Envy. Amanda Robson
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‘Time to start,’ Julia announces, putting her iPhone in her pocket and walking across the hall, to stand in the middle of the space in front of us, beyond the chairs.
She stands next to her major weapon, the scales. Her body is small and neat, but her grin is wide and fixed. ‘Let’s weigh ourselves first.’
We come every week. We know what to do. We queue in front of Julia, holding our record books. Chattering still envelops me, without including me. I watch the woman in front of me stand on the scales, her ample thighs pushing against the material in her skirt and stretching it.
‘Same as last week,’ Julia announces. ‘You’re stabilising. Don’t lose heart. That often happens after the initial weight drop-off.’
But despite Julia’s encouragement, the woman turns to go back to her seat, eyes facing down.
‘Remember keeping slim is a constant battle. We are not on a diet, we need to live a healthy lifestyle – all the time,’ Julia continues. ‘Next please.’
I step forward, wriggling out of my jumper and kicking off my trainers. I step onto the scales.
Breathe out. Pray. Pray I am losing weight.
The numbers on the digital scale reach a desirable weight, and do not rise any further.
‘Congratulations, Erica, you’ve lost a stone in a month.’
I enter the office, which looks like a stable itself, a wooden barn of a place with copious beams and a high ceiling; difficult to keep warm. A young girl is standing behind a wooden counter looking cold and bored. The counter is decorated with leaflets, trinkets for sale, baskets containing packets of crisps and biscuits. There is a coffee machine behind her and a shelf laden with fizzy drinks.
‘Kate’s running late.’
‘OK – how late?’
‘About twenty minutes.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll just sit and wait.’
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’
Having taken note of her additive-laden selection I immediately snap, ‘No thanks.’ My skin can’t tolerate drinks with additives.
I sit on a bench that runs around the edge of the ‘office’ and, feeling bored already, pick up a leaflet about the riding school. I flick through shiny photographs of young girls sitting on horses decorated with a plethora of rosettes. Of horses running freely through open fields. My stomach contracts. Why have I agreed to this? I’ve always been frightened of horses. I don’t even like walking past them if we meet them in a field on a country walk. And it’s not as if I’m even a country walk sort of person in the first place. I push my fear away and fiddle with my iPhone, engrossing myself in Facebook gossip and BBC News.
When Kate finally arrives she is short and stocky, with a grin so straight it could be mistaken for a grimace. But deep-voiced and square-fingered, there is something resonant and reassuring about her.
‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. Let’s get started.’
I stand up and walk towards her.
‘You’ll have to leave that in a locker,’ she says, pointing to my iPhone. ‘Sure-fire way of making a horse bolt.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll soon get you licked into shape for the photoshoot. They only need a few photographs, don’t they? I’ve got the most gentle horse in the world ready for you. She’s a beauty. Her name is Whisper.’
When I am deemed to be correctly dressed and briefed, I am allowed into the arena to meet her. Dappled white and streamlined, saddled up and ready to go. She is eyeballing me, head high, neck arched. My insides quiver as Kate holds her reins and barks instructions.
‘One foot in the stirrup, swing your other leg over.’
I do as I am instructed and somehow find myself sitting in the saddle on Whisper’s back, feeling unprotected and vulnerable. Despite the hard hat that is pressing into my skull and giving me a headache. Despite Kate’s eagle eye watching me.
Nothing is holding me.
I should be wearing a seat belt or a safety strap. Whisper is stamping her right front hoof, moving her head and neck from side to side, making me feel dizzy.
‘Horses and ponies are very sensitive,’ Kate says. ‘They sense fear and lack of confidence. You must sit tall and calm, and let her know who’s in charge.’
I straighten my back and tighten my thighs against her body.
‘Is that better?’ I ask.
‘Taller, calmer,’ Kate replies. ‘Squeeze your thighs and she’ll walk forwards, pull the reins and she’ll stop. Off you go. I’ll watch.’
I look down at the ground and my dizziness increases. I look up again at Kate, who nods at me. Taking a deep breath, I squeeze my thighs against the horse’s flanks. She sets off slowly. So slowly. But my stomach churns at her every move. Even though she’s only just started to go, I want her to stop. I pull the reins. She keeps moving. I pull them again. She moves faster. What am I doing wrong?
‘Let her know who’s in charge,’ Kate barks from the edge of the arena.
I feel my heart thumping in my ears. I pull the reins so hard I think I could be cautioned for animal cruelty, and she finally condescends to halt.
‘Praise her for doing the right thing,’ Kate instructs.
I lean forward, stroke her neck and mumble ‘Good girl,’ into her ear.
‘Now you need to learn to trot,’ Kate continues. My hands and legs are trembling. ‘Squeeze your thighs twice and she’ll trot.’ There is a pause. ‘Lift up and down with her movement like I showed you.’
Whisper begins to go. My stomach tumbles as I bounce. I grit my teeth and do as I am told. Up and down, up and down, butterflies in my stomach, the movement making me nauseous. In the end I can’t stand it a second longer, so I tug on the reins and Whisper stops. I need a break.
‘I need the loo,’ I lie.
Kate saunters across the arena towards me, and takes Whisper by the bridle. She talks me through my dismount. Much to my amazement I manage to reach the ground without cricking my neck or damaging my back.
I walk across the arena feeling bruised and shaken. Stepping into the cloakroom I catch sight of my face in the mirror. Puffed and swollen. Pink piggy eyes. Not only am I terrified of horses, I am allergic to them too. I’ll have to dose myself up with antihistamine for the photoshoot.
This evening you managed to get a babysitter, and we have broken free from home. Arm in arm, we step into the new wine bar in town. Quirky and stylish. Empty wine casks instead of tables. Candles instead of electric light. In an old basement, which has been made to look like a wine cellar. Stepping inside is like stepping into another world. A world of romance and secrets.
But not quite.
A man is ignoring his wife and staring across at you, as you edge behind the wine cask we have chosen. I watch him, watching you, and instead of romance and secrets I realise this wine bar is just full of the same thing as usual. Men who want to look at you. His eyes rest on your legs, then your buttocks.