Читать книгу Envy - Amanda Robson, Amanda Robson - Страница 13

Saturday morning. On my own for the weekend as Mouse has gone to see his dad. His dad’s name is Angus. Angus is tall, much taller than Mouse. Handsome, like a grey-haired Robbie Williams, with a ready smile and a rectangular face. Mouse looks a bit like him but not quite. Everything about Mouse is not quite. His problems really messed him up when he was younger, but now he is thirty, after special schooling and help from his father, he has learnt to cope with living in society. He recognises signs of emotions now. He understands how he needs to respond to comply. He has a raw honesty in his reactions that I find refreshing.

Saturday morning. Up super-early. Yoghurt and fruit for breakfast. Out for my run.

I count to ten, take a deep breath and start. Fifty paces walking slowly, watching my legs wobble as I move. Fifty paces walking quickly, heart beginning to pound. Running next, breathing quickly. The running hasn’t killed me yet. Walking again, the fat on my legs vibrating. Quickly, quickly, heart pulsating. Running again, stabbing pains lacerating my sternum. A stitch-like pain like an iron staple to the right of my groin making me bend over as I walk. How am I going to make it twice around the park?

Visualise. Visualise. I try to picture my rolls of fat. Visualise. That is what it says in my self-help book. I visualise the rolls of fat that circle my back. The lumps of cellulite nestling on my buttocks. The loose skin folds on my inner thighs. Visualising. Forty-nine. Fifty. Walk fast. One, two, three … Jogging, jogging around the park.

I end up doubled up at the park gate. About to vomit. Heart pumping. Chest aching. Feeling light-headed, as if I am about to faint. When I have recovered a little I amble home.

The musty smell of my flat crawls into my bones and cradles my nostrils as I limp towards the shower. I turn the water on and wrap myself in a towel whilst I wait for it to warm up. The plumbing grunts and creaks, like an old man climbing stairs. The water runs brown before it turns clear.

I test the water with my fingers. It still feels like ice. I am tempted not to bother, to just get dressed without a shower, but that is the start of a sort of slovenliness that I don’t want to be guilty of.

I wait another five minutes and then I step into the shower. The water is hot and satisfying now. It pummels my body and the more it presses against me, the more I relax. I soap myself with the lavender shower gel that Mouse bought me last Christmas. I start by lathering my generous thighs. Not taut and firm like yours yet, Faye, still dimpled with cellulite; down, down, towards my tree-trunk calves and broad ankles.

I massage and rub. It feels so soothing. So liberating. Upwards, upwards. Fingers circulating around my gelatinous breasts, my rolls of stomach fat. Fingers soaping into skin crevices. One day, Faye, if I keep working hard, my fat will dissolve, and I will be toned and slim like you. Showered and dressed. Jeans and a jumper. Grey duffel coat that I have had for twenty years, and a black beanie hat. I step out into a cold sunny morning and wait at the bus stop across the road from your house. Every time a bus comes I ignore it.

Your front door opens and your Zac Efron of a husband steps out carrying a suitcase. A weekend bag. He waves his car keys. Lights flash. The boot opens. He flings the suitcase inside and drives off.

I continue watching your house. Buses that I do not get on continue to lumber past. I look at my watch. Nine a.m. Your curtains still haven’t opened, but the girls must have been awake for hours by now. Are you ignoring them? Rolling over in bed and trying to catch a little more sleep?

Nine-thirty a.m. The living room curtains are opening and you are standing looking out at the day wearing your short velvet dressing gown, displaying perfectly tanned golden legs. How have your legs become so golden? I didn’t see you going to the tanning shop. I must add it to my places to watch.

I wait and wait. Sitting in the bus cubicle, blowing onto my hands to try and keep them warm. The 33 arrives. An elderly man stumbles off. The 270 thunders past. The 490 stops. Three teenagers who have been smoking and chatting stub their cigarettes out on the pavement and alight. Mid-morning now. The bus stop is becoming busier.

At last I see you, Faye, emerging from your house with Tamsin and Georgia. I got close enough the other day to hear you say their names. You are wearing skin-tight black jeans, black stiletto heels and a black suede jacket. Very nice, Faye. And I like the pink cashmere scarf and pink lipstick to brighten things up. On this cold Saturday morning, the world needs brightening up.

Holding Tamsin’s hand, pushing Georgia along in the buggy, striding purposefully out of your front gate and turning right. I cross the road and walk behind you at a distance.