Envy

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I straighten my back and tighten my thighs against her body.

‘Is that better?’ I ask.

‘Taller, calmer,’ Kate replies. ‘Squeeze your thighs and she’ll walk forwards, pull the reins and she’ll stop. Off you go. I’ll watch.’

I look down at the ground and my dizziness increases. I look up again at Kate, who nods at me. Taking a deep breath, I squeeze my thighs against the horse’s flanks. She sets off slowly. So slowly. But my stomach churns at her every move. Even though she’s only just started to go, I want her to stop. I pull the reins. She keeps moving. I pull them again. She moves faster. What am I doing wrong?

‘Let her know who’s in charge,’ Kate barks from the edge of the arena.

I feel my heart thumping in my ears. I pull the reins so hard I think I could be cautioned for animal cruelty, and she finally condescends to halt.

‘Praise her for doing the right thing,’ Kate instructs.

I lean forward, stroke her neck and mumble ‘Good girl,’ into her ear.

‘Now you need to learn to trot,’ Kate continues. My hands and legs are trembling. ‘Squeeze your thighs twice and she’ll trot.’ There is a pause. ‘Lift up and down with her movement like I showed you.’

Whisper begins to go. My stomach tumbles as I bounce. I grit my teeth and do as I am told. Up and down, up and down, butterflies in my stomach, the movement making me nauseous. In the end I can’t stand it a second longer, so I tug on the reins and Whisper stops. I need a break.

‘I need the loo,’ I lie.

Kate saunters across the arena towards me, and takes Whisper by the bridle. She talks me through my dismount. Much to my amazement I manage to reach the ground without cricking my neck or damaging my back.

I walk across the arena feeling bruised and shaken. Stepping into the cloakroom I catch sight of my face in the mirror. Puffed and swollen. Pink piggy eyes. Not only am I terrified of horses, I am allergic to them too. I’ll have to dose myself up with antihistamine for the photoshoot.

40 (#ulink_c98abcfd-5e38-5c15-bc1b-2efc055ca470)

Phillip (#ulink_c98abcfd-5e38-5c15-bc1b-2efc055ca470)

This evening you managed to get a babysitter, and we have broken free from home. Arm in arm, we step into the new wine bar in town. Quirky and stylish. Empty wine casks instead of tables. Candles instead of electric light. In an old basement, which has been made to look like a wine cellar. Stepping inside is like stepping into another world. A world of romance and secrets.

But not quite.

A man is ignoring his wife and staring across at you, as you edge behind the wine cask we have chosen. I watch him, watching you, and instead of romance and secrets I realise this wine bar is just full of the same thing as usual. Men who want to look at you. His eyes rest on your legs, then your buttocks. Then inevitably your breasts. His wife notices me watching him and looks embarrassed.

It’s always like this; everywhere we go, someone finds you attractive. The constant attention makes me feel tired.

The waiter saunters over, flashing a full-beam smile.

‘What can I get you, Madam?’ he asks, eyes brimming into yours.

Your eyes shine back into his. What is happening? Are you flirting with him, Faye? I clench my jaw and pinch myself. Of course not. I must stop doing this. We’ve always been disproportionately attractive. Thinking about it too much will drive me mad. But I don’t need to worry about looks; you like me for my mind, don’t you, Faye? You’ve always respected my opinion, haven’t you?

The waiter returns with a bottle of claret, and pours us a glass each, flamboyantly, from a great height, a thimbleful of wine in an oversized glass. You ignore him this time. Perhaps you sense the way I am feeling. I sit admiring the contours of your face, flickering in the candlelight across the barrel.

‘How’s the horse riding going?’ I ask as I take a sip of my wine.

You snort. ‘I’ll get away with it, as long as the pony they provide for the photoshoot is old and knackered.’

‘It won’t be. What’s the point of photographing a good-looking woman on a clapped-out horse?’

Your eyes darken and your face stiffens. ‘Well you think I’m old and knackered. So there is every point. Two battle-axes together.’

I sigh. ‘Why are you saying that, Faye?’

‘Can’t you remember what you said to me, Phillip?’ Your voice is sharp. Eyes spitting.

‘Yes I can.’ I lean back. ‘And I didn’t mean you were old and ugly and looked like a battle-axe. You are putting words in my mouth.’

You lean across the barrel towards me. ‘What did you mean then?’ you ask, lips thin and stretched.

‘Just that we are entering a new phase. Early middle age. We need to put more emphasis on the children.’

Shoulders raised. Arms crossed. ‘Are you saying that I don’t look after them properly?’

I close my eyes for a second in exasperation. When I open them again your eyes stab into me. ‘No. I didn’t mean that. I just think they’re more important than your modelling career. It doesn’t matter to me whether you’re modelling or not, Faye. To me you are beautiful anyway.’

You shrug your shoulders like an awkward teenager. ‘You just think I’m getting too old, losing my looks. That’s why you’re commenting.’

I shake my head. ‘No.’

‘This is my career you’re mauling. You’re behaving like a chauvinist, not supporting me.’

The word chauvinist sears into me. ‘I have always done everything to support you. Taken the children to the crèche. Dropped them off and picked them up from school.’ My voice is raised and barbed.