Читать книгу: «Envy»
ENVY
Amanda Robson
Copyright
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London, SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Amanda Robson 2019
Cover design © Claire Ward 2019
Amanda Robson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008291877
Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008291884
Version: 2019-02-25
Praise for Amanda Robson
‘I absolutely loved it and raced through it. Thrilling, unputdownable, a fabulous rollercoaster of a read – I was obsessed by this book.’
B.A. Paris, bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors and Bring Me Back
‘Obsession is a welcome addition to the domestic noir bookshelf. Robson explores marriage, jealousy and lust with brutal clarity, making for a taut thriller full of page-turning suspense.’
Emma Flint, author of Little Deaths
‘What a page turner! Desperately flawed characters. Bad behaviour. Drugs. Sex. Murder. It’s all in there, on every page, pulling you to the next chapter until you find out where it will all end. I was compelled not only to see what every one of them would do, but also how they would describe their actions – they are brutally honest and stripped bare. This is one highly addictive novel!’
Wendy Walker, author of All Is Not Forgotten
‘A compelling page-turner on the dark underbelly of marriage, friendship & lust. (If you’re considering an affair, you might want a rethink.)’
Fiona Cummins, author of Rattle
‘Very pacy and twisted – a seemingly harmless conversation between husband and wife spins out into a twisted web of lies and deceit with devastating consequences.’
Colette McBeth, author of The Life I Left Behind
‘Amanda Robson has some devastating turns of phrase up her sleeve and she expertly injects menace into the domestic. It was clear from the very first chapter that this was going to be a dark and disturbing journey.’
Holly Seddon, author of Try Not To Breathe
‘A compelling psychosexual thriller, with some very dark undertones. Thoroughly intriguing. Amanda Robson is a new name to look out for in dark and disturbing fiction. High quality domestic noir.’
Paul Finch, Sunday Times bestselling author of Strangers
‘Compelling and thoroughly addictive’
Katerina Diamond, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Teacher
‘A real page-turner – deliciously dark, toxic and compelling.’
Sam Carrington, author of Saving Sophie
‘I absolutely tore through Obsession – compulsive reading with characters you will love to hate and an ending that will make your jaw drop.’
Jenny Blackhurst, bestselling author of Before I Let You In and The Foster Child
‘Mind games, madness and nookie in a tale that will give you pause for thought. 4 stars.’
Sunday Sport
‘A dark tale of affairs gone wrong.’
The Sun
‘One of the sexiest, most compelling debuts I’ve come across this year, it cries out to become a TV drama. But I recommend you read it first.’
Daily Mail
‘Gripping, tragic, and sometimes insane, Guilt is an intense exploration of love, sibling relationships, obsession, drug abuse, secrets, and rape.’
Seattle Book Review
‘Fast moving. Compulsive reading.’
Jane Corry, author of The Dead Ex
‘An addictive, compelling read, full of tension.’
Karen Hamilton, author of The Perfect Girlfriend
‘Absolutely powered through Guilt. Totally addictive and unputdownable.’
Roz Watkins, author of The Devil’s Dice
‘I read Guilt over one weekend, completely enthralled. This twisty and complex tale of twin sisters and the dangerous, damaged man who comes between them kept me guessing.’
Emma Curtis, author of When I Find You
‘Robson’s writing is sharp and emotive; the plot so tense and engaging. A fantastic read.’
Elisabeth Carpenter, author of 99 Red Balloons
‘Packed with shocking twists, Guilt is a gritty, page-turning read that is not to be missed.’
