What's Yours Is Mine (17 page)

“Tom, Susannah's pregnant,” I whisper.

“And when this baby arrives, I'm going to love it. Don't be in any doubt about that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose wearily. “I'm not really talking about the baby, Grace. That's just part of it. I'm talking about
us
. I'm talking about the fact that I need you, and you're not here for me.”

I sit stiffly on the edge of the bed, my back towards him. My chest is tight with misery. How can this be happening? Just as I thought everything was finally coming right with the baby, how can it all be falling apart?

“Grace, please,” Tom begs. “
Talk
to me. Ever since we started trying for a baby, it's as if I've lost you. You're my best friend, my lover, my wife. I
miss
you.”

I knuckle my eyes. “It doesn't mean I don't love you,” I say thickly. “It doesn't mean you don't matter. I love you more than anything in the world, I couldn't manage without you—”

Suddenly he's gathering me into his arms. The relief at his touch is so strong, I twist and bury my face in his bare
shoulder—his familiar, comforting shoulder—and sob like a child, even though a part of me is still coldly furious: with both him and myself. “That's all I needed to hear,” he whispers into my hair. “That's all I needed to hear.”

“I'm sorry,” I mumble. “I'm so sorry.”

“Ssssh,” he soothes. “Come on, now. It's OK. Don't cry. It's going to be OK.”

He holds me tight until the crying jag has passed, and I stop hiccupping. Gently, he lifts my chin with his finger, and kisses me sweetly on the lips. I kiss him back, tasting salt from my own tears. His hands circle my waist, pulling me towards him. I reach beneath the covers, searching for his penis, but he shifts away. I try again, and this time, he takes hold of my hand, and firmly guides it back above the bedclothes. “Not now,” he says.

Tom turns out the bedside light and settles me in the crook of his arm. I lie there awkwardly, listening as his breathing grows steady and regular. I feel hollowed out and drained. Claudia warned me not to push Tom into something he didn't really want. The baby isn't even born yet, and already it's coming between us. I can almost hear my mother saying
I told you so
.

For the first time, the realization hits home:
I've changed everything
. And right now I have no way of knowing if it's for better or worse.

Now I'm actually here, I can't get out of the fucking car. Seriously. I'm shitting bricks. My knuckles are actually white on the steering wheel.

I take a deep breath, unclench my hands, and reach for my cigarettes. The huge surge of adrenaline that propelled me here has bloody vanished like morning mist. I was mad to come without at least calling in advance. They might not even
be
here.

I exhale, calmed by the nicotine, and look up at the house. It's not as posh as I'd expected. I had this image of a huge detached mansion, with maybe an outdoor pool and a couple of fancy cars parked in the drive. But this looks pretty much the same as the house me and Grace grew up in: bog-standard redbrick three-bed seventies semi, bay windows, sad-looking rosebushes either side of the covered porch. Identical to every other house on the road. A skateboard lies on its back in the middle of the concrete front path. Upstairs, the curtains are closed.

Well, of course they're fucking closed, you moron!
It's six
clock on a Sunday morning! Only burglars and hormonal pregnant women go running around the country at such an insane hour!

Suddenly, the spell is broken. I stub out my cigarette and throw the car into gear, reversing quickly out of the driveway. Thank Christ nobody in the house woke up and saw me. Fingers crossed I get back home before Grace realizes I've gone. I really don't need her pointing out what a dumb idea this was.

That, I've figured out already.

MICHAEL IGNORES ME
as I follow him around the studio, helpfully straightening pots and brushes as he scatters them in his search for a particular paintbrush or pigment. Apart from Dad, I've never met anyone who could sulk as thoroughly as this. It's been weeks since Michelle caught me mid-shag in the garden with Blake, and he still hasn't spoken a single word to me.

“Please, Michael,” I beg. “Grace is doing my head in. I thought she'd be chuffed my boys have got in touch, but she's being really weird. She point-blank refuses to come down to Surrey with me, and I can't go back on my own. Not after I made a right tit of myself driving over there in the middle of the night the other week.”

