Amanda Robson - Envy

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

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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?

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.

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.