What's Yours Is Mine (24 page)

I feel like the worst kind of Judas. If Claudia knew the truth: that Blake has not just cheated on her, but fathered my sister's child—and worse, that I knew about it and didn't tell her—would she still be so quick to defend me?

Her baby stirs in my arms. I gaze at him, breasts and heart aching with longing. Claudia is my dearest friend, but she has her son. She has her girls. I have to fight for
my
child, just as she would do for hers if it came to it. She's a mother; surely she can understand that? Wouldn't any mother do the same?

Later, as Tom and I make our awkward, separate goodbyes on the doorstep, I suddenly remember the presents I brought for the baby and Claudia's girls, still in the boot of Tom's car. He's parked a little way down the lane, since there isn't room for a third car in their narrow driveway, so I go outside to get them. As I open the boot, Blake materializes behind me in the dark.

“Need a hand?”

“It's OK,” I say, reaching into the car for the wrapped presents. “They're not heavy.”

“You should learn to accept help,” Blake smiles, “or people will stop offering.”

I hesitate, charmed despite myself by that movie-star smile. Whatever I think of him, it's nice of him to lend a hand, even if I don't really need it. Tom pointedly didn't offer. Blake hasn't actually done
me
any harm, not directly. Making a scene now will hardly help matters.

I stand back as he pulls a second large waxed paper bag out of the boot. A huge plush cocker spaniel peeps out, ears flopping waggishly over his glass eyes. “Jesus. This is ten times bigger than the baby.”

“Susannah picked it out,” I say, “months ago, when we were shopping at Harrods.”

Our eyes meet. I'm the first to look away.

“You know,” Blake accuses.

“She told me. About you and—the baby.”

“The baby? Christ, she's not pinning that on me. There's no way that kid's mine.”

He's very close to me now. I can see the pulse beating at the hollow of his throat. He smells of whisky and smoke and something else, something I can't name but causes a sudden heat between my legs.

He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Susannah was a mistake. You've always been the sister I wanted.”

Heat and pleasure flood my cheeks.
You've always been
the sister I wanted
. Not Susannah, glorious, golden, sexy Susannah, with her long tanned legs and dancing blue eyes. Grace. Dull, ordinary Grace.
Me
.

“The Ice Queen,” Blake whispers, so close now that I can feel the warmth of his skin. “What does it take to melt her, I wonder?”

I should move, but I can't. I should protest, but I don't.
This is what it's like to be Susannah
, I think giddily. Handsome men falling all over you, propositioning you at every turn, risking all for a single kiss.

He dips his head to mine. My lips open beneath his, lust racing across my skin. My nipples ache to be touched, and a flood of moisture seeps between my thighs. I press my body against his, yearning to be naked. If he pinned me against the car now and lifted my skirt, I'd welcome him without a second thought.

But he lets me go.

“Your phone's ringing,” he says, and I can see in his eyes that he knows precisely the effect he's had on me, knows that the bells of Notre Dame could have been ringing and I wouldn't have heard them. “You might want to answer it.”

He saunters back to the house with the plush spaniel tucked under his arm. I watch him go, hating him for kissing me, hating him more for stopping.

Belatedly, I remember my phone.

I'm woken by the sound of banging at the front door. I scramble off the sofa, where I've been dozing in front of
Loose Women
, and peer through the frosted porthole to the left of the studio door.

Grace. Shit. Quickly I duck out of sight and hide beneath the kitchen counter, hoping she doesn't go around to the back door. I'm not sure I locked that.

My calves start to cramp as I hear Grace clipping around the outside of the studio, knocking on the full-length windows and trying to peer through the blackouts. She knows I'm in here. This is fucking mad. I'm hiding from my sister like she's a bloody bailiff, because I'm too chicken to face her and tell her where to get off.

The thing is, I know Grace. Once she has the bit between her teeth, there's no stopping her till she gets what she wants. Right now, she's after my baby. And when it comes to Grace, I've never been any good at saying no.

When we were kids, as far as Grace was concerned, what's mine was hers. Needless to say, it didn't cut both
ways. If I so much as touched her stuff, she'd practically have a cow.