I dodge as he flips a huge half-finished canvas out of the rack and carries it over towards the window. Michael fancies himself a landscape painter on a large scale, but actually, his small pencil portraits are by far his best work.

“I've tried asking Tom to talk to her,” I persist, shadowing him across the studio, “but he's in a weird mood, too. And he's got enough problems of his own, what with what's happening at the hospital and everything.”

I pause significantly. Not even a flicker of curiosity. Men. What
is
the point of them?

Michael positions his canvas to get the best light, deliberately blocking me out. I move around it and stand so I'm right in his way. “Look, I don't mean you. It's
Michelle
I need. I can't talk to Claudia for obvious reasons. Anyway, she's as bad as Grace on the baby front. Michelle's the only person left Grace will listen to. Can't you—you know. Ask her to come back?”

“I'm not a schizophrenic, Susannah! That isn't how it works, I've told you that—”

“Oh, thank God.
Finally.
”

“You don't deserve another word from me,” Michael says crossly.

“I know, I know, but please don't freeze me out again. You know I'm sorry. I told you so enough times.”

He picks up his palette knife. “I can't talk to you about this. It's not me you need to apologize to.”

“How can I apologize to Michelle if she's not here?”

Without looking up, he squeezes a startling yellow pigment onto his palette. For a moment, I think he's going to go back into strop mode again, but then he nods tersely. “Fine. But I'm making no promises when.”

I'd hug him, but I know he'd hate it. Instead, I content myself with blowing him a kiss, and skip out of the studio.
It's been bloody miserable these last few weeks without Michelle to talk to. Tom's a sweet guy, and I'm glad he's come around to the whole baby thing, but it's not the same, talking to a bloke. They don't ask the right questions. I need a girl to talk to. Someone who gets how I feel.

I spend the next three days on tenterhooks waiting for Michelle to show. She finally turns up when I'm sunbathing topless in the back garden, making the most of the brief summer heatwave. She looks as cool and chic as a fifties housewife in her stylish black-and-white sleeveless shirtwaist and oversized flat black straw hat, though she sticks out like a sore thumb around here. Outside of
Mad Men
, women never look this good.

“The first thing out of your mouth better be an apology,” she says crisply, as I fumble for my bikini top. “And the second better be a promise never,
ever
to go there again.”

“I'm very, very sorry,” I recite obediently. “And I really appreciate you not telling Grace. She'd have gone ape-shit.”

“Grace doesn't need to know how badly you've let her down. You are carrying her baby, after all. She's got worries enough.”

I could take offense at this; except it's true. I sit up, stubbing out my cigarette and scrabbling under the sun-lounger for my flip-flops.

“I'm disappointed in you, Susannah,” Michelle says. “I thought you were a little better than this. Blake is a player.
Worthless. I'd expect nothing more from him. But I had hoped
you
had a little more class.”

Suddenly, I feel about twelve years old. It's dumb, but for some reason I actually care what Michelle thinks of me. She tells it like it is, she doesn't judge, and she doesn't put up with any bullshit. It makes her respect worth having.

“I'm still waiting for that promise,” Michelle says.

I indicate my swelling belly. “I'm nearly seventeen weeks pregnant, Michelle. How much mileage do you think I have?”

“Don't be smart. You're a very beautiful girl, and we both know Blake likes his women blooming. Pregnant is his thing.”

I laugh nervously. “Oh, come on! It's just a fling! It doesn't mean anything.”

“In that case, it won't be much loss.”

I hesitate. Blake's hot, and he's brightened things up around here, but the truth is, I don't actually like him all that much. I don't get why he and Tom are even friends. He's too cocky by half; he reminds me of too many men I've screwed, and been screwed by, in the past. I don't trust a man who looks in the mirror more than he looks at me. Michelle's right: he won't be much loss.

“Susannah,” Michelle threatens.

“Fine. Fine. Whatever.”

GRACE IS JUST
walking around the side of the house towards the garage, briefcase in hand, as we reach the top
of the garden. She looks up at us in surprise. “Michelle! Were you looking for me? I'm just on my way into work.”

