What's Yours Is Mine (15 page)

OK. Let's see what happens when I pick one of
these
out.

I go back with it and give her my best Little Sis routine.
Everything's sweet till she sees how much it costs, and then I think she's literally going to have a cow.

“It's OK,” I say innocently. “It's too expensive. I'll put it back.”

“Don't be silly. It's yours. Now, are you ready for the nursery?”

Got to hand it to her: she took that on the chin. Grace is a lot of things, but she's not a coward. She never quits. Most women would curl up under the duvet after a doctor told them they'd never be able to have kids, but not Grace. Even if I hadn't come along, she'd have sorted it somehow. Once she sets her mind on something, you can't stop her.

I suddenly remember the time she brought me a piece of her birthday cake when I was in the hospital. She was only, like, eight or nine. She made it all the way across London on her own, changing trains and walking miles in the dark, just for me. I'd have been terrified, but not Grace. That night, I'd cried myself to sleep because I'd missed the party. I woke up to find her asleep on my hospital bed, the cake squished in a paper bag in her hands.

Impulsively, I slip my arm through hers as she leads us towards the nursery floor. For the first time since this whole baby thing started, I'm glad I'm doing it: for
her
sake.

We've got nothing in common, really. She doesn't understand the way I live my life, never has. She's got no idea how broke I really was when I was pregnant with Davey: the loan shark banging on the door, the threat of losing my kid because I simply had nowhere safe to live.
Grace has never had to buy anything secondhand in her entire life. Her idea of hard-up is having to shop at Asda instead of Waitrose. She was born to Prada and Osborne & Little wallpaper. I'm more your Top Shop and Argos sort of girl. But it's not her fault. I want to blame her, but I can't. It's just the way it is.

We spend the next two hours stripping the nursery bare, and even though I'm totally playing her, it's also the most fun I've had in years.

Grace seems happy, too. She spends the entire return journey back to Oxford happily poring over those scan photos like they're van Goghs. I don't get it. You can't even see anything. It's just a bunch of cells.

Mind you, it's already worth more than I am. I can't believe how stupid rich people are. Silk sheets, cashmere blankets, white linen dresses? For a baby? For fuck's sake, have the people who market this shit ever
had
a kid? Babies aren't all cute Gerber ads and soap bubbles. They puke. They drool. They shit, pee, vomit, dribble, and leak from every frigging orifice. Frankly, if you have a child under the age of three, you'd be better off covering everything, including yourself, in plastic for the duration. That fancy crap might look nice in a photo shoot for
Hello!
but it won't last five minutes in real life. I suppose that's the point.
I'm so rich it doesn't matter if my kid only wears this once
.

I tilt my new bangle this way and that on my wrist, sending a scatter of light around the carriage. I picked out the exact same one Tom gave Grace for her last birthday. I don't really like it, to be honest: it's boring, and I prefer a
bit of good honest gold bling to this oh-aren't-I-tasteful silver thing Grace goes in for. But if it's good enough for her, it's good enough for me.

By the time we get home, I'm knackered. And the constant need to pee is driving me nuts. I feel like some incontinent old cow as I leap out of the car and race upstairs to the bathroom. I might as well put a blue rinse through my dreads and have done with it.

As soon as my arse hits the loo seat, I pee like a racehorse, wincing as a familiar pain shoots through my kidney. Cystitis again. Happens every time I have good sex. Yesterday with Blake was great, but four times in one afternoon is pushing it a bit, even for me.

I shower and change into a clingy black T-shirt and a pair of gray sweats with the words
Tits
and
Ass
picked out in diamante, and go back downstairs. Grace is curled up in an armchair in the sitting room, reading one of those skinny books that win prizes and sell about four copies (and two of those are to the author's mum). Personally, I like fat glossy paperbacks that give you carpal tunnel and have pictures of stilettos and juicy single cherries on the front. Grace probably thinks chick lit is something to do with Tom's hens.

When I go into the kitchen to make some tea, I find Tom flat on his back on the floor, head and torso out of sight beneath the sink. Slimy gray water is puddled all over the terra-cotta floor.

