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: 9780008328740

Version: 2019-03-13

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.’

11
Jonah

‘Away at a conference,’ I say. ‘I see. I’ll have to catch him another time.’

You are looking more beautiful than ever, with your colt-like legs. Your tiny waist. Your ample breasts. I stand looking at you, imagining, as I have so many times before, their shape unfettered by the confines of a bra. Tip-tilted. Large alveoli. Bell-like. Your hair and your eyes shine. Like Elizabeth Taylor, you are exotic and colourful. The excitement that simmers whenever I see you rises inside me.

‘This Prosecco diluted with orange juice is a bit insipid,’ I say raising my almost empty glass. ‘Would you care to accompany me to the kitchen to find something proper to drink?’ I manage to ask, holding your violet blue eyes in mine. ‘What about it?’

You pause. You swallow. I watch your Adam’s apple move up and down your pretty throat. ‘Good idea,’ you reply.

Together we move away from the main party, out of the hallway and through the children’s sitting room – plain sofas, large TV and an Xbox with surround sound – into the kitchen.

The kitchen is a hive of activity. The catering company are buzzing around like flies, putting the finishing touches on trays of canapés, loading the dishwasher with used glasses. A tiny woman, wearing a blue uniform, with a face so delicate she looks like a flower ambles towards us. ‘Any chance of some whisky?’ I ask.

‘Of course, Sir, I’ll find you some. Ron has quite a collection. Any particular brand?’

‘Glenmorangie is my favourite.

‘What about you, Faye?’

‘Red wine please.’

The catering assistant reaches into a box stacked in the corner, pulls out a bottle of red wine, and opens it expertly with a flick of her wrist, pouring you a glass and leaving the bottle on the counter. Then she pads over to a cupboard in the corner and pulls out a black and orange bottle containing my favourite tipple. She pours a generous amount into a crystal glass.

‘Ice? Ginger?’

‘No thanks.’

I sweep the wine bottle from the counter, put a hand on your back to guide you, and carrying our drinks we step back into the children’s sitting room.

‘Let’s just stay here, away from the riff-raff,’ I suggest, sinking into a sofa to the right of the door.

You laugh, kick off your killer heels and sink gratefully next to me onto the sofa. It sags in the middle and my body has slipped to lean against yours. I want to bury myself in your scent.

‘You are so beautiful, Faye. But you know that, don’t you? People must always be telling you that.’

You lean more closely against me. My right hand hovers near the small of your back.

12
Faye

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

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

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

13
Erica

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

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

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

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

14
Phillip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Phillip, you know so much.’

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

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

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

15
Jonah

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

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

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

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

‘Gin and tonic OK?’

‘Lovely thanks.’

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

16
Faye

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

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

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

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

17
Jonah

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

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

18
Faye

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

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

My marriage. My children. The babysitter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Not really,’ she says.

‘But I worried you,’ I splutter.

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

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

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

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

We need to talk.

19
Phillip

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Haven’t you had fun then?’

‘Depends what you call fun.’

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

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

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

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

20
Erica

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

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

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

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

‘Erica, your mother is dead.’

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

‘She died of a drugs overdose.’

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

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

21
Jonah

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

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

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

22
Faye

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

23
Erica

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

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

24
Faye

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

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

Mimi wants to see me.

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

‘I’ve got a job for you,’ she says.

I open my mouth and close it again.

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

‘What is it?’ I ask.

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

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

‘What do they have in mind?’ I ask.

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

‘Dreamy and creamy sounds fine to me. I accept.’

‘Don’t you want to know about the money?’

‘Of course I do, just didn’t like to ask.’

‘Four hundred pounds.’

Four hundred pounds. Not a lot but a job. Something beginning to happen at last. This is a big step up. Maybe my career will take off at last. Maybe one day, in the scale of things, my problem with Jonah will seem irrelevant.

