What's Yours Is Mine (11 page)

“Let's just wait and see if it has big hairy feet and worries about its precioussssss.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” I put my feet on the coffee table just to annoy her. “Look, Grace. Tom
is
into all this, right? I mean, he's OK with me being Auntie-mom to the kid? He hasn't really talked about it much—”

“
Auntie-mom
? How long did you spend in LA?”

“Long enough to get my own shrink.”

“Not before time,” Grace snorts.

I'm about to point out that
she's
the one trying to impregnate her younger sister with her husband's sperm without telling either of the putative grandparents, but we both leap up at the sound of Tom's tread on the stairs.

“That was quick!” Grace exclaims tactlessly.

Tom looks dejected. “Grace, if this doesn't work, I'm really not sure I can do it again.”

Tell me about it
, I think, as I stare at the jug in the bathroom five minutes later and grimace with distaste. Jeez! How long has she kept the poor bastard bottled up? There must be a pint of the stuff in here!

Holding my breath, I suck up Tom's little swimmers into the end of the turkey baster. I'm starting to wish I hadn't offered to play rent-a-womb like this. Yes it'll put a roof over my head for at least the next nine months, and I do actually feel quite sorry for Grace. I also get a bit of a kick out of rubbing her nose in the fact that I can do something she can't for once. But if it doesn't take soon, I'm pulling out of the deal, rent-free room or no rent-free room. It's bad enough being plied with vitamins the size of horse pills and having my sugar intake monitored, but I'm buggered if I'm going to ask my big sister for permission to have a shag.

I lie on my back, and shove the turkey-baster up my va-jay-jay. This is
so
not my idea of a good time.

I squirt.

THE FIRST TIME
Michael arrives at the art studio wearing a skirt, I'm a little taken aback. Given his addiction to Gap khakis and sensible brogues, I really didn't see this one coming.

“Sorry to disturb you when you're working,” he says. “Mind if I come in?”

I put down my charcoal. He's got a great pair of legs, I'll give him that. The hips in the navy pencil skirt are a little scrawny, and I'm not sure about the pussycat bow above his cardi—a bit too Maggie Thatcher—but overall, the dude pulls it off. I like the blond wig; very natural. And he does his makeup better than Grace; not that that's difficult. Thinking about it, I reckon frocks actually suit him better.

He hitches his handbag onto his shoulder. “If you're in the middle of something, I could come back—”

“Forget it. I was just going to take a fag break anyway.”

Michael follows me over to the small kitchenette in a corner of the studio, his high heels clicking on the mosaic-tiled floor. I root around for two mugs amid the jars of turpentine and paintbrushes, and give them a quick rinse.

“Coffee?”

I spoon grounds into the mugs and wait for the kettle to boil. Michael hovers next to me, fiddling with the clasp of his gold charm bracelet and clearly working himself up to say something.

I take pity on him. “Michael, is something on your mind?”

“Michelle,” he murmurs.

“I like it.”

“Thank you. It's about Blake and Claudia,” he blurts suddenly. “I know this really isn't my place, and I hate to interfere, but I
have
to talk to you. One woman to another.”

“One woman to another,” I echo.

“Blake's a lovely man, Susannah, but he's terribly easily led. Claudia manages him well most of the time, but she's got a lot on her plate right now, with the twins, and the new baby coming. It must be
so
exhausting keeping him on such a tight leash.” He sighs. “I'm sure he loves her, but really, the boy is a
total
man whore.”

I'm more thrown by the length of this speech than by the twinset and pearls. Michael usually restricts himself to monosyllables, uttered from the side of his mouth. Clearly his alter ego has no such inhibitions.

I flip open my Marlboros. “All very interesting, but why are you telling me this?”

“Oh, darling,” he says reproachfully. “I think you know.”

Of course I know. I'm just surprised Michael's acute enough to pick up on it. He's seemed a bit of a dud till now.

“How often do you do this?” I ask, waving my hand to take in his ensemble. “Does Grace know?”

“Michelle visits when I need her,” he says. “And yes, she and Grace have met. Don't change the subject. Blake is a weak-willed man, but he's not bad. He just needs to
be saved from himself sometimes. You are an extremely beautiful and sexy woman, as you very well know. He'd have to be blind not to notice. You could have your choice of men, but Claudia could never love again. He's the one for her.”

I hum a few bars of
Jolene
.

Michael—sorry,
Michelle
—smiles. “
Please don't take him just because you can
. Exactly.”

“I've never understood why she'd want him,” I muse, exhaling a long stream of smoke, “if he's so hung up on bloody Jolene.”

“Susannah, be the better man for once. Let this one go.”

He puts down his untouched coffee, and straightens his skirt. His nails are neatly manicured and painted a sophisticated nude. Everything about Michelle is elegant and understated. Despite the scolding and the schoolmarm tone, I think I like her.

“You're not gay, are you?” I ask idly, as he goes to leave.

He pauses in the doorway and gives me a cool glance. “I'd fuck you soon as look at you,” he says. “Do give Grace my love.”

I snort. Scratch the above. I
definitely
like her.

I stay at the studio longer than usual, working on my charcoal sketch until nearly nine; not because I'm particularly inspired, but because I'm desperate to escape Grace's puppy-dog gaze. It's only been three days since I did the baby dance with a turkey baster, but that hasn't stopped her
bringing half of Mothercare back home in plastic bags. Overkill as usual. She'll be knitting bootees next.

God knows what Mum would make of it all, I think, as I spritz the drawing with fixative. It's lucky she's in a coma, or we'd never hear the end of it. Tom lets me borrow his little hybrid, so I've been down to see her more-or-less every other day for the past month or so. It's not like I've got anything else to do. I quite like spending the afternoon chatting to her. At least she can't answer back.

