123. Phillip

124. Erica

125. Phillip

126. Faye

127. Erica

128. Jonah

129. Faye

130. Erica

131. Phillip

132. Erica

133. Faye

134. Jonah

135. Phillip

136. Jonah

137. Phillip

138. Jonah

139. Erica

140. Faye

141. Erica

142. Faye

143. Phillip

144. Jonah

145. Phillip

146. Jonah

147. Phillip

148. Faye

149. Erica

150. Faye

151. Erica

152. Jonah

153. Erica

154. Faye

155. Phillip

156. Erica

157. Faye

158. Phillip

159. Faye

160. Jonah

161. Faye

162. Erica

163. Faye

164. Jonah

165. Phillip

166. Phillip

167. Faye

168. Jonah

169. Faye

170. Erica

171. Phillip

172. Jonah

173. Erica

174. Jonah

175. Erica

176. Jonah

177. Faye

178. Erica

179. Faye

180. Erica

181. Faye

182. Erica

183. Jonah

184. Erica

185. Faye

186. Faye

187. Phillip

188. Faye

189. Erica

190. Faye

191. Phillip

192. Faye

193. Phillip

194. Erica

195. Faye

196. Erica

197. Faye

198. Phillip

199. Erica

200. Phillip

201. Faye

202. Erica

203. Erica

204. Faye

205. Phillip

206. Faye

207. Faye

208. Erica

209. Phillip

210. Faye

211. Erica

212. Faye

213. Phillip

214. Erica

215. Faye

216. Erica

217. Phillip

218. Faye

219. Faye

220. Phillip

221. Faye

222. Erica

223. Faye

224. Erica

225. Faye

226. Phillip

227. Faye

228. Phillip

229. Faye

230. Phillip

231. Faye

232. Phillip

233. Faye

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

1
Erica

I watch you every day, walking past my flat on the way to the school drop-off, holding your older daughter’s hand, pushing the younger one along in the buggy. Sometimes strolling and chatting. Sometimes rushing. Usually wearing your gym kit. Judging by your body shape, your commitment to exercise is worth it. I wish I had a figure like yours.

Your older daughter has gappy teeth and straggly hair. Nowhere near as pretty as you. Your husband must have diluted the gene pool. The younger one, the toddler, is always asleep in the buggy. She looks to have stronger hair, and a chubbier face. I would have loved to have children, but I’ve never been in the right relationship.

I envy you, and have from the first moment I saw you scurry past. A moment I recall so well. I was bored. I had nothing to do but look out of my front window, and watch the world go by. Three p.m. Parents rushing to the primary school at pickup time. Parents, nannies, and then you. The woman I would look like if I could, moving past me. The image of my mother from my only remaining photograph. So similar you made me hold my breath.

A few days ago, when you dropped your gym card, I finally found out that your name is Faye Baker. You didn’t notice it fall from the back pocket of your jeans as you tightened your laces, did you? As you turned in to the school gates I left my flat, and crossed the road to pick it up. Later that day I handed it in to the school reception. Were you grateful, Faye?

2
Faye

We move towards the school gates through air intertwined with drizzle. The drizzle tightens and turns to icy drops of rain, which spit into my face and make me wince a little. I squeeze my elder daughter Tamsin’s hand more tightly.

‘Let’s hurry up, otherwise we’ll be drenched,’ I tell her.

Together, we push the buggy and run laughing into the school playground. Breathless now, Tamsin and I hug and part. My five-year-old disappears into the classroom. Into its light and warmth. Its quirky smell of woodchip and Play-Doh.

Free for a while from the responsibility of looking after her, my body lightens. But the rain is thickening. I fasten the rain hood more tightly across the buggy and navigate our way back across the playground, sighing inside, dodging puddles. Later on I’ll have to do my hair again. I always have to do my hair again when it rains.

As I walk along the side of Twickenham Green, past the bistro restaurant that used to be the public toilets, towards the gym – trainers squelching across dark grey paving stones, the rain begins to fall in sheets. Through the town centre, rain intensifying. I arrive at the Anytime Leisure Club looking as if I’ve been for a swim, and use my card to check through reception. Some kind soul handed it in to the school office when I dropped it last week. Georgia is still fast asleep in her buggy as I deposit her in the crèche.

At last, still rather damp, I make it into class. Legs, bums and tums today. Anastasia, our instructor, stands beaming at the front. She is about ten years older than me. Her healthy glow contains a whiff of Botox and facial fillers. An attractive hint of plasticity that so many people have these days. I’ll have to start before too long, when my husband Phillip gets his next major pay rise. The sooner you start the greater the effects. I’ve read about it on the internet.

Anastasia begins. We copy. Stretching out on our floor mats, progressing through our usual early positions. Back stretch first, then gentle stomach crunches. My body is my asset. I was academic at school. I have good GCSEs. Good A levels. But lots of people have good A levels, and not many people have a body like mine. My face and body are what differentiate me. I need to work hard to maintain them. My exercise class is my everyday routine; essential for my career.

‘Lift your right elbow to your left knee,’ Anastasia instructs in her bell-like voice.

