What's Yours Is Mine (20 page)

For the past five years, since Susannah ran away to
America, Mum and I have dutifully played the same game. She's taken a conscientious interest in my career, and inquired after Tom. In return, I've gone home every third weekend, and for birthdays and holidays, to admire her camellias and pretend to remember neighbors I last saw when I was six. We have perfected our roles—proud mother, loving daughter—so well that we could almost believe them ourselves.

But Susannah left a hole I couldn't fill. I was the daughter who'd stuck around, the daughter she could talk about with friends without needing to change the subject. But we both knew I wasn't the one she wanted. A ten-minute phone call from Susannah to ask for more money meant far more to her than the dutiful, joyless weekends she and I shared.

I don't know why she's never felt about me the way she does about Susannah. I don't know if it was because I was hard to love, or simply because Susannah's need was so overwhelming it left no room for me. But I want the chance to ask her. She can't die yet. She can't die until I know.

A spasm of pain as Tom thrusts awkwardly refocuses my attention. His rhythm suddenly increases in speed and intensity, and I realize we're close to the finish. Years of practice enable me to time my moans with his movements, and I allow my breathing to quicken with his. There are occasions in bed when one knows an orgasm isn't going to happen, and it's far easier on a man's ego to gloss over those
times—few, admittedly—rather than ruin it for him with a sense of failure. As Michelle would say, you can't get a coconut every time.

Although there was a time Tom would have noticed.

SUSANNAH IS IN
the middle of another ultrasound when I arrive on her ward the next morning. As soon as I see the sonographer at the side of her bed, my pulse and step quicken nervously, but even before I reach my sister the sonographer has hung up her wand and unplugged the portable machine, and Susannah is wiping off the last of the gel and pulling down her T-shirt.

“Is everything OK?” I ask anxiously.

Susannah climbs off the bed and slides her feet into a pair of crippling black stilettos. “The baby's fine. They just wanted to check everything before they let me out.”

I've known my sister her entire life. I can always tell when she's hiding something.

“
Susannah,
” I warn.

She rolls her eyes. “All right. The doctor wasn't supposed to say anything. Stupid rules. I don't know why it matters. She told me the sex of the baby,” she explains, as I'm about to launch into full-blown panic mode. “She said she was about ninety-nine percent sure it's a girl. They're not allowed to tell you these days in case you freak out and have an abortion because it's not the sex you wanted.”

“A girl? We're having a girl?”

“Yes. Can we go now?” my sister says impatiently. “I've been flat on my back for the last fortnight and I'm going to go mental if you don't get me out of here soon.”

She stalks down the ward, her heels ricocheting like gunfire on the hard linoleum. I pick up her hold-all and trail after her, grinning like a fool.

In the car park, I throw Susannah's bag into the boot of my BMW and lower the roof, while she struggles to get into the low-slung roadster. At nearly twenty weeks, she's suddenly started to show, and I'm surprised how protective of her—not just the baby—I feel.

The traffic is light. My heart sings with happiness as we speed back towards Oxford. It's a beautiful morning, one of those rare perfect English summer days: all vivid blue sky, warm breeze, lawn mowers, and church bells. Very
Midsomer Murders
. I'm going to have a daughter! Pink dresses. Ballet lessons. Ponytails. A daddy's girl.

The wind whips Susannah's long blond hair around her face as we reach the motorway, and she pulls up the hood of her sleeveless T-shirt. She's very quiet—but then, the lowered roof makes conversation difficult. I select Bach on the CD system, and turn it up, anticipating her excitement when she sees the surprise I have for her.

“Do we have to listen to this?” she says irritably.

Without argument, I switch to the radio instead, and find a pop station she likes. She says nothing more until we reach the outskirts of Oxford, and then only to point out that I've missed the exit.

“We're not going home just yet,” I say. “I've got something to show you first.”

“I'm really not in the mood,” she mutters.

