Envy. Amanda Robson
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he shrugs his shoulders, turns and walks away. Back to his group who lean towards him, sharing a joke, laughing. He puts his head back and joins in, leaving me standing at the edge of a room of noisy people with no one to talk to and no glass in my hand.
Feeling empty and low, I move past shoulders, across the drawing room into the hallway. I step into the cloakroom for privacy, and sit on the toilet seat, head in hands, trying to compose myself. Over-contrived looks. How stupid I have been. How naive. The thought of meeting this man has been keeping me buoyed up for weeks. I press speed dial on my mobile phone to try to get through to Phillip. He doesn’t pick up. Pity. Just hearing his voice would make me feel better, or would have made me feel better in the past. The words we spoke to each other a few nights ago reverberate in my head.
‘A client said I was too old for the job.’
‘You’re still beautiful, Faye, but that day was bound to arrive.’
I pull myself up from the toilet seat and splash cold water on my face. I freshen my make-up and step out of the cloakroom into the hallway. Time to get myself a stiff drink.
A man is walking towards me. Jonah. Phillip’s oldest friend from school and university. Not only Phillip’s close friend, but our architect as well. The man I suggested should supervise our loft conversion.
‘Faye, how lovely to see you.’ He pulls me towards him, irradiating me with an overdose of aftershave and kissing me on both cheeks. ‘A vision of beauty to liven up a boring party.’ He holds my eyes in his. ‘Is Phillip here? I haven’t seen him for ages. I’d love to have a chat with him.’
‘He’s away at a conference; you’ll have to chat to me instead.’
‘Away at a conference,’ I say. ‘I see. I’ll have to catch him another time.’
You are looking more beautiful than ever, with your colt-like legs. Your tiny waist. Your ample breasts. I stand looking at you, imagining, as I have so many times before, their shape unfettered by the confines of a bra. Tip-tilted. Large alveoli. Bell-like. Your hair and your eyes shine. Like Elizabeth Taylor, you are exotic and colourful. The excitement that simmers whenever I see you rises inside me.
‘This Prosecco diluted with orange juice is a bit insipid,’ I say raising my almost empty glass. ‘Would you care to accompany me to the kitchen to find something proper to drink?’ I manage to ask, holding your violet blue eyes in mine. ‘What about it?’
You pause. You swallow. I watch your Adam’s apple move up and down your pretty throat. ‘Good idea,’ you reply.
Together we move away from the main party, out of the hallway and through the children’s sitting room – plain sofas, large TV and an Xbox with surround sound – into the kitchen.
The kitchen is a hive of activity. The catering company are buzzing around like flies, putting the finishing touches on trays of canapés, loading the dishwasher with used glasses. A tiny woman, wearing a blue uniform, with a face so delicate she looks like a flower ambles towards us. ‘Any chance of some whisky?’ I ask.
‘Of course, Sir, I’ll find you some. Ron has quite a collection. Any particular brand?’
‘Glenmorangie is my favourite.
‘What about you, Faye?’
‘Red wine please.’
The catering assistant reaches into a box stacked in the corner, pulls out a bottle of red wine, and opens it expertly with a flick of her wrist, pouring you a glass and leaving the bottle on the counter. Then she pads over to a cupboard in the corner and pulls out a black and orange bottle containing my favourite tipple. She pours a generous amount into a crystal glass.
‘Ice? Ginger?’
‘No thanks.’
I sweep the wine bottle from the counter, put a hand on your back to guide you, and carrying our drinks we step back into the children’s sitting room.
‘Let’s just stay here, away from the riff-raff,’ I suggest, sinking into a sofa to the right of the door.
You laugh, kick off your killer heels and sink gratefully next to me onto the sofa. It sags in the middle and my body has slipped to lean against yours. I want to bury myself in your scent.
‘You are so beautiful, Faye. But you know that, don’t you? People must always be telling you that.’
You lean more closely against me. My right hand hovers near the small of your back.
Sitting on a sofa with Jonah, feeling light-headed and floaty because I’ve had too much to drink. Jonah’s hand is massaging the base of my spine and I know I should be pushing him away, but he is making me feel relaxed. So relaxed. The image of Jamie Westcote’s eyes running over my body keeps rolling across my mind, alongside Phillip’s words. I am playing a game in my head, imagining Jamie Westcote is leaning towards me and speaking, his words contorting to say what I wanted to hear, Phillip standing beside him nodding his head.
‘I love regular looks,’ Jamie whispers. ‘Your breasts are magnificent.’ His whisper rises to a shout. Everyone at the party is listening. I see faces turning towards him. ‘Regular looks are where it’s all at now.’
But it isn’t Jamie Westcote who is speaking, it’s Jonah. Jonah is speaking, and massaging the base of my spine. He pulls me towards him and kisses me. When he has tried to do this on previous occasions I have pushed him away. But tonight, I find myself kissing him back. It is so long since anyone except Phillip has kissed me that the novelty of someone else’s touch burns my skin like fire. Jonah is looking at me admiringly, making me feel special. Admiration is incendiary tonight.
The moon is high. An owl hoots from the trees in the park across the road. I yawn and tighten the top button of my duffel coat. People have been leaving in dribs and drabs, the host and hostess seeing them off.
The door opens. It is you at last, wrapped in a blond man’s arms.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll walk her home,’ the man is saying, smiling at the hostess.
The front door closes. You walk down the drive, stones crunching beneath your feet, holding on to the man for support. Loose-limbed. Face flushed. When you reach the end of the drive you turn left not right. Where are you going, Faye?
At the Digital Marketing Conference in Harrogate. The hotel is large and Victorian and has seen better days. The dinner is held in a function room in the basement, with no windows. Dark red patterned carpet. Violent red walls. White linen tablecloths and solid silver cutlery add a touch of sophistication. The man sitting to my left has a pale face and stale breath. The woman to my right is punchy and interesting, so punchy and interesting she makes me feel tired. The food is as it always is at conferences. Acceptable. Unremarkable. But I am not a foodie, so it doesn’t matter to me. I wash it down with