I poke suspiciously at the lamb stew Grace has left bubbling in a pot on the Aga. “What happened to the sink?”

“Bacon fat,” Tom grunts. “Blocked solid.”

Oops. Can I help it if I crave BLTs at 3 a.m.?

I duck my head beneath the sink. “Need a hand?”

“Please. Been trying to get this U-bend unscrewed for twenty minutes. If you can hold the other end of the—great, thanks.” He bangs around for a few moments, then swears. “Bugger. The thread's gone, and it just keeps twisting. I need someone to hold the faucet steady up top while I try to loosen this nut.”

“You want me to get it?”

“Wait, don't let go of the pipe you've got, or we'll have water everywhere. Shit. We need another pair of hands.”

“I could go and get Grace—”

“No, no, don't disturb her. She's reading.”

She's reading
. If I had a fucking dime for every time I've heard that, I'd be able to buy out Simon Cowell.

Susannah, can you set the table, your sister's reading. Susannah, put the laundry away, we don't want to interrupt Grace when she's reading. Catherine, ask Susannah to finish the washing up, Grace is trying to study. I need you to peel the potatoes, walk the dog, stand on your head and spit fucking quarters: your sister's reading
.

I was the family skivvy because Grace was too “intellectual” and “academic” to get her hands dirty. Not for Grace the shitty jobs like sorting dirty underwear and cleaning the loo or even making Dad a cup of coffee. No, Grace was reserving herself for Better Things. Like degrees from Oxford and brilliant jobs and adoring, handsome—
well, OK, adoring—husbands.
Susannah can do the ironing. She can chop onions and grate cheese. After all, she's got nothing better to do
.

I kneel down and reach past Tom, gripping the tap and the overflow drain and somehow holding them both steady, my boobs about half an inch from his face. OK, so Grace got the degree and the success and the house and the nice, kind husband. But I've landed the two things she really wants, so yah boo sucks.

The baby, of course. And Blake.

I can't believe Tom doesn't notice. It's so
obvious
. Every time Blake walks into a room, she lights up like a Christmas tree. She gets all smiley and overexcited, and then starts asking these superinterested questions about Stella McCartney's latest collection and who's on the cover of
Tatler
. She was just the same when she got her first crush, on Gareth Lonergan, when she was sixteen, and discovered a sudden fascination for Dungeons & Dragons.

“Thanks, Zee. Nice job,” Tom says, emerging from beneath the sink, and brushing himself down. “OK. It should be fine, as long as no one dumps hot fat down it again.”

I knuckle the small of my back as I straighten up. “Sorry about that. My bad.”

“Are you all right?” Tom asks, concerned. “I shouldn't have had you bending like that. Grace would have my balls in a sling if she knew.”

“Forget it. I'm fine. What did you think of the scan pictures?”

“Not much, if I'm honest.”

I smile. “I thought you'd be a bit more excited to see the fruit of your loins.”

Tom turns on the tap, nods in satisfaction as water drains swiftly from the sink, and starts to rinse his hands. “Judging by that scan, you're having a fruit fly.”

“Don't tell Grace that. She's very attached.”

“The word you're looking for is
obsessed
.”

“Come on, Tom. Aren't you the least bit excited?”

“I'll wait till things are a bit further along to get excited, thanks.” Briskly, he towels his forearms dry. “I suppose I'd better shower and get cleaned up properly. Grace has invited Blake and Claudia over tonight for a celebration dinner.”

“She's told them already?” I exclaim, annoyed. I'd wanted to get a couple more shags out of Blake before he found out and I acquired all the allure of a flannel nightie.

“No, thank God. I'm not in the mood for more baby hysteria—no offense.”

“ 'S OK. None taken.”

“This party's for some big contract Blake landed last week with one of the glossies. Grace's idea.”

I knew it. Seriously, has the girl no shame? I mean, Claudia's her best friend! Even I feel a bit bad about shagging Blake, and I don't even
like
Claudia.