It's no wonder she's out of sorts, what with her hormones and all she's been through in the past couple of weeks. There's no point taking it personally. Anyway, nothing can wipe the smile off my face today.

I reach into the side pocket for her pack of Marlboros and hand them to her. “It's OK. The roof's down, I don't mind.”

“You might not, but what about the baby?” she says indignantly. “Have you any idea how bad those things are for her?”

I drive through the center of Oxford, and out past Headington. A few minutes later, I turn right down a side street perpendicular to the river, and pull up in front of a pair of tall iron gates. Behind them is an elegant Georgian apartment building. Susannah doesn't even look up as I punch numbers into the security panel and the gates swing open.

“Come on, then,” I say, slotting the roadster neatly into one of the parking bays in front of the building.

“Look, Grace. I'm tired. I just want to go home.”

“You
are
home,” I say. “Well, it's not home yet. But it will be.”

Susannah throws me a look, then sighs heavily and climbs out of the car. I lead the way up to a bright, airy first-floor apartment overlooking the river. The kitchen
and bathroom are lurid orange and avocado Seventies horrors, but the bones of the flat are good. High ceilings, well-proportioned rooms. It'll be gorgeous once it's had a bit of work done.

“What are we doing here?” Susannah says pettishly.

“I'm showing you your new flat,” I say.

“What are you talking about?”

“It's yours, for after the baby. I've leased it for a year, but there's an option to buy if you decide you want to stay longer. The kitchen and bathroom need updating, but the management company is fine with letting us do that.” I cross the living room and throw open French windows leading onto a tiny wrought-iron balcony just big enough for a couple of café chairs. “It's only about fifteen minutes' drive from Tom and me, and you can get to the boys in just over an hour. It's perfect.”

“Grace, are you
nuts
? I can't afford something like this! It's way out of my league!”

“No one's asking you to,” I say quickly. “It's my way of thanking you. I'm paying for it.”

No need to let on that leasing this flat for Susannah is a bit of a stretch, even for me. Money is a bit tight at home these days. My company is doing better than ever, and yet I never quite seem to catch up with the bills. I even had a credit card declined last week when I tried to buy a walnut dresser for Susannah's room at home, since she'd ruined the last one with her cigarettes. Tom forgot to transfer his salary from his account to our joint one last month too,
so there wasn't enough to cover the household bills. I must speak to him about that.

Susannah shuts the French windows again with a sharp click. “What makes you think I even want to stay in Oxford?” she demands. “I'm not a child, Grace. You can't just go around taking charge and making decisions for me.”

“I'm not trying to,” I say, hurt. “I thought you'd be pleased.”

“You're trying to take over, Grace. Like you always do.”

“That's not fair! I'm just trying to help—”

“No, you're trying to get rid of me and salve your conscience at the same time. I hand the baby over to you, and you pension me off with your fancy apartment like I'm some kind of old slapper you don't want to fuck anymore.”

I wince. She's a little close to the mark for comfort. “You know that's not true. But you can't stay with me and Tom forever,” I cajole. “You need your own space, and so do I. We can go shopping for furniture and you can pick anything you like. I won't say a word. You can even paint the place black if you want and put mirrors on the ceiling.”

She turns back towards the window, wrapping her arms around herself. “Look. I'm not trying to piss on your parade. Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow. I just need to get home now. If that's OK.”

Trying not to feel too offended, I quietly lock the front door and we go back to the car. Maybe I
did
railroad
her a bit. Mum always says I'm too bossy. And Susannah's right: I'm not doing this just for her. In the nicest possible way, I
do
want her gone after the baby's born. I don't want there to be any doubt at all as to who this child's mother is. Having Susannah there in the house would be too strange. But I don't want her to go back to the U.S. either. I'm surprised how much I've gotten used to having her around. I'd actually miss her if she left now.

I'm fishing for my car keys when Susannah makes a strangled sound. “Look,” she hisses. “Over there!”

