Читать книгу Envy - Amanda Robson - Страница 20

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 plenty of wine. The speeches aren’t too bad. One of them is quite amusing and makes me laugh.

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.