Envy

Copyright

Published by Avon an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street,

London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

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.

4

Faye

Home from the gym. In my bedroom, trying to rescue my hair. I have managed to wash it. But Georgia has woken from her morning nap, so drying it will be a problem.

‘I’m not Georgia any more,’ she tells me. ‘I’m a kangaroo.’

She bends down, face plastered in a mischievous grin. ‘I need to do my hopping practice.’ She begins to hop around our bedroom. Even though she is only three years old, she is heavy enough to make the floorboards vibrate. I shouldn’t have let her sleep for so long. Now she is full of energy. She picks up my Chanel perfume.