Hate to Love You (3 page)

Annoyed with myself, I chalked the sensation up to finding out I was pregnant. My mind was playing tricks on me because of the shock. The more I thought about what else pregnancy would do to me, the more panicked I became. The upper from my pocket felt soothingly warm and smooth. A little bit of sunshine to get me through the night. Desperate for a high even if it were only a small one, I twiddled it between my fingers.

Caroline wanted us to pretend we ate family meals in our cramped kitchen, giving me the perfect excuse to escape. I volunteered to lay the table and pop the chicken in the oven so I could pop a little something else too. I think the only person who noticed me leave was James, but when I looked his back was turned.

Chapter Two

Ketchup on Your Face

I watched Jeremy Kyle browbeat his guests, feeling pretty damn smug my life wasn’t as screwed up as the ex-convict sleeping with his sister’s boyfriend. Then Caroline walked in, frowned, and immediately put a damper on my happy buzz. She switched off the TV and turned on Classic FM.

While some poor cow screeched in Italian, Caroline looked around the kitchen like one of those know-it-all designers—the ones who leech people’s homes of personality and call it tasteful. I backed off and watched her. The nineteen eighties Formica countertops and splintered, mismatched chairs contrasted sharply with Caroline’s carefully curated understated elegance. It was going to be a tight fit for dinner tonight. Our kitchen was big enough to cram in a table and chairs but not large enough to fit Caroline’s distaste.

She stared at my midriff. “Don’t you have anything else to wear? You look cheap.”

“This is my reality-TV look,” I said, eyeing her chic dress and glitzy shoes. Man, I loved shoes and Caroline had loads. “You could let me at your wardrobe if it really bothers you, and then we could ask James to pick out the real Caroline.”

Her frown turned into a scowl. We’re hardly clones but we’re very similar and she hates that. Caroline’s my height, slender and perfectly proportioned, unlike me. We share the same shade of honey-blond hair and we both wear it long, except that hers is always salon perfect. She’s most often described as classically beautiful though, and doesn’t get the crude attention I get. I’ve been cursed with the kind of padding that inspires panting, not poetry.

When we were little my mother used to say that Caroline was her strawberries and cream, all pink and white, and I was her peach crumble—until she forgot she was supposed to like peaches just as much as strawberries.

Our eye colour is different also. Mine are a changeling shade of blue whereas Caroline’s are a constant shade of bitch. Looking at her, they seemed harder than usual. I checked on the chicken and studied her as she made a salad. Her movements were stiffly precise.

Trouble in paradise maybe? I certainly hoped so.

“Is James too posh to help with the nosh?”

I laughed at my rhyme, watching Caroline grate a carrot and bobbing my head to the rhythm. Shit, I was high as a kite. If I weren’t careful she’d notice and tell the olds. I modulated my voice and tried to sound like I usually did.

“Where’s the toff?”

“If you mean James, he’s discussing the order of service with mother.”

Brilliant, my chance to get crude with cantankerous Caroline had come. That’s alliteration by the way. I passed my English retake with an A.

I glanced toward the sitting room. “It’s a pity James will be Down Under until the wedding. That’s three months for him to jerk off at his hotel all alone. Why don’t you give him some pussy tonight? Show the poor sod you care.”

Caroline stopped grating. “That would only show that I’m a slut, like you.”

“Never underestimate the power of the pussy.”

I popped a cherry tomato into my mouth, moaning in pleasure as I chewed. Her face turned a blotchy red and she grabbed a cucumber, slicing it viciously. Jesus, was she uptight or what? I bent down to get the plates from my mother’s hand-painted wooden cupboard. The red poppies on the doors grew and rippled in front of me and I swatted one away.

“What’s wrong, Caro? Are you afraid you won’t measure up in the sack? Surely James has copped a feel and told you what he likes? Don’t tell me you haven’t done the same to him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Copping a feel is for women like you. I’m saving myself for marriage, especially after what happened to mother. I’ll be a
real
virgin on my wedding night and never know the touch of another man.”

Oh for fuck’s sake! Caroline belonged in the Middle Ages. Only sleeping with one man your entire life? No fun and games before you committed yourself to lifelong misery? No thanks.

