Envy. Amanda Robson

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      Then I turned the corner and came across handbags and shoes; rummaging to try and find something right. Too big. Too small. Too frumpy. I finally found a pair of suede boots: trendy and grungy. I pulled my trainers off and thrust my feet into them. One glance and I knew I’d buy them. But my feet would be so much more attractive than the rest of me, and I knew I needed to start work on everywhere else.

      ‘Are you all right, Erica?’ Mouse asks, grey-brown eyes darkening. ‘Are you playing chess, or are you sitting looking out of the window and daydreaming?’

      I squirm in my seat. ‘I’m thinking about chess of course,’ I lie.

      Mouse grins. My stomach twists. Mouse has a lovable grin.

      ‘I can tell you’re not concentrating because you are giving away pieces too easily. If you were concentrating properly I think you would win.’ There is a pause. ‘It’s your turn now; show me what you’ve got.’

      I grin back at him. ‘OK then.’ I deliberate for a while and then move my knight to take one of his pawns.

      ‘Not too bad, I suppose.’

      He starts to plan his next move. I begin to daydream again. I’m going to be slim, and beautiful. Like you, Faye. I have started a diet. And a few weeks ago I went jogging for the first time. Fifty paces walking slowly. Fifty paces walking fast. Fifty paces jogging. Twice around Marble Hill Park.

      Because I’ve not been able to follow you today, Faye, I’m imagining your movements in my head. Monday. Legs, Bums, and Tums. Stomach crunches galore at the Anytime Leisure Club. If I had enough money I would join a club like that.

      ‘Checkmate,’ Mouse announces. ‘I’ve beaten you for the third time today.’

      Mouse is grinning at me, dimple playing to the left of his broad mouth. Mouse with his pondering personality that slows the movement of his face.

      The alarm on my watch beeps. Twenty-five past three. In five minutes I’ll watch you walk past again.

       6

       Faye

      Sitting at the dining table in our living room, the girls settled in bed.

      ‘How was your day?’ I ask my husband Phillip, as I watch him spooning pasta into his mouth.

      ‘Fine,’ he replies, without looking up.

      ‘Oh come on, I’m at home with the kids. Give me a break, let me hear something about your work environment,’ I say.

      He looks up and frowns. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re bored at home?’

      ‘Did I say that?’

      ‘Not exactly.’

      ‘Not at all.’ I pause. ‘I just asked about your day.’

      He leans back in his chair. He shrugs his shoulders. ‘I drove to work. Parked the car. Walked across the car park.’ He pauses and smiles. ‘And then, the really exciting bit, I fastened the top button on my coat.’

      ‘Did you get a good parking space?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

      ‘Did the buggy wheels rotate smoothly today?’ he replies.

      I take a deep breath. Did I ever find quips like this interesting?

      ‘Is this really how you want to communicate with me this evening?’ I ask. ‘When I’ve had a problem arise that I would like to talk about?’ His eyes soften in concern. ‘For the first time, a client said I was too old for the job,’ I continue.

      Repeated, the barbs of these words penetrate my mind more deeply. He leans across the table and takes my hands in his. ‘You’re still beautiful, Faye.’ There is a pause. ‘But that day was bound to arrive.’

      ‘So you agree?’

      ‘I didn’t say that.’

      ‘Oh yes you did.’

       7

       Erica

      Saturday morning. On my own for the weekend as Mouse has gone to see his dad. His dad’s name is Angus. Angus is tall, much taller than Mouse. Handsome, like a grey-haired Robbie Williams, with a ready smile and a rectangular face. Mouse looks a bit like him but not quite. Everything about Mouse is not quite. His problems really messed him up when he was younger, but now he is thirty, after special schooling and help from his father, he has learnt to cope with living in society. He recognises signs of emotions now. He understands how he needs to respond to comply. He has a raw honesty in his reactions that I find refreshing.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