Envy

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.

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Jonah (#ulink_4e9f8fcc-61a3-5a2c-8f6c-c5b2feded566)

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.

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Phillip (#ulink_88b7f054-d3c9-5baa-816f-3d05ef1159b8)

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.’

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Faye (#ulink_1c127f1a-364a-5189-bc73-1a96bae9d693)

‘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.

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Faye (#ulink_329cc203-1417-5f6e-9b8f-7ac19ce17236)

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.