25
Erica

‘What’s the matter?’ Mouse asks, as I sit at his breakfast bar sipping a cappuccino. ‘Your lips are curling downwards. Are you in a mood again?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise, just tell me what’s wrong. That’s what’s supposed to happen, isn’t it? You worry. Then you tell me about it because I am your friend.’

‘It’s just that life’s so unfair,’ I say with a shrug of my shoulders.

He laughs, his strange laugh, like a braying donkey. ‘There’s nothing new about that.’

‘Is that supposed to make it any easier?’ I ask.

He puts his arm cautiously around my shoulders, as if he wants to be friendly but is not quite sure how to be.

‘Please try and explain.’

‘It’s the children. Faye’s children. How come she’s been able to have them when she can’t even look after them properly?’

He looks at me intently and his eyes widen. ‘Is that what’s happening?’ he asks.

Yes, I think, but don’t reply. It is too painful to speak about. A tear begins to trickle down my face. Yes. These children, who’ve had such a good start in life, will not get the backing they need because Faye has become distracted.

Look at what happened to me. Did my life start to go wrong, the minute I was born to a mother who couldn’t look after me? Or was it always a disaster from the start?

No. My mother loved me. She looked after me as well as she could, for as long as she could. As a young child I remember her sweet scent as she held me. Sitting, snuggled up on the sofa together, watching Disney films.

‘Erica,’ she would say, ‘always remember, there is nothing as strong as a mother’s love.’ Then she would pause, and hold me against her more tightly. ‘I want to wrap you in cotton wool and protect you for ever.’

If only she had.

Once upon a time, my mother cooked a mean spaghetti bolognaise and knew how to dip strawberries in melted chocolate. I never had a dad. Mum just had lots of boyfriends who came and went. Mike, Steve, Francis, Robert, Sam, Jake and Rod. Rod was my favourite – funnier and kinder than the rest. He built a Morgan car with a kit, and sometimes took me for a ‘spin’ around the block in it.

I was happy back then. But happiness is a funny word. What does it mean? Is it an idea? A feeling? Is it real? Was it the warm contentment that began in my stomach and radiated through my body, because I had my mother and I knew she loved me? She was the pivot of my life. Maybe she still is, even though she is only a memory now.

The first day my life began to fragment I was walking home from school with my friend Geoffrey. He lived near me and every afternoon when school had finished we ambled along the road together on our way home until we parted at the third corner. Memory plays tricks. I remember sunny afternoons; frost, wind, and rain, all dissolve into oblivion.

On one such sun-dappled afternoon, we heard shouting behind us and turned around to see two boys from the year above marching quickly towards us, shouting, ‘Slag. Slag. Slag.’

Tommy Hall and John Allan. Tommy was large for his age with a broad slack face, always redder than it should have been. Always looking as if he had been running and was out of breath. John was wiry. Petite and mean. Boys to keep away from if you could.

‘Slag. Slag. Slag.’

Getting nearer. Grinning and pointing. Pointing at me. We turned away from them and continued to walk. But they stepped in front of us and blocked our path. Eyeball to eyeball. Eyes scalding ours.

‘Erica Sullivan, your mother’s a slag,’ Tommy said.

‘Like mother, like daughter – slag, slag, slag,’ John continued.

Geoffrey puffed out his pigeon chest and stepped towards them, chin up defiantly. ‘Shut up, you two. I hear you’re not the sharpest knives in the drawer. Leave Erica alone. She’s worth ten of you.’

Tommy clenched his fist, pulled his arm back and rammed his hand, like a hammer, into Geoffrey’s stomach. Geoffrey bent double. They ran away laughing, and shouting, ‘Slag, slag, pussy, pussy.’

I put my arm around Geoffrey’s bent shoulders. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

‘Just about, I think.’ There was a pause. ‘What a pair of knobs.’

‘Thank you so much for defending me.’

We began to walk slowly along the road, but Geoffrey was struggling, holding on to my arm. ‘Why do you think they said that?’ I asked.

