Envy

‘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.

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Erica (#ulink_c2d1e938-7465-570d-a865-73990bfc93b5)

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.

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Jonah (#ulink_2ea5f082-89cd-595f-b354-5bcf1133f175)

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.

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Erica (#ulink_d4ced6ed-0d81-5c59-a113-aada2177ecf2)

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.