“You don't mind if I borrow this, do you?” she'd say, picking up my new
Frankie Says Relax
T-shirt or Duran Duran album, and of course I'd be too much of a wimp to say no. Grace's “Imperative Interrogative,” Mum called it. A question that was really a royal command.

I wouldn't have minded so much, but usually that'd be the last I'd see of whatever it was she'd “borrowed.” If I did get it back, it'd be trashed. Grace was totally anal about her things, but when it came to mine, it was a different story. Jumpers would be returned stretched, records scratched, lipsticks worn down to the nub, and she'd never offer to replace them. I once saved an entire month for a really expensive Dior eyeshadow set, and the first time Grace came home from college, it disappeared. When, on her next visit, I asked her if I could have it back, she airily told me she'd lost it. “It wasn't any good anyway,” she said carelessly. “Boots No 7 does the same color, and it lasts much longer.”

Mum said I had to stand up to Grace, but she didn't understand. Grace was my big sister. I
wanted
to share things with her. I wanted to be part of her world. I thought that if I gave her what she wanted, she'd be my friend and share it with me.

Not anymore
, I think firmly. I'm done with bribing my sister to get her to like me. I've given her everything she's ever asked for, but I draw the line at my own baby.

I hear the rasp of the letterbox as Grace pushes it open
and calls through it. “Susannah? I know you're there. Please, I just want to talk.”

Quietly, I squirm back and huddle farther out of sight—not an easy feat with a bump the size of a medicine ball glued to my lap. Two buttons ping noisily off my shirt. I've got to get some maternity clothes soon; I'm literally bursting out all over. My boobs cast such a huge shadow, my feet are going to start sprouting mushrooms.

Just as I think Grace is about to give up, there's the sound of a key in the lock. Fuck fuck
fuck
. Michael must be back from the gallery. Just my freaking luck.

The door opens, and I sign frantically to Michael to tell Grace I'm not there, slashing the edge of my palm wildly across my throat. Without missing a beat, Michael turns back to my sister, blocking her view as she bobs up and down trying to see in. “You must have missed her, Grace. I'll tell her you were here.”

“But it's really important I—”

“Help me up,” I hiss, as Michael politely but firmly shuts the door on my sister. “I'm stuck. My center of gravity has shifted to my arse.”

“Along with your senses, it would seem.”

I take his hand, and, using it as a fulcrum, slowly lever myself upright. “What was I supposed to do?” I say crossly. “She's been around here every day since I left, bugging the crap out of me. She's not going to give up till she gets what she wants. You know what she's like.”

“Then you need to tell her you're not going to change your mind.”

“Give me a break. You don't think I have?”

“No. I don't think you've told her like you mean it. Because actually, I don't think you do.”

I stick out my tongue at Michael's departing back as he disappears up the wrought-iron spiral staircase to his loft. What is he talking about: he doesn't think I mean it? Of course I mean it! This baby is the only good thing in my life. I'll never give her up. She's my chance to finally get things right.

But maybe he has a point. Maybe Grace keeps coming over because
she
thinks I don't mean it, either.

Michelle's the one who's really my friend, but I have to admit Michael is beginning to grow on me, too. I'm starting to see they've got more in common than I thought. They both give good advice, even if I don't always like hearing it. And Michael doesn't judge. He took me in without demanding explanations or offering advice. Nor has he started dropping subtle hints about me finding my own place, even though I've been here nearly a month. I never meant to stick around this long, but I don't feel up to coping on my own yet, and Michael's so easy to be with; at least, now he's got used to me. Women clearly terrify the shit out of him—which is weird, given he makes such a good one—but it's like I'm an honorary trannie or something because of the baby. He knows I'm not going to jump his bones when his guard is down. Shame, really. He could be kinda hot if he wasn't so easily spooked.

When Michael drives back to the gallery later that afternoon, I hitch a lift with him into town. I need some
bigger clothes before I split everything like the Incredible Hulk.

