What's Yours Is Mine (16 page)

Susannah tucks her beer into a convenient crook in the tree above her head, and stretches her endless legs along the length of the sun-dappled branch. She flips the pages of her magazine, tapping ash midair and nodding in time to her iPod. She looks young and carefree.

I wish I was her
. And not just because of the baby. Susannah may be hard up, but she's done what she wanted all her life. She's never had to be responsible for anything. I think I envy her that most of all.

When we were children, Susannah was the baby of the family, and I was the Big Sister, which meant that I fretted and worried about her, and she let me, knowing I'd pick up her slack. Thanks in no small part to my mother's contagious paranoia, I was terrified she'd get sick and die, and somehow it'd be my fault. So I followed her around school with a spare jumper so she wouldn't get cold. I got up early and walked the dog
—her
dog—so she could have an extra half hour in bed. I did her paper route in winter, because she was scared of the dark. Even though I hated the Youth Club because everyone laughed at me for being square, I tagged after her when she insisted on going so I could make sure she was OK.

Growing up changed nothing. I bailed her out when
she got arrested for shoplifting, and kept it secret from Mum and Dad. I sent her money when she was about to get evicted. I paid off a loan shark who was threatening to beat her up. In return for all of this, Susannah mocked me and called me Miss Goody-Two-Shoes.

My sister has never planned for anything. She didn't save money for a rainy day, or worry about exams. And yet somehow she's the one who always falls on her feet and comes up smelling of roses.

I wanted to be fun and carefree like her, but Mum and Dad had to be able to rely on one of us. We couldn't both drift along assuming someone else would take care of tomorrow.

My hand tightens on the teacup. I thought I'd got past this petty jealousy years ago. Susannah's paid for her freedom. She's lost her children and three husbands, and she doesn't have a penny to her name. Maybe my life hasn't been quite as impulsive or exciting as hers, but I have a wonderful husband, a satisfying job, a beautiful home. I made the right choices. The one thing I truly envy Susannah—motherhood—would have been denied me no matter how carefree my lifestyle.

“She really shouldn't be smoking,” Claudia says crossly. “Can't you stop her?”

“She's cutting down. The doctor said the baby was the right size for thirteen weeks, and it seems healthy. And the quad test came back clear.”

“I admire your patience. I'd want to strangle her if it was me.”

I smile serenely, when the truth is, I want to take my sister by the throat and force-feed her vitamins. I want to lock her in her room and make sure she drinks nothing but fresh orange juice and eats lean protein and lots of fruit and vegetables and doesn't go near a mussel or a piece of chèvre, but I've signed a deal with the Devil. I have to console myself with the thought that it probably won't affect the baby at all. Davey and Donny are fine, and she behaved much worse when she was expecting them. Thousands of children are born to irresponsible teenagers every day and are perfectly all right.

But this baby is different. This baby will be mine.

Mum always says having a child is like spending the rest of your life with your heart walking around outside your body. I suppose I'm just getting used to that feeling ahead of time.

Claudia shifts uncomfortably in her chair, shading her eyes from the bright June sunshine. She's thirty weeks now, and looks enormous; surely double the size she was when she was expecting the twins.

“You didn't have to ask Susannah, you know. I'd have had a baby for you. I told you that.”

“I know you would, and I love you for it.” I get up and tilt the umbrella so that it shades her from the sun. “But you have your own family to think about. Susannah's on her own, and besides, she's my sister. I'm grateful to her, of course, but she
is
family. I feel less beholden this way. After all, I'd have done the same for her.”

Would you? Would you really?

I can hear my mother's voice now.
Selfish
, she called me. Every time I wanted to study or read instead of taking Susannah swimming or returning Dad's library books.
You won't put yourself out for anyone! Susannah has her faults, but she'll be the one who takes care of me in my old age. The only person you ever think of is yourself
.

Perhaps she's right. Susannah willingly drives down to the hospital to see Mum every other day. I go once a week, and even then, my heart's not in it.

Tom emerges from the greenhouse, and stands beneath the apple tree, chatting to Susannah. I stand there, watching them. Last night, he said I was selfish too, for putting Susannah through this, even though it was her idea. He said it was too much to ask, after she'd had to give up her own children. He and Susannah are getting on much better than they did when she first came to stay with us. Quite often when I come home late these days, the two of them are chatting at the kitchen table over a half-empty bottle of wine. If he was anyone but Tom, I'd be worried.

“I think Blake is seeing someone,” Claudia says abruptly.

I pivot towards her, shocked out of my self-absorption.

“Her name's Layla. He forgot to log out the other day when he used the computer in the kitchen to check his emails. Layla! What kind of a name is that?”

“Claudia, are you quite sure there isn't an innocent explanation—”

“For the way he described how he'd like to fuck her?
Hard to misunderstand that. He'd deleted most of his emails, but it wasn't difficult to recover them from the hard drive once I knew what to look for. As far as I can find out, it's been going on for about six months. Probably since the day after I found out I was pregnant.”

Her gaze is resolutely trained on the horizon, but I notice her hands are trembling.

I finally find my voice. “I thought you said he likes it when you're pregnant—”

“This isn't about sex! It's about attention. He's jealous of the baby.”

“Oh, Claudia. I don't know what to say.”

Her eyes flash at the pity in my tone. “None of us get all the pie, Grace. You have a wonderful husband, and I have wonderful children. We cope with the bits of our lives that aren't perfect as best we can. I love Blake. And despite everything, he loves me. I
know
he loves me,” she repeats, uncertainly.

“Have you said anything to him?”