He turned his head and pressed his eyes into mine.

‘Don’t take any notice of them – there’s always a few knobs about in life.’

We staggered to our parting corner.

‘Thank you again,’ I said. ‘I hope you feel better by tomorrow.’

He laughed. ‘I hope I feel better long before that.’

I watched him walk away, still holding his stomach. Then I turned and ran home to my mother.

My mother and I lived in a block of flats on the council estate, on the edge of the leafy part of town where Geoffrey lived. The same estate as Tommy Hall and John Allan. I ran through the under passage that crossed the A road, trying to ignore the rancid smell of stale human urine. Into our homeland of 1960s concrete. Solid and grey and ugly. Up the concrete staircase (the lift never worked), along the balcony to number 64, Bluebell Rise, our small, square, characterless flat. At least we had a bedroom each. Mum said we were very lucky to have been allocated that.

She was in the kitchen in her fishnet nightie dancing with Rod, the radio on full blast – a half-empty bottle of gin on the kitchen table.

So you see, Faye, life isn’t always easy when your mum is a slag.

26
Jonah

Sitting in my office, tapping my carefully manicured fingernails together, thinking about you, Faye. On Saturday night you seemed so interested, so attainable. I think back to the moment we stepped out of Sophia and Ron’s house, anticipation crackling in the air between us.

I have been infatuated with you since we first met. During that time you have always been with Phillip, but I know deep down you are in denial and would rather be with me. Your eyes bubble when you look at me. A surreptitious smile plays across your lips when your head turns towards me.

Do you remember when Phillip went away on a business trip, before you were married? I took you out on a boat ride one hot summer evening, along the river from Twickenham, and we ate at a gastro-pub next to the Skiff Club, opposite Hampton Court. Watching the river meander past; ducks and swans ambling, and bobbing their heads into the water for food. An eight gliding proudly along, coach instructing the rowers with a megaphone from the safety boat. We were so relaxed and comfortable together. Time seemed to stop.

I ordered a full-bodied white burgundy. We downed one bottle and then another. As the sun began to set across the water, a million shades of ochre and orange melting into the horizon, you said, ‘Thanks for a wonderful evening, Jonah.’

‘How’s it going with Phillip?’ I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

‘I think it’s fine, but he has been rather distracted with his work recently.’

I leant across the table and took your hand in mine. You didn’t pull away.

‘You’d be better off with me,’ I said.

You frowned a little and smiled a slow smile. ‘I’m not after money. I’m after Phillip.’

But now, so many years on, you are tired of Phillip; otherwise you wouldn’t have betrayed him with me. It is my turn now. To date I haven’t had a meaningful long-term relationship, only short-term ones that have lasted a bit too long. I have only tolerated most of the women I have been with because I enjoy sex.

But, Faye, you are different. I love everything about you. The way you speak. The way you think. The way you move. And the sex I had with you was the best sex I’ve ever had. You wanted me so much. You made me feel I mattered when we were making love. Our destiny is sealed. From what you said to me in the car I know you are still in denial. But I know you have always wanted me, and at last this weekend you succumbed to your desires. Now you have tasted me, soon there will be no holding back.

I type your address into my computer. Drawings of your house begin to spread across my screen. Your bedroom. The place you lie with Phillip. Can he make you climax like I can? Has he ever heard you really, really gasp? Any man can impregnate you, give you children, like Phillip has, but it takes a man like me to make your mind and clitoris pulsate. Come to me. Get real, Faye.

27
Phillip

I watch you as you unload the dishwasher. Your news today, the modelling job, has made you look different. It affects every muscle in your body; you even stand differently. You turn towards me, back arched, hand on hip.

‘And another thing that’s good is that Jamie Westcote’s model didn’t get the job.’

