Amanda Robson - Envy

My marriage. My children. The babysitter.

I snap the light on. I look down at Jonah, sleeping like a baby, penis withered into a small crinkled knot. He doesn’t stir. What happened? Jonah has never been my type. The first time I met him he said he thought footballers were overpaid wide boys. I asked him what he thought architects were then, and he gave me a supercilious grin that tightened the knots in my stomach. His long-vowelled voice smacks of superiority, even though he went to a local comprehensive, like me and Phillip. I had a drunken aberration last night, one I will regret for the rest of my life.

Heavy with remorse, I reach for my clothes. I find them scattered across the sitting room, and pull them on. My coat and handbag are in the hallway. I remember leaving them there. I wrap my coat around my shoulders; its familiarity comforts me a little, as I step outside into a bright moonlit night.

I pull my iPhone out of my bag. Fifteen missed calls. Thirteen from the babysitter. Two from Phillip. What am I going to say? I need to get used to making up lies. First I text our babysitter.

On the way home. Sorry. Party went on really late. Got carried away.

Then I check on Phillip. Only two missed calls, and not too late. Just didn’t hear those because of the noise of the party. Nothing to explain. I exhale with relief.

We live so close to Jonah it isn’t worth calling a taxi. My footsteps resound across the pavement, as I stride through the solidity of darkness towards home. At least it is so late no one I know will see me. Five minutes later I am walking up the steps to our front door, turning the key. I step straight into our living room and turn on the light. The familiarity of my living room surrounds me like a sanctuary. My behaviour is out of step. But nothing here has changed. My normal world is waiting for me.

Lucy, our babysitter, stretches her arms in the air from the sofa, and sits up. Her long brown hair is tangled and crumpled. Her eyes blink as she becomes accustomed to the light.

‘I was so worried. Are you OK?’ she asks.

I walk towards her and sit on the sofa next to her. I shake my head slowly, and raise my hands a little.

‘Sorry. So sorry. Had too much to drink. Stayed too late. Got carried away.’

‘Are you sure you’re OK? Has something happened?’ she asks, looking shocked at my dishevelled appearance.

‘Course not,’ I reply. ‘I fell asleep on the sofa at the end of the party, that’s all. A bit embarrassing but all OK.’

‘As long as you’re all right,’ Lucy says, slipping off the sofa and reaching for her bag and coat, which she’s placed on the floor beside her: obviously keen to get away as soon as possible.

I rummage hurriedly into my handbag and pull out £100 to give to her. I hand it across.

‘That’s far too much,’ she complains, trying to hand it back.

‘No. Let me give it to you. I want to. I’ve inconvenienced you.’

‘Not really,’ she says.

‘But I worried you,’ I splutter.

‘A bit. But you’re a grown woman. I know you can look after yourself,’ she says, leaving the notes on the coffee table. She smiles at me as she pulls her coat on. ‘Please don’t worry. I’m cool. Everything’s fine.’

I scoop the notes from the table and press them into her hand.

‘I’m not accepting no for an answer. I want you to have this money. You must take it. Otherwise I’ll only send it to you in the post.’

This time her hand closes reluctantly around the notes. As soon as she has gone, I text Jonah:

We need to talk.

Sunday evening. I pull the car into our drive. Lights smoulder down from the top of the house. I have flowers for you, Faye, and a soft toy each for the girls.

I let myself in and switch on the light. The hallway is filled with its usual clutter. The buggy. A row of shoes. A pile of old clothes to take to the charity shop. This evening the house is eerily quiet. Silence presses against me and the vision I had of you rushing to greet me, smothering me with kisses, echoes towards me making me feel sad.

Perhaps you are having difficulty settling our offspring. I leave my gifts on the dining table and slowly, quietly, move through our living area, and tiptoe up the stairs. Past Tamsin’s bedroom, past Georgia’s nursery. The lights are dim. I hear the repetitive sound of their gentle breathing. Into our master bedroom with its state-of-the-art bathroom, only recently installed, which I am so pleased to have been able to afford. More dim light. This time I hear electronic music. Pounding and trance-like. You are sitting, back arched, cross-legged on your exercise mat, arms stretched out like a ballet dancer. Not that I am an expert at this, but it’s Pilates I guess.

As soon as you see me, you snap the music off and slowly unwrap your body.

‘The wanderer returns,’ you say as you stand up.

‘Not a very exciting wander, I can assure you.’

‘It must have been much more exciting than staying at home,’ you say with a grimace.

‘Haven’t you had fun then?’

‘Depends what you call fun.’

‘Well I don’t call sleeping through lectures about computer algorithms fun.’

‘And I don’t rate being cold-shouldered by a sanctimonious prick who owns his own modelling agency.’

Your eyes are wide and glistening with tears. I take you in my arms and pull you against me. You clamp against my chest as if the world is about to end.

‘I ran into Jonah at the party,’ you murmur between sobs.

Did you really think no one would see you, Faye? I followed you, hiding in moonlight shadows. How could you disappear behind his shiny front door when you have a husband like yours? Handsome, in a solid way. Supporting you. Helping you with the children. I watch him through my binoculars whenever you leave the curtains open, hugging them and putting them into bed, reading them bedtime stories. I’ve seen him so many times walking up your drive with takeaways and flowers. Most women would give their right arm for a man like that.

How do you think your behaviour will affect your children? Do you know what it is like for children to have a mother go off the rails? Can you imagine what it was like for me?

And I am back. Remembering. My social worker visiting me in my second foster home. My foster mother flinging plates into the dishwasher, tidying up piles of washing. The social worker had only given us an hour’s notice. I helped her tidy up and by the time he arrived I was already drained and exhausted.

We sat opposite one another in the dining room. He sat hands together on his knee, mouth in a line. I knew something bad was coming.

‘Erica, your mother is dead.’

‘What happened to her?’ I spluttered, heart racing in my chest.

‘She died of a drugs overdose.’

There was a pause. ‘She was peaceful, Erica. She is living with God. Happy in Heaven now.’

Living with God, not with me? I felt empty. Bereft. I had always thought she would come back and care for me. Now I knew I was alone. I was too choked to cry. Bitterness pushed the tears away. Tears would have given me respite. Tears would have helped. But back then, nothing helped.

I am parked outside your daughter’s school in my lilac Jag, waiting to see you. It smells of leather and money. That is why I like it so much. A present to myself for my thirtieth birthday, with some of the money I had just received from my great-grandmother’s trust fund. Years ago I tried to let you know you would be better off financially if you chose me. Now so many years on, you are beginning to see sense.

You won’t be long. School starts in ten minutes. I watch other mothers sidling past, looking so grey, so colourless. In comparison to you they all look dumpy and plain. I watch their body language as they talk to their children with a pious air.