My mind starts to drift back to the evening I became Miss Surrey. Eighteen years old, standing on stage decked in a ribbon and a crown, listening to the clapping of the audience. So beautiful. So special. Nothing else mattered but the moment. My stomach tightens in pain. That moment didn’t last. I never became Miss England. The higher echelons of beauty pageants were denied to me.

‘Lie back and stretch. Arms above your head,’ Anastasia bellows from the front.

But age has brought a maturity to my beauty that has improved my looks. And several modelling jobs: M&S Foods, Accessorize, and the Littlewoods magazine. Not much to shout about, but give me time.

‘Lower the right arm. Keep the left arm raised. Back flat against the floor. Flat as you can. Don’t forget to breathe.’

I’ll get my break, one day. Slowly, slowly, I breathe in. Slowly, slowly, I exhale. Until that day I must look after my body, and never give up.

3
Erica

I watch you walk past, faster than usual because of the sudden heavy rain, which has really caught you out. You are not even wearing a raincoat. Your normally bouffant hair is wet and flat. Why don’t you wear a hat, just in case? Are you too cool for that, Faye?

After you have gone, the cold of my flat begins to sink into my bones and I find myself shivering. I have been living here for two years, surrounded by fingers of mould, which creep up the tile grouting and form a black mist on the walls. The central heating doesn’t work. I have tried contacting the landlord, but he never replies. Sometimes I use a fan heater, but it doesn’t really help. It just circulates overheated air making me feel so claustrophobic that after about twenty minutes I turn it off. So most of the time in winter I walk around my flat wrapped in a scratchy old blanket. Mouse says I look like a tramp in it, so I try not to wear it when he is around. Not that he comes here very often. His flat is so much more comfortable than mine; I usually visit him there.

I sit, feeling empty inside. Coping with each day has, for many years, been a struggle. A plethora of temporary jobs. No focus. But it’s become easier in the last six months. Since I started to follow you. Since I started spending time with Mouse. It’s raining today, so I cannot follow you. When it rains I need to check on Mouse.

Mouse lives in the flat directly above mine. I pad up the communal staircase.

‘It’s Erica,’ I shout through his letter box.

Slowly, slowly, the door opens. I step straight into his living room. He stands in front of me, agitated.

‘Wotcha.’

‘Wotcha, Erica,’ he replies.

I high-five him. He high-fives me back. A ritual between us, the result of watching too many American films together. I cast my eye around his flat and feel a tremor of envy. His father bought it for him, and helped him decorate it. It has central heating that works, and is beautifully appointed. IKEA furniture. Copious kitchen equipment. But then Mouse is vulnerable and he really needs his father’s help. I must not resent the good fortune of a friend.

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 loving 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.

I wait and wait. Sitting in the bus cubicle, blowing onto my hands to try and keep them warm. The 33 arrives. An elderly man stumbles off. The 270 thunders past. The 490 stops. Three teenagers who have been smoking and chatting stub their cigarettes out on the pavement and alight. Mid-morning now. The bus stop is becoming busier.

At last I see you, Faye, emerging from your house with Tamsin and Georgia. I got close enough the other day to hear you say their names. You are wearing skin-tight black jeans, black stiletto heels and a black suede jacket. Very nice, Faye. And I like the pink cashmere scarf and pink lipstick to brighten things up. On this cold Saturday morning, the world needs brightening up.

Holding Tamsin’s hand, pushing Georgia along in the buggy, striding purposefully out of your front gate and turning right. I cross the road and walk behind you at a distance.

8
Faye

‘You can choose a big bag of sweets later, as long as you go into the Bentall Centre crèche now and behave yourself,’ I beg Tamsin as we walk hand in hand towards the railway station to catch the train to Kingston upon Thames. With my other hand I am pushing her baby sister along in the buggy. Georgia is fast asleep.

‘But, Mummy, why? Where are you going?’ Tamsin asks, clinging on to my hand more tightly.

‘I’ve got to go to the hairdresser’s, and a few shops, to get ready for tonight.’

‘What’s tonight?’

‘A party.’

Tamsin’s eyes widen. ‘Will Harry Styles be there?’

I wish, I say to myself as I shake my head. ‘Not exactly!’ I pause. ‘But I’ve got to look my best.’

Tamsin jumps up and down. ‘You always look good, Mummy.’

Good, but not good enough.

Cheered by the promise of sweets, Tamsin climbs cheerfully onto a seat on the train, staring out of the window eagerly. She clings tightly to my hand as we arrive in Kingston, and progress slowly through the hordes of Saturday morning shoppers, towards the Bentall Centre. She trips cheerfully into the crèche, blowing me kisses, as I deposit Georgia who is fast asleep in the buggy. Relieved to have dropped them off with so little fuss, I set off into the main body of the shopping centre, towards my appointments. Eyebrows. Nails. Blow-dry. Boring but necessary. Tedium is the first part of this job; perseverance the second. One scout to spot me. Making contact with the right agent. That is all it would take. And Jamie Westcote will be there tonight.