Pregnancy must be turning me soft. I'm usually more of a you-snooze-you-lose girl when it comes to husbands. My philosophy: if you can't keep your man happy, you deserve to lose him to someone who can. All wives have to
do is follow one simple rule: lots of sex and no nagging. Get it the other way around, and he'll be off. I refuse to feel guilty about Claudia. She's got nothing to do with me.
I'm
not the one being unfaithful. I didn't make any vows.

I scrutinize Grace as she flits around the dining room later that evening making sure everyone has a drink or another helping of potatoes dauphinoise. It's weird: when we were kids, she was useless in the kitchen. Couldn't boil an egg without forgetting to add water. Now she's knocking out fancy four-course meals like she's Nigella Lawson.
I'm
supposed to be the domestic one.
She's
the clever one. Can't she throw me a bone and just be bad at something for once?

Grace practically climbs over me to give Blake the biggest piece of homemade pecan pie, and goes on and on about the stupid
Vogue
contract for about an hour. I was right. She's got the hots for him big-time. But the
really
hysterical thing? She has no idea how she feels! It's not an act. This love is so unrequited, she hasn't even told herself about it!

I don't know if it's my hormones or the unlikely prospect of prim and proper Grace wetting her sensible M&S knickers for her best friend's husband, but suddenly, I'm
gagging
for it. I squirm beneath the table, trying unsuccessfully to catch Blake's eye.

“I'm going outside for a fag,” I say finally, shoving back my chair and hoping he gets the hint.

I'm on my second cigarette by the time Blake joins me behind the greenhouse.

“What kept you?” I demand crossly.

“I couldn't just run out after you. I had to fake an important text just to get away. I can't be long. Grace has been giving me odd looks all evening as it is.”

“She probably wanted to get you behind the bike sheds herself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Creams her jeans every time she looks at you.”

“The Ice Queen? You're kidding me.”

I unzip his fly. “She'd give it to you on a plate if you asked.”

“You dirty bitch,” Blake pants, his hand already inside my sweatpants. His fingers probe between my legs, and I back up against the greenhouse door, Grace forgotten. “My wife's right here, and you still can't get enough.”

His free hand tangles in my dreads, pushing me down until I'm kneeling at his feet. I take his cock in my mouth, expertly whirling my tongue around its length as I run my fingernails over his balls. He tastes of sweat and salt, and even though I'm Queen of the BJ, I struggle not to gag. Fucking pregnancy hormones.

He curses as his fancy watch snags in my hair, and snaps it free.

“Fuck!” I yelp.

“Not my fault. Ever thought of ditching the ghetto look?”

I'm tempted to bite down. Hard.

Instead, I scramble to my feet and pull him by his dick towards me. Blake laughs, cupping my ass with both hands
and lifting me onto him. I'm so wet, I practically slide off again. I don't know what it is about this man, but the sex is really fucking hot. Gotta be careful, or I'm going to get burned.

He stumbles slightly beneath my weight, and I grab the doorjamb for balance. As I turn, the moon comes out from behind a cloud, bathing Blake and me and the figure on the garden path in brilliant yellow light.

Ooops.

“She doesn't
act
very pregnant,” Claudia says doubtfully.

I watch my sister. She is currently perched halfway up the apple tree at the bottom of the garden like a ten-year-old boy, reading a celebrity magazine. Unlike most ten-year-old boys, however, she has a cigarette in one hand and bottle of Budweiser gripped between her knees. Her skirt barely covers her bottom, and the holey black leggings reveal at least three of her tattoos. Her flip-flops are silver, her toenails purple. She didn't stagger home till two this morning; I suspect her “morning sickness” at breakfast time owed more to her hangover than her hormones. As Claudia points out, Susannah neither acts—nor looks—pregnant at all.

“You are sure she actually
is
?” Claudia adds. “I don't want to be mean, but you know what she's like.”

I want to defend Susannah, but there's not much I can say. My sister is actually
proud
of the fact that she faked pregnancy to gull her first and third husbands into marriage, as if it's a credit to her ingenuity. Claudia's skepticism
over a pregnancy that conveniently puts a roof over Susannah's head is not unreasonable.

I pour us both a cup of green tea. “I went with her to her scan. And yes, before you ask, it's Tom's. The first thing I did was check the calendar and make sure the dates matched.”