You step forward and cling on to me. I hold you; your lithe body hard against mine. I think back to all the male attention that has been lavished upon you during the time I have known you. I was hardly the only man after you. I know I am punching above my weight. Eyeballs slide as you walk across a room. Whether you are a successful model or not, you are beautiful in the eyes of the opposite sex. You don’t need to do this any more. We are older. You need to look after our children now.

‘Faye, you’re beautiful,’ I whisper in your ear. ‘You’re beautiful to me whatever happens. Try not to care so much.’

28
Faye

‘Try not to care so much.’

What are you talking about? Modelling is my life. My vocation. Of course I care so much. You are looking at me with condescension. As if my job is not real to you. What is the matter, Phillip? You never used to be like this.

29
Faye

I am on the way to the photoshoot; butterflies in my stomach. It is over a year since I’ve had an opportunity like this. At least, Phillip, despite beginning to bristle with disapproval these days when I talk about my job, you are being as helpful as usual; I suspect out of a sense of duty. You have taken Tamsin to school today and organised a place for Georgia in your workplace crèche. A new crèche experience for her. You have always been helpful but I used to think it was because you were as passionate about my work as I am. That is not true now. What will happen if you find out about Jonah? But you will never find out about Jonah. I will never admit the truth.

I push my worry about both you and Jonah away as I park my car. The trick is to develop a male brain, compartmentalise, I tell myself as I step outside to admire the vista of Bushy Park. Such a cold October day, almost no one else here. Grey sky, and grass so damp it looks as if it’s decomposing. I gaze across the park towards the make-up tent, by the woods, where we will do the filming, and see mist floating through the bare trees. The conditions will have an eerie effect on the photoshoot.

I walk along a muddy path towards the tent, wrapping my faux-fur jacket around my shoulders, and balancing on the tips of my new designer boots in an attempt not to damage them. Two men are standing outside it, drinking takeaway coffee, pointing at the trees beyond, nodding. They turn around as I approach.

‘Natasha?’ the one without a camera around his neck asks.

‘Faye.’

He consults the piece of paper he is holding.

‘Sorry,’ he says as he stretches his hand towards me. We shake. ‘Tim Turnbull, at your service.’

‘And I’m Pop – the man with the camera,’ his colleague says as he touches me lightly on the shoulder and pecks me on both cheeks.

‘Pop?’ I ask.

‘Yes, my friends call me that sarcastically because I look so young.’

I laugh, but my laughter sounds frail. I flash him my best smile. The one I practise a lot.

‘Well,’ says Tim-the-Director, gesticulating towards the tent, ‘do step inside to start make-up.’

I follow his instructions to find a young girl sitting at a plastic table sorting through a bag of lipsticks. She stands up as soon as I enter.

‘I’m Daisy. Super excited to meet you.’

Super excited. Dressed in black. Not wearing any make-up herself.

‘Do sit down and we’ll get cracking. I’ll need to remove all your own make-up first. I like to start with a blank canvas.’ There is a pause. ‘Try to relax.’

She wraps me in a black plastic gown and stretches a hairband across my forehead to pull all the hair from my face. I try to relax. But I cannot. Thinking about my body positions. My pout. Daisy rubs cream all over my face, with rough fingers. Then she rummages through a large leather holdall and pulls out a pot of foundation.

‘Bamboo beige,’ she announces, slapping her hands on her apron. ‘Perfect.’

Slapping on layer after layer of bamboo beige. This seems to be taking for ever, but my head has been pushed so far back I can’t reach to look at my watch.

‘Where did you train?’ I ask to pass the time.

‘The London School of Make-Up.’

‘Was it fun?’

‘Yes but please don’t talk – you need to relax your muscles so that I can deal with the crevices in your face.’

Crevices? My insides tighten. I didn’t know I had any. Age again. She doesn’t need to be smug about it. It will happen to her one day. She continues to massage and pummel. Foundation applied, now she attacks my face with brushes. A peculiar sensation runs across my eyebrows. My eyelids are being scraped by a knife. ‘Eyeshadow,’ she informs me. Just as I am not sure how much longer I can cope with this, she chirrups, ‘Nearly finished!’