9
Erica

I follow you into the shopping centre. I hover behind you as you drop the children into the crèche at the entrance, pretending I am queuing to pick someone up. Georgia is fast asleep in her buggy. Tamsin clings on to your hand so tightly. Oh, Faye, is that because you are leaving her again? So many Saturdays spent in the crèche. Half their lives playing with children they don’t know, and will never see again.

You drop your girls off and leave the reception area with a shrug of your shoulders, looking relieved. You wait for the lift. When it arrives, I follow you in.

I like your perfume, Faye, a musky combination of vanilla and ginger. I look across at you in the lift. I do not allow myself to stare at you when I am close. A rule I break today. Today I treat myself. Your violet eyes catch mine. I lose myself and smile. You smile back. Two friendly women, about to go shopping on a Saturday morning, smiling at one another. How natural is that?

The lift stops on the second floor and you get out. You disappear into the nail and brow bar. I watch and wait in the coffee shop opposite.

10
Faye

Sophia and Ron’s party in their Victorian house in Strawberry Hill. I arrive and kiss my hosts, handing Sophia a hand-tied bouquet from the local florist’s.

‘Thank you for the flowers, darling,’ Sophia says, placing them on the marble table in her generous hallway. ‘Come and say hello to everyone,’ she instructs, putting her arm around me and guiding me into the living room.

I am only half an hour late, and already the room is teeming with people. People shoulder to shoulder, glasses in hand, chatting and laughing. She pushes me towards the first group we come to, closest to the door.

‘This is Faye,’ she announces, ‘a famous model.’

Conversation interrupted, they turn to look at me.

‘Hardly famous,’ I mutter.

‘But a model though?’ a woman with a high forehead and protruding teeth asks.

‘Yes.’

I feel hot with embarrassment. What qualifies me to say I’m a model? An agent? Having been paid for three photoshoots? When will my attempts at this profession seem real?

The woman smiles at me, and takes my arm. ‘Let me introduce you to a friend of mine then.’

She leads me across the room and taps a man on the shoulder. He turns round and smiles at her. He has short black curly hair, and dark eyes like pinpricks in his pale face. He is wearing russet corduroy trousers, and a shirt decorated in brown and red concentric circles.

‘Jamie, let me introduce …’ She stalls as she realises she doesn’t know my name.

‘Faye Baker,’ I say, offering my hand to introduce myself.

‘Jamie Westcote.’

It’s him. Jamie Westcote of Top Models. The man I came here to meet. This is it. My big opportunity. The woman who introduced me disappears.

‘I’m a model,’ I say, ‘with the Serendipity Agency. Let me give you my card.’

Hands trembling, I fumble in my handbag, pull it out and hand it to him. But he does not accept it. Instead, he leads me to the side of the room, away from the group.

‘I need to explain why I can’t accept your card.’ There is a pause. ‘I don’t put people on my books unsolicited,’ he announces. His eyes meander slowly up and down my body. ‘And I think it is only fair to tell you that your looks are too regular. Even if you approached me through the correct channels I wouldn’t be interested.’ He pauses. ‘We’re looking for something – a bit different.’ I feel hot, and know I am blushing. ‘You could try for catalogues, I suppose. But you need to be a standard size for that.’ Another glance. ‘And I guess your chest is too big.’ There is another pause. ‘In actual fact breasts are out of fashion, as are over-contrived looks.’ He smiles a half-smile, head on one side. ‘Sorry. I’m only being honest. At least you’ve had a free appraisal.’

Before I have time to pretend to thank him, he shrugs his shoulders, turns and walks away. Back to his group who lean towards him, sharing a joke, laughing. He puts his head back and joins in, leaving me standing at the edge of a room of noisy people with no one to talk to and no glass in my hand.

Feeling empty and low, I move past shoulders, across the drawing room into the hallway. I step into the cloakroom for privacy, and sit on the toilet seat, head in hands, trying to compose myself. Over-contrived looks. How stupid I have been. How naive. The thought of meeting this man has been keeping me buoyed up for weeks. I press speed dial on my mobile phone to try to get through to Phillip. He doesn’t pick up. Pity. Just hearing his voice would make me feel better, or would have made me feel better in the past. The words we spoke to each other a few nights ago reverberate in my head.

‘A client said I was too old for the job.’

‘You’re still beautiful, Faye, but that day was bound to arrive.’

I pull myself up from the toilet seat and splash cold water on my face. I freshen my make-up and step out of the cloakroom into the hallway. Time to get myself a stiff drink.

A man is walking towards me. Jonah. Phillip’s oldest friend from school and university. Not only Phillip’s close friend, but our architect as well. The man I suggested should supervise our loft conversion.

‘Faye, how lovely to see you.’ He pulls me towards him, irradiating me with an overdose of aftershave and kissing me on both cheeks. ‘A vision of beauty to liven up a boring party.’ He holds my eyes in his. ‘Is Phillip here? I haven’t seen him for ages. I’d love to have a chat with him.’

‘He’s away at a conference; you’ll have to chat to me instead.’

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