Envy

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.’

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Jonah (#ulink_71f06c7f-d250-5031-ba5d-ca315175c059)

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.

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Erica (#ulink_7b92c23e-d057-5946-a59c-ae898ca94506)

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.’

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Faye (#ulink_00739bba-0705-548a-892c-b8f3d64c292f)

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.’