“Sounds bloody boring to me,” I said. “And all that pain on your wedding night when you’re supposed to be enjoying yourself. Take it from me, Caro, virgin sex hurts like hell. A man’s penis is like a crowbar, stretching you open and tearing you up even if he takes it slow. The head looks like a red Nazi helmet and it’s like, really wide...and that’s the bit you’re going to have to deal with first, all swollen and pokey. Once it’s jammed inside you’ll have to pee so bad you think you’ll burst, but all you can do is struggle not to leak while he pumps into you.”

Caroline stopped slicing, the colour draining from her face.

I resisted the urge to laugh. “If you’re lucky, your hymen will break before James rips your vagina apart. You’ll still be begging him to stop ’cause it hurts so bad, and then you’ll bleed like you’ve got your period. But don’t worry—he won’t care about the mess. He’ll be ramming his penis inside, over and over, rutting away for all he’s worth, grating your tender skin like you just did that carrot. And when it’s all over it’ll feel like you’ve got thrush.”

Caroline’s face was ashen. “You’re deliberately trying to scare me.”

“Just telling it like it is. Don’t go easy on the booze at your reception. James will want to screw all night since he’s been such a good boy. He’ll be like that geyser you saw in Iceland, ready to blow every hour on the hour.”

Caroline frowned. “That’s where you’re wrong. My fiancé is not the sort of man
you’re
used to.”

I widened my eyes. “You mean he’ll be happy with blow jobs?” She looked nauseous at the suggestion. “Men love getting head, Caroline. If I were you I’d take that cucumber and start practicing. Nothing disappoints a guy more than a woman who won’t go down, or worse—one who won’t swallow.”

“You’d know all about that,” she said maliciously.

The smile drained from my face and I stared at her, lost in my agonising past. “Thanks to you.”

Caroline tut-tutted. “Delusional as usual—the drugs did a once-over on your sanity.”

Her denial wasn’t surprising but it filled me with frustration all the same. Sometimes people convince themselves the lies they tell are the truth, as I suspected Caroline had. Sure, I’ve told my fair share of porkers, from little white gaps in reality to whopping black holes. But I don’t confuse my lies with the truth and I never lie to myself. The weird quirk that allows me to see the truth in others makes it impossible not to see it in myself.

That sucks, believe me.

Looking at Caroline I wondered again why she’d always hated me. For a crazy moment I wished we were like normal sisters, ones who loved each other, shared clothes and confided things. I would be happy for Caroline’s marriage and she would help me with my pregnancy dilemma. We would hold hands and find a park to make daisy chains in, laughing and rolling around on the grass.

Shit, the upper was making me delusional. I needed a distraction and Caroline’s sour expression said she was dissatisfied with more than our shabby house and my smutty conversation.

“What’s got you into a huff?” I asked.

In her annoyance Caroline was eager to off-load. “James is thinking of leaving Wimpress & Wimpress before he makes partner. He wants to buy a hotel in Spain of all places. Can you imagine?”

Not really, but it sounded a hell of a lot better than working a nine-to-five in dreary England. I grinned at the thought of Caroline giving up her corporate dreams to go bohemian on the Costa del Whatever.

“Don’t knock it, Caro. You’d look great in an apron and flip flops, handing out plates of baked beans on toast. And think of all the stag party drunks you’d meet.”

Caroline looked even more alarmed than when I’d taunted her about virgin sex. I puckered up to an imaginary lover, wiggling my bottom and moulding my hands to my breasts, lowering them to my crotch and undulating like a belly dancer.

“I told you already. Give the man some pussy and he’ll forget about Spain.”

I laughed at her expression, pivoted on my heels and smacked straight into James. The sudden contact with his hard chest made my nipples tingle and my breath hitch. His hands came out to steady me and he looked down. Instead of moving away, I wrapped my arms around his neck and tilted my face up.

“You should give him some tonight. I can tell he needs it,” I said, caught by a force I couldn’t put words to, something urging me to get closer. My eyes dared him to kiss me, blatantly showing him my desire. Hell, I was dizzy. Dizzy from the contact with his tall, muscular body and dizzy from my little spin with the upper.

James looked at my lips and I felt him shiver before he set me firmly away.

His voice was flat and condescending. “Only a woman lacking in intelligence gives a man pussy to get what she wants and only men who think with their cocks take it.” He looked at me disparagingly. “Caroline is certainly not the former and I’m not the latter. Unfortunately, the same can’t be said of everyone.”

Anger at his insult left me grasping for the comeback that was hovering right at the tip of my tongue. Damn it, I knew I’d think of something when it was too late. Not that James would stick around to hear it. He’d cleared the space between him and Caroline and was bending down to give her a gentle, apologetic kiss for his language.

