Envy. Amanda Robson
Читать онлайн книгу.
138. Jonah
139. Erica
140. Faye
141. Erica
142. Faye
143. Phillip
144. Jonah
145. Phillip
146. Jonah
147. Phillip
148. Faye
149. Erica
150. Faye
151. Erica
152. Jonah
153. Erica
154. Faye
155. Phillip
156. Erica
157. Faye
158. Phillip
159. Faye
160. Jonah
161. Faye
162. Erica
163. Faye
164. Jonah
165. Phillip
166. Phillip
167. Faye
168. Jonah
169. Faye
170. Erica
171. Phillip
172. Jonah
173. Erica
174. Jonah
175. Erica
176. Jonah
177. Faye
178. Erica
179. Faye
180. Erica
181. Faye
182. Erica
183. Jonah
184. Erica
185. Faye
186. Faye
187. Phillip
188. Faye
189. Erica
190. Faye
191. Phillip
192. Faye
193. Phillip
194. Erica
195. Faye
196. Erica
197. Faye
198. Phillip
199. Erica
200. Phillip
201. Faye
202. Erica
203. Erica
204. Faye
205. Phillip
206. Faye
207. Faye
208. Erica
209. Phillip
210. Faye
211. Erica
212. Faye
213. Phillip
214. Erica
215. Faye
216. Erica
217. Phillip
218. Faye
219. Faye
220. Phillip
221. Faye
222. Erica
223. Faye
224. Erica
225. Faye
226. Phillip
227. Faye
228. Phillip
229. Faye
230. Phillip
231. Faye
232. Phillip
233. Faye
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
I watch you every day, walking past my flat on the way to the school drop-off, holding your older daughter’s hand, pushing the younger one along in the buggy. Sometimes strolling and chatting. Sometimes rushing. Usually wearing your gym kit. Judging by your body shape, your commitment to exercise is worth it. I wish I had a figure like yours.
Your older daughter has gappy teeth and straggly hair. Nowhere near as pretty as you. Your husband must have diluted the gene pool. The younger one, the toddler, is always asleep in the buggy. She looks to have stronger hair, and a chubbier face. I would have loved to have children, but I’ve never been in the right relationship.
I envy you, and have from the first moment I saw you scurry past. A moment I recall so well. I was bored. I had nothing to do but look out of my front window, and watch the world go by. Three p.m. Parents rushing to the primary school at pickup time. Parents, nannies, and then you. The woman I would look like if I could, moving past me. The image of my mother from my only remaining photograph. So similar you made me hold my breath.
A few days ago, when you dropped your gym card, I finally found out that your name is Faye Baker. You didn’t notice it fall from the back pocket of your jeans as you tightened your laces, did you? As you turned in to the school gates I left my flat, and crossed the road to pick it up. Later that day I handed it in to the school reception. Were you grateful, Faye?
We move towards the school gates through air intertwined with drizzle. The drizzle tightens and turns to icy drops of rain, which spit into my face and make me wince a little. I squeeze my elder daughter Tamsin’s hand more tightly.
‘Let’s hurry up, otherwise we’ll be drenched,’ I tell her.
Together, we push the buggy and run laughing