Finally, finally after administering eyeliner and mascara, she brandishes a mirror in front of me.

‘There,’ she announces. ‘What do you think?’

‘Good,’ I reply. ‘But a bit heavy.’

My words hang in the air between us.

‘At your age it needs to be thick.’

Age. Age. Age.

‘I’m thirty-four years old,’ I snap.

Ignoring this information, she hands me a bag containing my outfit for the day.

‘I’ll step outside, give you space to get changed. Wait till we get to the woods to put the shoes on.’

She leaves. I unzip the bag and pull out a dress like gossamer. Soft grey silk, almost see-through, with matching underwear, and shoes with razor-blade heels that look as if they are made of candyfloss. I brace myself. Now I know why the make-up is so heavy. It’s necessary to disguise hypothermia.

I put on the underwear, pull the dress over my head, and fuss over its arrangement in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of the tent. At least I’ll be able to keep my jacket and boots on until we reach the woods. I fling my jacket across my shoulders, stuffing my candyfloss shoes deep into its pockets. Time for my grand exit from the tent. I step outside and shout across to Daisy, Pop and Mike, who are huddled together sharing a roll-up with the heady scent of cannabis. They do not hear me.

‘Ready when you are,’ I announce more loudly this time.

Pop turns around. He sees me and waves. He throws the joint to the ground and stamps on it to stub it out.

‘Let’s go,’ he instructs. ‘Daisy, get the ice cream.’

Ice cream. I shiver inside. I’d forgotten about that. She disappears back into the tent and steps out with an icebox I hadn’t noticed earlier. We walk along the path to the woods. I have to tread carefully along the muddy path because of my boots and the length of my dress, so I am soon trailing behind the other three, who are striding out in their sensible clothes, well ahead of me.

Eventually, I catch up with them. They are smoking again. Cigarettes this time. I hold on to Daisy for balance whilst I pull off my boots, and slip the ridiculous candyfloss shoes onto my feet. They are not really shoes, just decoration. I pull off my jacket and hand it to Daisy. The cold air slices into me like a knife. The photoshoot starts. The wind picks up.

‘That’s nice,’ Pop says. ‘It makes your hair look fantastic.’

I try to smile as he instructs, through chattering teeth. I run through the trees – as much as you can wearing candyfloss. Slowly, slowly I walk, licking ice cream. Sitting on a tree stump. Climbing a tree. Leaning forward. Leaning back. Perky. Pretty. Pouting. Devilish. Body and mind numb with the cold, eating vanilla ice cream.

30
Erica

When my run is over, even though I actually enjoyed it for the first time, I feel light-headed, as if I am about to faint. I hobble back to my flat and collapse on my bed. I fall into a deep sleep and dream.

My dream is so sharp. So clear. I’m in my muddy blue tracksuit, my pain has disappeared and I am running effortlessly, wearing gold Lycra and shiny purple trainers, which cushion my feet. People turn their heads as I pass, wanting to admire my fitness. My surreal body is perfect for a sportswear advert. I dream that Nike have asked me to model for them next week. I am running to pick Tamsin up from school. She steps from the classroom door and her face lights up as soon as she sees me; blue eyes with a sapphire shine. She runs into my arms. I hold her against me, wanting to protect her for ever. Tamsin, my heart sings, Tamsin my love.

Then I wake up in my cold damp flat. I look down at my body, my heavy arms and thighs, my baggy clothing that needs washing. Tamsin is not my girl. The dream was so beautiful that when I realise it was only a dream I almost cry.

My iPhone beeps. Twelve o’clock. Mouse has invited me for lunch. Time to go for beans on toast. Am I allowed beans on toast? I suppose so. Just one slice. I drag my exhausted body out of bed, swallow to push back my tears, and pull my hoodie on to go upstairs.