I thought I might puke.

* * *

Dry chicken breast, chips and salad.

I stared at the unappetising food on my plate and let the inane conversation waft over me. Would it have hurt my parents to wish me a happy birthday? I was desperate to go upstairs and take a few slurps of liquid celebration but I couldn’t, not with our guest of honour forcing me to pretend I was part of our family.

I watched Caroline’s French-manicured fingers lift her glass to pale pink lips. No wine for rehab girl, no siree. I got juice or H2O at home. Self-pity threatened to topple my polite social mask so I straightened my back and jammed a piece of chicken into my mouth.

My mother was eager for stories to tell after church. “Do you have any celebrity clients, James?”

He headed her off with a smile. “My firm is draconian in its confidentiality policy.”

She didn’t know what
draconian
meant but she got the message and sat back, disappointed.

My father took a long swig of Heineken. “What kind of lawyerin’ do you do again?”

Caroline sighed. “Corporate law and taxation, Daddy. Remember?”

I had looked it up. “James helps companies and really rich people avoid paying their taxes,” I clarified.

James gave me a steady look. “We minimise the tax liability for our clients, yes, but we do not facilitate tax evasion.”

I rolled my eyes at his mumbo jumbo. “You help your clients screw the government out of money while people like us pay everything we owe because we’re poor. That must be so fulfilling.”

“It’s fulfilling to give good advice,” he said levelly.

“It’s a lucrative branch of the law,” Caroline interjected, her face full of pride—and the desire to work in taxation once she’d paid her dues at Legal Aid. “James excels at it and should make partner before long. It’s perfectly legal—that’s the beauty of it.”

I turned on her. “So whatever is legal is right? I thought you trained to be a lawyer to help people defend themselves or fight injustice, not help the rich get richer.”

“Nothing wrong with being rich,” my mother said, smiling at James.

My father nodded and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Damn right, there in’t. Caroline will be set for life when she marries you, mate. Posh like she’s always dreamed. You said you’d only marry a high-class bloke, remember darlin’?”

James shifted uncomfortably and Caroline turned a darker red than her wine. I hoped she’d choke on it but she didn’t oblige.

I focused on James. “Do carry on making yourself and your clients richer while everybody else pays what they owe.”

He gave me another one of those measuring looks I was learning to hate. “It’s hypocritical of you to judge me for doing my job when you don’t contribute the taxes you’re so concerned about. When you’ve tired of being ‘between miseries’ and join the workforce, I’ll consider your opinion.”

He had a point but I wasn’t willing to let him get away with it. The whole practice seemed unfair to me. “Firms like yours help dictators and the mafia to launder their money,” I accused.

Caroline huffed irritably. “Paisley, tax law is over your head. Stick to secretarial studies and leave complicated affairs to those qualified to understand them.”

“It’s hardly rocket science. I read all about it in five minutes.” I pointed my finger at James. “You’re as guilty of money laundering as your clients are. Worse, even, because you help them to do it. That’s disgusting.”

My father gave me a menacing look. “That’s enough out of you.”

“Not to worry, Mr Benton,” James said coolly. “Self-righteousness is often a shield forged in hypocrisy.”

Once again I felt his measured appraisal, only this time I didn’t care what he thought of me.

<<
Bring it on.
>>

He obliged. “You seem perfectly capable of studying or getting a job regardless of your...troubles. Yet you want to live off the work of taxpayers like your parents, people who work hard so you can laze around and—”

“You know nothing about me,” I interrupted, livid at his judgement.

“Likewise, but out of respect for your parents I’ll elucidate.” He turned his head to address my father. “For the record, I do not represent criminals or dictators and I would never condone or facilitate their activities. My clients are hard-working professionals looking for tax effective ways to manage their money. I help them.”

“Yeah, to help themselves,” I mocked.

“Why should that bother you?” James asked, sounding truly perplexed. “Many of my clients are like Caroline, people who are successful because they have drive and intelligence. They don’t sit around and expect others to work for them. You languish at home, perfectly capable of doing the same but choosing not to. You should aspire to be more like Caroline—an honest, professional woman of outstanding integrity.”

I was speechless. If love was blind then James needed a guide dog to steer him clear of the bitch sitting next to him. Then again, it probably wouldn’t work. Caroline had years of practice hiding her true self.