He drops me at the Covered Market, and I head straight to Mortons for a falafal-and-hummus wrap. I don't know what it is about this pregnancy, but I'm hungry all the time. I've put on about twenty pounds already, and I bet nineteen of that is Ben & Jerry's and soft cheese.

I lick my fingers, still hungry even after wolfing down the lot. Maybe I could nip into Squirrels for some organic yoghurt-dipped raisins or something. It's not snacking if it's organic, right?

My tummy grumbling, I steer my ever-expanding belly down the narrow aisles towards the health food store, trying to ignore the funky clothes shops filled with skinny jeans that (a) I can't get into and (b) I can't afford. I need a real job, not this filler at the gallery. Benefits aren't going to cut it, either. Sixty-four quid a week doesn't get you a night at the flicks these days. Seriously, the amount people like Grace pay in taxes, you'd think the government could be a bit more generous.

As I come within smelling range of Nash's Bakery, my feet stop of their own accord. Screw the organic sawdust. I want one of those custard pies. And a chocolate éclair. And maybe a mille-feuille chaser.

I don't realize my nose is actually pressed against the window until I start sliding down it. I straighten up in embarrassment, wiping away the greasy imprint of my nose with my sleeve. Seriously. I'm going to be one of those halfton women on the Discovery Channel if this carries on.

Suddenly I stop wiping, and peer back through the glass. Hold on. What's Tom doing in a bakery in Oxford when he's supposed to be saving little lives in London?

And more to the point: who the hell is the sexy redhead with him?

Tom turns and sees me. He couldn't look guiltier if he was stark naked with his head buried between the redhead's legs.

I back away as he rushes outside to me. “Don't start. I came here to get away from Grace—”

“I'm not going to. As far as I'm concerned, the baby's yours. And if she brings in the legal heavies, I'll tell them the same thing.”

“Grace won't thank you for that,” I say.

“Grace brought this on herself,” Tom retorts sharply.

To my surprise, I feel a twinge of sympathy for my sister. He's her husband; whatever the rights and wrongs of it, she should be able to count on him.

“Who's your friend?” I ask, nodding towards the redhead hovering discreetly a few feet away.

“She's a colleague from work. Look, I know how it seems,” Tom says, blushing to the tips of his Hobbit ears, “but she's here professionally. For a … a consult.”

“What about? Chocolate éclairs versus jam doughnuts?”

“It's personal,” Tom mumbles. “Susannah, I'd be really grateful if you didn't mention this to Grace.”

I snort. “As if. We're not exactly BFFs right now, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“I'm sorry,” he sighs. “I'm sorry about all of it. This is all my fault. I should never have gone along with it in the first place.”

I'm about to point out that it's as much my fault as anyone's, when I feel a familiar twinge in my back.

And then the pain suddenly deepens and intensifies, and in an instant it's moved from
ooh-I-wonder-what-that-is
to
oh-my-fucking-God!

IT'S NOT NEARLY
as bad this time. For a start, I'm not in some sweaty, phlegm-soaked mixed ward like I was when I collapsed at the boys' foster home. This time, I had the good sense to pass out in range of the best Oxford hospitals, and I'm soon bedding down in a bijou little ward with only four beds in it, two of which are empty. It probably didn't hurt arriving with two big-shot London doctors in tow: it seems the redhead really
is
one of Tom's colleagues, and a neonatologist at that. Though that still doesn't explain the illicit pastry purchases.

As soon as the doctors start pumping antibiotics into every available vein, I begin to feel better. They give me some painkillers too, but because of the baby they're not as strong as I'd like (i.e., pass-out-unconscious), and to be honest, they barely take the edge off. But the worst part is when they catheterize me. Having a sharp plastic tube shoved up your lady bits by a nurse with all the finesse and sensitivity of Ivan the Terrible is not my idea of fun.

Finally, I stop swelling up like a jaundiced balloon, and
the stiletto pain in my kidney dulls to a kneed-in-the-back sort of ache. More doctors appear to check the baby. She kicks back, and while I don't blame her, I now have heartburn and aching ribs to add to my joys.