Envy. Amanda Robson
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And now dinner is over and we are free to proceed to the bar. The man on my left at dinner sticks to me like a leech. He buys me a large glass of wine and himself a double whisky, and slurs his words as he eulogises about Professor Torrington’s lecture on algorithms earlier.
I excuse myself by pretending I need to go to the toilet, and return to my room, where I drink two cups of peppermint tea in an attempt to sober up, and watch the Sky evening news. I text you twice. You don’t reply. I hope you’re having a good time. You were worried about going to the party alone. I want to touch base and speak to you. I never feel right when I can’t reach you. Tired but restless, I try to settle to sleep but my mind is too alert. I miss your warm body lying next to me. I think back to the day we met.
I was twenty-five. You were twenty-three. I was a digital marketing executive for a small company that had offices on Upper Ground, between Waterloo Station and the river, round the corner from The London Studios. You had just joined the company as PA to my boss. I got chatting to you as I waited to go into a meeting with him. Asking you to come for a drink tripped naturally off my tongue; the pretext for me to tell you about the company. You agreed readily, and a few evenings later we met on the pavement outside the office and hailed a taxi to Tattershall Castle, an old paddle steamer converted into a pub restaurant, moored on Victoria Embankment.
It was a soft summer evening, warm breeze from the river caressing our faces and arms. The grey Thames sparkling to silver and diamonds. You sat opposite me and leant forward. I was mesmerised by your violet eyes.
‘Tell me everything about Digital Services Limited. All the gossip. The full rundown,’ you demanded.
Before I could begin to hold forth, we were interrupted by a waiter asking us what we wanted to drink. I ordered pale ale. You ordered a white wine spritzer. Do you remember, Faye? And then I told you everything I knew. The services we provided. The names of our major clients. The personalities and foibles of our managers. Somewhere in the middle of my diatribe our drinks arrived, and a small dish of cashew nuts. I wolfed the nuts down; you didn’t touch one.
We ordered another drink each. The alcohol was beginning to relax me; soften my edges. You put your hand on my arm.
‘Phillip, you know so much.’
Desire rose inside me like an electric current. ‘What about you, Faye? Tell me about yourself. I’ve rabbited on for long enough.’
‘I want to be a full-time model. So far I’ve just had a few jobs.’
First and foremost, you’ve always wanted to be a model. You still want to be a model. However hard I work to give you a comfortable lifestyle with the girls, our life together isn’t enough to sustain you. You want others to admire your body. The more time goes on the more I question how comfortable I am with that. Sometimes I wish you were less good-looking and we didn’t have all this angst.
You are sitting on a sofa, in the middle of my drawing room. I’ve admired you for so long I can’t believe you are here in my home, visiting me alone. The first time I saw you was ten years ago, when I visited Phillip in London. You were, and still are, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, with your long dark hair, your chiselled cheekbones and violet eyes. It was your eyes that unnerved me most; the way they slipped into mine, like velvet.
I hadn’t met up with Phillip for a few years at that point and was surprised my computer geek friend had managed to attract such a glamorous girlfriend. He’d never been much of a ladies’ man. The three of us met up in a Pizza Express near Charing Cross – Phillip’s suggestion, not mine – I don’t usually frequent pizzerias or chain restaurants. I survived the ordeal by looking into your eyes as I choked on an overdose of basil and tomato.
Tonight, so many years on, still besotted, ‘Would you like a nightcap?’ I ask.
‘Just a small one thanks, nothing too strong.’
‘Gin and tonic OK?’
‘Lovely thanks.’
My hand slips as I pour the gin, so I give you quite a slug. We sit next to one another on the sofa sipping our drinks. Softly, gently, I put my arm around you. You lean in to my body. I hold you more tightly and take your hand in mine.
I am standing in front of Jonah. I feel confused; sad and happy at the same time. I know I ran into him at the party and that I have gone back to his house. His sitting room is spinning around me. Slowly. Quickly. Slowly. Now I am holding on to him to keep standing.
‘Let me look at you, really look at you,’ he says.
His arms are behind my back and he is unzipping my dress. I work so hard toning my body, working on almost every muscle, or at least every muscle I know about, so I want to show him, really show him. I am not embarrassed. I am proud of my shape.
I feel my dress slip over my skin and fall to the floor. I am standing in front of him in my new red silk bra and panties, decorated with Chantilly lace. The room is slipping from side to side, making me feel as if I am on a boat. He is admiring my body. He is smiling. His eyes are caressing me, just like they have always done. I know he thinks I am beautiful. I need to be beautiful tonight.
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.
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