Amanda Robson - Envy

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.

‘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.

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.

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.