Petrina Banfield, author of Letters from Alice
Dedication
To my family.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Amanda Robson
Dedication
1. Erica
2. Faye
3. Erica
4. Faye
5. Erica
6. Faye
7. Erica
8. Faye
9. Erica
10. Faye
11. Jonah
12. Faye
13. Erica
14. Phillip
15. Jonah
16. Faye
17. Jonah
18. Faye
19. Phillip
20. Erica
21. Jonah
22. Faye
23. Erica
24. Faye
25. Erica
26. Jonah
27. Phillip
28. Faye
29. Faye
30. Erica
31. Jonah
32. Erica
33. Jonah
34. Erica
35. Faye
36. Erica
37. Jonah
38. Erica
39. Faye
40. Phillip
41. Erica
42. Phillip
43. Jonah
44. Faye
45. Erica
46. Phillip
47. Erica
48. Jonah
49. Erica
50. Faye
51. Erica
52. Phillip
53. Faye
54. Jonah
55. Faye
56. Jonah
57. Faye
58. Phillip
59. Phillip
60. Jonah
61. Faye
62. Faye
63. Erica
64. Faye
65. Jonah
66. Faye
67. Jonah
68. Erica
69. Jonah
70. Faye
71. Phillip
72. Faye
73. Phillip
74. Jonah
75. Phillip
76. Faye
77. Erica
78. Phillip
79. Faye
80. Jonah
81. Faye
82. Erica
83. Phillip
84. Erica
85. Jonah
86. Phillip
87. Erica
88. Faye
89. Erica
90. Faye
91. Erica
92. Jonah
93. Phillip
94. Faye
95. Jonah
96. Phillip
97. Faye
98. Phillip
99. Erica
100. Phillip
101. Faye
102. Erica
103. Phillip
104. Erica
105. Faye
106. Faye
107. Erica
108. Faye
109. Erica
110. Erica
111. Jonah
112. Erica
113. Phillip
114. Erica
115. Jonah
116. Faye
117. Erica
118. Faye
119. Phillip
120. Faye
121. Phillip
122. Erica
123. Phillip
124. Erica
125. Phillip
126. Faye
127. Erica
128. Jonah
129. Faye
130. Erica
131. Phillip
132. Erica
133. Faye
134. Jonah
135. Phillip
136. Jonah
137. Phillip
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
Keep Reading …
About the Author
By the Same Author
About the Publisher
1
Erica
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?
2
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 into the school playground. Breathless now, Tamsin and I hug and part. My five-year-old disappears into the classroom. Into its light and warmth. Its quirky smell of woodchip and Play-Doh.
Free for a while from the responsibility of looking after her, my body lightens. But the rain is thickening. I fasten the rain hood more tightly across the buggy and navigate our way back across the playground, sighing inside, dodging puddles. Later on I’ll have to do my hair again. I always have to do my hair again when it rains.
As I walk along the side of Twickenham Green, past the bistro restaurant that used to be the public toilets, towards the gym – trainers squelching across dark grey paving stones, the rain begins to fall in sheets. Through the town centre, rain intensifying. I arrive at the Anytime Leisure Club looking as if I’ve been for a swim, and use my card to check through reception. Some kind soul handed it in to the school office when I dropped it last week. Georgia is still fast asleep in her buggy as I deposit her in the crèche.
At last, still rather damp, I make it into class. Legs, bums and tums today. Anastasia, our instructor, stands beaming at the front. She is about ten years older than me. Her healthy glow contains a whiff of Botox and facial fillers. An attractive hint of plasticity that so many people have these days. I’ll have to start before too long, when my husband Phillip gets his next major pay rise. The sooner you start the greater the effects. I’ve read about it on the internet.
Anastasia begins. We copy. Stretching out on our floor mats, progressing through our usual early positions. Back stretch first, then gentle stomach crunches. My body is my asset. I was academic at school. I have good GCSEs. Good A levels. But lots of people have good A levels, and not many people have a body like mine. My face and body are what differentiate me. I need to work hard to maintain them. My exercise class is my everyday routine; essential for my career.
‘Lift your right elbow to your left knee,’ Anastasia instructs in her bell-like voice.
My mind starts to drift back to the evening I became Miss Surrey. Eighteen years old, standing on stage decked in a ribbon and a crown, listening to the clapping of the audience. So beautiful. So special. Nothing else mattered but the moment. My stomach tightens in pain. That moment didn’t last. I never became Miss England. The higher echelons of beauty pageants were denied to me.
‘Lie back and stretch. Arms above your head,’ Anastasia bellows from the front.
But age has brought a maturity to my beauty that has improved my looks. And several modelling jobs: M&S Foods, Accessorize, and the Littlewoods magazine. Not much to shout about, but give me time.
‘Lower the right arm. Keep the left arm raised. Back flat against the floor. Flat as you can. Don’t forget to breathe.’
I’ll get my break, one day. Slowly, slowly, I breathe in. Slowly, slowly, I exhale. Until that day I must look after my body, and never give up.