“I don't want to give it too much notice and turn it into something it's not. I just have to wait for it to blow itself out. It always does.” She laughs shortly. “Blake has a very short attention span.”

“He's done this before?”

“Don't be naive, Grace. Did you really think a man like Blake was faithful?”

I suppose, like Claudia, I've always known. I liked to tell myself he wasn't interested in other women, when the unflattering truth is, he was just never interested in me.

LATER THAT NIGHT
, when Tom reaches for me, I struggle to respond. Normally, it doesn't take me long to get in the mood if Tom is persistent, but tonight, I'm dry and closed. He thumbs my nipples with waning optimism for another five minutes, and then rolls over in bed with a gentle sigh and reaches for his book.

“Did you know Blake is having an affair?” I demand.

He doesn't answer; which is answer enough.

“Tom! Why didn't you tell me?”

“Because
he
didn't tell
me
. Not in so many words. Anyway, even if he had, what difference would it have made? You know you couldn't have said anything to Claudia, not unless she came to you first. You'd have been in an impossible position.”

“But she's pregnant!” I exclaim. “How
could
he?”

Tom closes his book. “Look, Grace. I know they're our oldest friends, but even we don't know what happens behind closed doors. Who knows what's going on in their marriage? Affairs don't usually happen in a vacuum.”

“Are you
defending
him?”

“I'm simply saying there are two sides to every story.”

I sit up in the bed, punching the pillows behind me with unnecessary force. “There's no excuse for—”

“Grace, it really isn't any of our business. Blake and Claudia have been together a long time. Whatever we think, it clearly works for them.”

“Claudia told me, so that makes it my business,” I argue.

“Claudia told you because she needs a friend. Be one. Listen to her, and be there for her. That's what she needs, not for you to pick up a flaming sword of justice on her behalf.”

“Claudia wouldn't have told me if she didn't want my help,” I say stubbornly. “And before you start taking his side, she says this isn't the first time. Did you know that? He's been having affairs for years! I can't believe she hasn't thrown him out. If I found out you were having an affair—”

“You'd what?”

“You'd never have an affair,” I amend quickly. “You're not like Blake. I trust you.”

“Trust me? Or take me for granted?”

I falter, taken aback by the unexpected steel in his tone. He doesn't sound like my comfortable, familiar old Tom. All of a sudden, an undercurrent of fear has seeped into the room.

“You're so busy worrying about Claudia and Blake's marriage,” Tom says evenly. “When was the last time you even gave ours a second thought?”

His expression as he waits for me to speak is interested but strangely detached. His composure chills me in a way his anger wouldn't. I realize his question isn't an idle one, born of the moment. He's been waiting a long time to ask me this.

The sick, cold feeling spreads. At some point, when I was worrying about IVF treatments and putting in fourteen-hour days to raise the money we'd need to
leapfrog the NHS, my sweet, easygoing husband was calmly appraising my performance as a wife. And, judging from the look on his face, finding me wanting.

I wait for him to fill the silence, to bridge the gap between us as he always does, but still he says nothing. My fear intensifies. The safe, known landscape of our marriage is suddenly unfamiliar, and I'm struggling to find my bearings.

“Of course I think about you,” I manage finally. “I think about us. Why would you even ask that?”

“Because this marriage has felt very one-sided recently,” Tom says. “I know how much you want a child, Grace. I understand how much it means to you. But sometimes the only thing that seems to matter to you, at all, is having a baby. There have been times, both in bed and out of it, when it's like you don't even see me, I matter to you so little.”

“That's not true! Of course you
matter—
”

“Do you,” Tom says suddenly, “have
any
idea how high maintenance you are?”

Fear is replaced by anger. How
dare
he? The
last
thing anyone could say about me is that I'm high maintenance! I've never asked for, or expected, to be showered with gifts; the most extravagant thing Tom's ever given me was that Tiffany bangle for my birthday last year. I don't buy into the self-obsessed because-you're-worth-it mentality. The last time I had a pedicure was my wedding day. I get my highlights done at a small salon in Oxford. I've always
paid my way, earned my own living. How can he call
me
high maintenance?

Because it's not about money. You're a difficult person to love, Grace. You give nothing back. It makes it so hard for anyone to
know
you
.

“I thought you wanted this baby as much as I do,” I snap. “You helped to make it. You could have said no.”

“Don't put this on me, Grace. You knew how I felt. I agreed, yes, but only for
you
. Because I love you, and I couldn't say no to you.”

“You should have said—”

“Grace, I did. You just didn't listen.”

“It's not like I forced you at gunpoint! Why couldn't you have been man enough to say no if that's how you felt? You can't just throw it back in my lap! We
both
did this!”

“Why couldn't I have been
man enough
?”

I throw back the covers. “Forget it. I'm going to sleep in the spare room.”

Tom grabs my arm. “No! This is something we need to talk about!”

Angrily I yank myself free. “I don't
want
to talk about it.”

“Go on, then,” Tom says bitterly. “Yell and walk away from it. It's what you always do.”

Do you see, Grace? Do you see?

In one of those rare moments of clarity, I
do
see. Tom is the one who nurtures our relationship. He asks me how I feel, what I'm thinking. I throw up defensive walls, and
he batters them down. I hang up the phone, and he calls me back. I storm out of the room, and he follows me. He's never worried about losing face; only about losing me. We rarely argue, because Tom never lets it get that far. If we can't agree, he finds a compromise I can live with. In seventeen years together, he's never raised his voice to me. He's never backed me into a corner like this. I look at him now, at this stranger sharing my bed, and it's as if the ground itself is shifting beneath my feet.