I glance up. A tall, familiar figure is just coming out of a peeling Victorian semi a couple of houses down. Behind him, a thin blond woman hovers on the doorstep, holding the fluttering edges of her pale green silk dressing gown together with one hand. In the driveway is a new silver Audi bearing the vanity plate B1AKE.

“The fucking
bastard,
” Susannah spits, as Blake turns and gives the woman a kiss that, even at fifty yards, clearly involves tongues.

I look away, ignoring the sudden beat between my legs. “That must be Layla.”

“Layla? Who the fuck is
Layla
?”

“Claudia said Blake has been seeing another woman, some model he met through work. She found some emails a few weeks ago. She thinks it's been going on for about six months.”

“Six
months
?”

“Since Blake found out Claudia was pregnant.”

“Who the fuck does he think he is?” Susannah demands
angrily. “He thinks he can screw anyone he likes and just get
away
with it?”

“It's Claudia's choice. She knows what's going on. This isn't the first time it's happened, Zee. I don't know why she puts up with it, but she does.”

I reach across the passenger seat to open the door for my sister. Still she doesn't move. “Come on, Zee. Leave it. It's none of our business.”

“No,” she says vehemently. “
No.
”

Her blue eyes are like chips of ice in her pale face. For a moment, I'm touched she cares so much about Claudia, and then the penny drops.

I want to slap her—
He's married! His wife is pregnant! What were you
thinking?—but more than that, I want to
kill
him. Susannah isn't nearly as tough as she makes out. She wears her heart on her sleeve like her tattoos; she falls in love far too easily, and with the wrong men. She was never any match for a player like him. She's not even
second
in line for his affections. She's my baby sister. He should have left her alone.

Oh, Zee
.

“Let her have him,” I say bitterly. “He's not worth it.”

She rounds on me. “You fucking hypocrite!” she hisses. “You're just jealous! You'd think he was fucking worth it if it was
your
bed he was in!”

“Susannah!” I gasp, taken aback. “That's not true!”

She leans over the car, eyes blazing, a cat about to spring. And then suddenly the fight goes out of her. Without another word, she opens the door and climbs
awkwardly into the car, then slumps back against her seat, and closes her eyes. She doesn't even open them when I reach gently around her and fasten the seat belt below her swelling belly. I start the car and ease out of the gated courtyard, keeping my gaze firmly on the road as we drive past Blake's car.

When we get home, I help her out of the car, and she thanks me, both of us carefully polite. I take her bag upstairs, and she sits on the edge of her bed, her arms dangling at her sides, as if the life has been sucked out of her.

“Can I get you anything?”

She shakes her head. “I think I'll just sleep.”

Tom is outside, messing about in the vegetable garden. I put the kettle on the Aga, and sit down, my anger building. That bastard has hurt the two women I care most about. What kind of man cheats on his wife because she's pregnant, and then starts an affair with another pregnant girl? Was it a one-night stand, or something more?

I realize I haven't even asked Susannah if it's still going on. Is she in love with him? Did she think he was going to leave Claudia for her?

Claudia
. How can I tell her? How can I not?

“This is why I didn't tell you,” Tom sighs later. “Whatever you do now is wrong. And if you do nothing, you become part of the lie.”

“She's my best friend, Tom. It's bad enough that she thinks Blake is screwing around because she's pregnant. What will it do to her when she discovers the baby has
nothing to do with it and he's just a lying, cheating bastard?”

He plunks down on the kitchen sofa and pulls off his muddy work boots. “I give up. I don't care anymore. If you think she needs to know, tell her.”

“But what about Susannah?”

“What
about
Susannah?”

“Everyone loves Claudia. If they know Susannah's been sleeping with her husband, Susannah'll be persona non grata. She's just getting settled here. I don't want her to spend the next four or five months miserable. It's not good for her or the baby.”

“So
don't
tell Claudia.”

I throw a tea towel at him. He ducks, and it flies over the back of the sofa, catching Susannah on the chest as she suddenly appears at the foot of the stairs.