3
Erica
I watch you walk past, faster than usual because of the sudden heavy rain, which has really caught you out. You are not even wearing a raincoat. Your normally bouffant hair is wet and flat. Why don’t you wear a hat, just in case? Are you too cool for that, Faye?
After you have gone, the cold of my flat begins to sink into my bones and I find myself shivering. I have been living here for two years, surrounded by fingers of mould, which creep up the tile grouting and form a black mist on the walls. The central heating doesn’t work. I have tried contacting the landlord, but he never replies. Sometimes I use a fan heater, but it doesn’t really help. It just circulates overheated air making me feel so claustrophobic that after about twenty minutes I turn it off. So most of the time in winter I walk around my flat wrapped in a scratchy old blanket. Mouse says I look like a tramp in it, so I try not to wear it when he is around. Not that he comes here very often. His flat is so much more comfortable than mine; I usually visit him there.
I sit, feeling empty inside. Coping with each day has, for many years, been a struggle. A plethora of temporary jobs. No focus. But it’s become easier in the last six months. Since I started to follow you. Since I started spending time with Mouse. It’s raining today, so I cannot follow you. When it rains I need to check on Mouse.
Mouse lives in the flat directly above mine. I pad up the communal staircase.
‘It’s Erica,’ I shout through his letter box.
Slowly, slowly, the door opens. I step straight into his living room. He stands in front of me, agitated.
‘Wotcha.’
‘Wotcha, Erica,’ he replies.
I high-five him. He high-fives me back. A ritual between us, the result of watching too many American films together. I cast my eye around his flat and feel a tremor of envy. His father bought it for him, and helped him decorate it. It has central heating that works, and is beautifully appointed. IKEA furniture. Copious kitchen equipment. But then Mouse is vulnerable and he really needs his father’s help. I must not resent the good fortune of a friend.
He walks into the sitting area of his living room. I follow him. He stalks up and down in front of the window, wringing his hands and glowering at the rain. I walk over to him and put my hand on his arm.
‘The rain isn’t going to hurt you.’ I pause and look into his anxious face.
Grey-brown eyes stiffen. ‘It wants to.’
‘It can’t, remember? As long as you stay inside.’
His eyes soften. He frowns. He sighs and flops down into the middle of the sofa. I sink into the easy chair opposite him.
Mouse. Thirty years old. Nicknamed Mouse because of his timid personality and grey-brown hair.
‘What’s up?’ he asks.
‘Been busy.’
‘Because of Faye?’
‘Yep.’
He leans across and takes my hands in his, face pressed towards mine. ‘But you’re here today.’
I squeeze his hands. Mouse has difficulty reading emotions and suffers from phobias. I have confidence issues because of my upbringing. Perhaps one day I will be able to overcome them. But Mouse won’t recover from his issues. He just has to learn to live in this world despite them. That’s why Mouse’s father has done so much to support him. Mouse’s father is my hero. I wish I had a father like that. But I do not have a father. My mother never knew who my father was.
We sit in silence for a while.
‘I’ve bought something at the charity shop,’ Mouse eventually announces as he pads across the room. ‘I’ll show you.’
Rain forgotten now that I’m here, he opens his living room cupboard and pulls out a large cardboard box. He places it in the middle of the sitting area, lifts out a silver and bronze chess set, the pieces finely etched, and puts it on the floor. He stands up, shoulders back in pride.
‘That looks fantastic,’ I tell him.
He smiles at me. A broad, effervescent smile. When he smiles, despite his rough-hewn features, Mouse is good-looking.
‘Do you want to play chess with me?’
‘You’ll have to teach me.’
‘That’s fine. I bought it for both of us so that we could play together.’
My heart lurches. What would I do if I didn’t have Mouse?
I close my eyes and feel again my mother’s heat as I lay clamped against her, waiting for her to wake up. I feel her breath steady and even, not the agonising rasping I heard when I first called the ambulance. Eleven years old. A man stepping towards me, to prise me away. A man who smells of nicotine and mint. The social worker in charge of my case. I shudder inside and push the memory away. My mind is back. Back in Mouse’s comfortable flat.
‘Come on, Erica, I’ll teach you how to play chess,’ he says, flicking his grey-brown locks.
