Envy. Amanda Robson

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       Jonah

      You are moaning beneath me, neck stretched in ecstasy. So tight around me I can hardly breathe. I’ve never known a woman who wants me so much. And I cannot believe, after waiting so long, that woman is you. I try to close my mind to all sensation so that I don’t climax too quickly. I pretend I am back at school, standing behind my desk, reciting the alphabet backwards. Before I reach V, you are finished, spent. And I can relax again.

      My crescendo starts gently, slowly, a sweet sensation that feels electric. I pump into you more deeply and it intensifies into a burning heat. Pain and pleasure merge. You are holding me so tight. Your legs and feet push into my back as if you want to force me more deeply inside. It is delicious. Too much. I am not sure how much longer I can bear it. It’s rising, it’s increasing. I am soaring. One last thrust so sweet I feel ready to die in your arms right now. And it’s over. Tangled in your arms I gasp for breath, and wait for my heart to calm.

       18

       Faye

      I wake up, Beethoven pounding in my ears. Mouth parched. Head throbbing. My hair is damp and I am naked, clamped in a stranger’s arms.

      Heavy inside, I untangle myself from him and sit up. No. Not a stranger. Jonah, my husband’s old friend, our architect, who I ran into at the party last night. What have I done? I squint at my watch in the dark: 3:30 a.m. I pull myself up to standing, panic rising inside me.

      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.

       19

       Phillip

      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.’

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