I tidy my charcoals away, and turn off the lights, wishing I'd driven to the studio rather than walked as I bundle up in Grace's expensive black coat and step out into the bitter night. I'd sleep here on the sofa, only it's too bloody freezing. A converted dairy on the outskirts of the village, the studio is drafty and cold at the best of times, but the light is fantastic, and there's more than enough space for Michael and me to work. Best of all, it gets me out of the house and away from the Ubermother.

I've no idea if my paintings are any good, but it feels liberating to let myself go on a broad canvas. There's only so much you can fit on even the best-muscled biceps. Maybe I
should
think about going back to college, like Grace suggested. She's even offered to pay.

I pull my hat farther down over my ears. Yeah, right. I can imagine what Dad would have to say about that. He thought I was a waste of space and resources the first time around, and that was before I caught with Davey.

I'm just reaching the corner of the main road when a dark shape materializes out of the blackness ahead of me
and seizes my arm. Without thinking, I grab and twist, jerking his arm back behind his shoulder and driving my knee hard into his groin. He falls to the ground, and I stamp hard on his knee so he can't rise up and chase me like the baddie in some B-movie horror flick.

“Jesus Christ!” Blake yells, covering his head. “Stop! It's me!”

He hauls himself onto his hands and knees, coughing and groaning. “It's not fucking funny!” he exclaims, as I burst out laughing. “Are you trying to kill me?”

I reach out to help him up, but he bats my hand away. “Well, you shouldn't sneak up on people in the dark,” I retort. “You could've been a rapist or an ax murderer. How was I to know it was you?”

“Any rapist who took you on would deserve a bloody medal.”

He does look a bit the worse for wear. Blood seeps from a nasty cut to his mouth, and there's another gash in his forehead, probably from a rock or stone he hit as he went down. He struggles to his feet, but his knee immediately gives way under him. If I weren't there to catch him, he'd have gone down again. I guess those self-defense classes weren't such a waste of time after all.

“We'd better go back to the studio and clean you up a bit.” I giggle. “If I send you home to Claudia looking like that, she'll think you've been up to no good.”

“I'm not sure it's safe to be alone with you. Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

“Chicago. I worked in a rough neighborhood. I thought it best to be prepared.”

“Some Boy Scout you are.”

I slip my hand through his arm—“Ow! Mind my shoulder!”—and lead the way back to the darkened studio. “What were you doing skulking around out here anyway?”

“I wasn't skulking. I was going to ask you if you fancied coming to the pub for a drink. There's a band playing tonight, they're pretty good. Thought you might fancy it.”

“What about Claudia?”

“What
about
Claudia?”

We reach the studio, and I unlock the door and help him inside. He collapses onto the lumpy flowered sofa, and touches his swollen lip. “Got any ice?”

“Sorry. I can do a cold beer.”

“Fine. And can you do anything to warm this place up? It's like a frigging icebox.”

I pass him a couple of chilled cans of Stella, one to drink and one to hold against his lip, and pour myself a generous slug of Jack Daniel's in lieu of a decent beer. I light the oil stove, and settle in the semidarkness on the floor, my back against the sofa.

“How's your shoulder?” I ask.

“Bloody painful, if you must know.”

“Want me to work on it?”

“You've done enough damage.”

I put down my drink. “Get over yourself. It's not that
bad. Give me ten minutes, and you'll feel fine. Come on, take your jacket off.” I move around the sofa behind him and start to massage his shoulder. “Most inkers have neck and shoulder issues. I took a few classes. I used to work on the team after we closed.”

“You're pretty good,” Blake acknowledges, after a few moments.

“Shut up and keep still.”

I move over his shoulders and upper back, working the muscles in firm, rhythmic circles. He smells of soap and lemons and something I can't place, something sharp and spicy. His skin feels warm beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and I feel a sudden pulse between my legs.
Oh, be still my beating knickers
. Remember poor Jolene.

“Why'd you stop?” Blake complains. “That was just getting good.”

Tell me about it. “Maybe we should think about getting you home.”

“Are you kidding? I can't walk on this knee yet. Come on, sit down, and stop being so damned twitchy. I'm hardly in a position to jump you.”

Reluctantly, I return to the sofa, careful to leave an ocean of flowery chintz between us. Bloody Michael and his “be the better man.” It's like having a tub of Ben & Jerry's right next to me that I'm not allowed to touch. And if you want to extend the metaphor, I'm starving. Like, I haven't eaten in
months
. My stomach is growling in the worst way, and I'm practically dribbling. All I can think about is getting the lid off and plunging my spoon into—

“I said, can you get me another beer?”

“All right, keep your hair on,” I say crossly.

I grab another Stella out of the fridge. As I hand it to Blake, he wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls me onto the sofa. Before I can protest, his mouth is on mine, his tongue pushing forcefully between my lips. He tastes cool and yeasty from the beer. My nipples leap to attention, and my knickers twang. It's not often a man makes me hot, but I can feel this kiss from my earlobes to my toes.

My happiness depends on you, and whatever you decide to do, Jolene
.

I wriggle free, and bolt to the other side of the room, still holding the unopened beer. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“Just checking everything is in working order, after that knee to the balls.”

I throw the can at him. Blake deftly catches it, and then leaps up, his knee miraculously cured. His eyes are dark with hunger as he pulls me into his arms.

This time, when he kisses me, I don't give Jolene a second thought. I kiss him back, hard, my hand on the back of his head. His arms snake around my waist, groping under my T-shirt, honing in on my nipples, which are now the size of walnuts. We shuffle backwards to the sofa, and I'm unbuttoning his jeans as he pulls my skirt up around my waist. My skin sings as he skims his palms across it. It's like he's got a hotline to my pussy.