As I climb the stairs feeling as if I am walking through mercury, I know I am going to crack this. I am going to get fit and look like you, Faye. Then I am going to take both of your children away, one at a time, and be a surrogate mum. A far better mother than you.

31
Jonah

I am going to watch you from a distance whilst I finalise my plan to tempt you away from Phillip. You didn’t see me this morning, did you? I didn’t park outside the school. I hovered outside the Anytime Leisure Club. I know you go there every day. There are so many cars stuck in traffic along the road by the station, you didn’t notice mine. But I saw you, your creamy body striding along the pavement, pushing Georgia along in her buggy. Lycra clothing tracing the cleft between your buttocks.

32
Erica

I arrive at the small side room to the church hall where the slimming group hold their meetings and step inside. It feels as if the temperature barely changes, and like my flat, this room is musty and damp. A small three-barred electric heater is plugged in and burning brightly, but I take one look at it and sigh. It will be completely inadequate in this challenging environment. The room smells of stale air and wet sawdust.

An elfin woman steps forward to greet me. Bony. Pointy. Smiley.

‘Welcome,’ she says with a broad-stretched smile. ‘I’m Julia, the group leader.’

‘Erica Sullivan,’ I reply.

She ticks my name off a list she is holding.

‘Do sit down,’ she invites. ‘The others will be here soon.’

I sit on one of the small wooden chairs pushed close to the electric fire. The chairs look as if they have been removed from a 1950s primary school. While Julia hovers at the back of the room flicking through a thick red manual, I sit looking at the electric fire waiting for the others to arrive. They arrive one at a time and every time someone comes Julia abandons her manual and ticks the person’s name off the list.

They smile at me. Friendly smiles irradiate from pretty faces, figures distorted by body fat. Their eyes do not follow their smiles. I see in their eyes that, like me, they are desperate about their size.

‘Is this your first session?’ a short blonde woman asks.

‘Yes,’ I reply.

Julia’s footsteps echo across the parquet flooring, as she walks towards us carrying a set of digital scales.

‘This is a new class. It’s everyone’s first time.’ She puts the scales on the floor in front of us. ‘Who wants to be weighed first?’ she asks.

I put my hand up.

‘Come on then, Erica, step forwards.’

I stand up and feel eyes watching me. It makes me squirm with embarrassment. But I know I must improve the way I look. I know I must do this. I step towards the elfin woman. I hold my head high and stand on the scales. I know I cannot win a battle if I can’t even face it.

Julia announces my weight, eyes holding mine.

My insides feel as if they are collapsing, I am so embarrassed. I am far heavier than I thought. Three stone to lose. A long way to go. Julia’s eyes are shining into mine. Telling me that I can do it. Telling me to believe in myself. She smiles, a slow hesitant smile, and nods. I turn around and face the class. A woman at the front who looks to be a similar size to me begins to clap. Everyone joins in. I walk back to my chair surrounded by applause.

You can do this, Erica, I tell myself. You really can do this.

33
Jonah

Lunchtime. I walk out of my office past the bank, turn right past the doctor’s surgery, then right again. The road curves into a cul-de-sac of 1930s semis. I slip down a cut-through passageway full of tree roots and cigarette butts, along a wider street lined with red brick Victoriana; to number 133 – the house at the end of the road. Beautifully kept. Garden manicured. I walk, the soles of my shoes resonating on slate, up the tiled pathway and ring the doorbell.

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 in 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.’

You shrug your shoulders like an awkward teenager. ‘You just think I’m getting too old, losing my looks. That’s why you’re commenting.’

I shake my head. ‘No.’

‘This is my career you’re mauling. You’re behaving like a chauvinist, not supporting me.’

The word chauvinist sears into me. ‘I have always done everything to support you. Taken the children to the crèche. Dropped them off and picked them up from school.’ My voice is raised and barbed.

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