“On a Saturday? Darling, how
is
that going to work when the baby's here?”

“The baby,” says Grace tightly, “is why I'm trying to get ahead of the game now.”

“Oh, don't worry. This won't take long,” Michelle says breezily, pushing past Grace into the house.

Grace looks annoyed, but she's too polite to argue. I hide a grin as we all troop into the kitchen. Props to Michelle: not many people can tackle my sister head-on and win.

She doesn't beat about the bush, either. “I've heard about Susannah's letter from the boys' social worker,” she says briskly. “I think she should meet them. And I think you should go with her.”

I witness the unthinkable: my sister lost for words.

“Michelle, I really don't have time to discuss this now,” Grace says, throwing a quick glare my way. “I know Susannah has visions of a fairy-tale ending, but the truth is rather more complicated.”

“Donny and Davey want to see their mother again,” Michelle says sweetly. “How complicated is that?”

“It's not that simple, and Susannah knows it. No doubt she'll be heading back to America before long, and the boys will lose touch with her again. It's not fair to give them hope that she's going to be a proper part of their lives. She should never have contacted them—”

“I didn't,” I say indignantly. “
They
asked to see
me
.”

Grace turns her back on the two of us to fill up the kettle. Her hands are shaking. I really don't get why this is such a big deal. She was the one bawling me out for not going to see the boys a couple of months ago. What's suddenly changed?

I skip smartly out of the way as Grace slams the kettle on the Aga hot plate, and then picks up a sponge and starts to wipe down the kitchen counter so aggressively she's in danger of taking the color off the granite.

“Gracie, the baby's going to show soon,” I plead. “I've got enough bridges to build with the boys without laying this on them.”

“Which is why I don't think it's a good idea,” Grace says, rubbing furiously at a nonexistent spot of grease. “Not yet.”

I throw an imploring glance Michelle's way. She puts her hand on Grace's sleeve, stilling her frantic scrubbing. Her French manicure is perfect, I notice; no sign of paint or charcoal beneath those polished nails.

Grace looks from Michelle to me, and then puts down the sponge. “Zee, it's not that I don't want you to see your children.” She sighs. “They're wonderful boys, and you should be proud of them. Of course I want you to meet them, and you know I'll come with you. After everything you've done for me, it's the least I can do. All I'm saying is, why not wait until after the baby's born? It'll be so much easier for all of you—”

“No!” I yell suddenly. “I haven't seen my sons for nearly
six years
, Grace! I don't want to wait! The boys want
to see me
now
. If I don't go, they might think I don't want to see them. They might change their minds. If it were you, would you take that risk? Would
you
wait?”

“If it was me …” Grace snaps.

I brace myself for another blast of abuse. Grace took it personally when I left the boys, and she's never gotten over it. You'd think
she
was the one I'd abandoned.

“Grace?” prompts Michelle.

“If it was me,” Grace says quietly, “I wouldn't want to wait either.”

“You'll come? You'll take me?”

Her face softens, and she nods. I fling myself into her arms—and then gasp and clutch my stomach.

“What?” Grace cries, alarmed. “Susannah, what is it? Is it the baby?”

I grin delightedly. “Yes,” I say, grabbing her hand and placing it on my belly. “I just felt it move!”

“KEEP STILL,” MICHELLE
scolds. “This is hard enough without you wriggling.”

“Well, it hurts! You're pulling my hair out at the roots!”

She pushes me back down on the stool. “Don't be such a baby. You're the one who let it get into this state. Unless you want to chop the whole lot off, you're just going to have to sit still and be patient.”

I grit my teeth as she goes at my hair again with the proverbial fine-tooth comb. For the last three days, I've
slathered my dreads twice a day with a special heavy-duty conditioner the texture of tar that's supposed to help with take-down; I smell like a chum bucket, and my hair looks like I've been slimed. Worse, it still feels like she's ripping my hair from my scalp. But as she points out, I either sit it out, or shave my head and start practicing my Nazi salute.