What's Yours Is Mine (5 page)

I quickly realized the boys' attention gave me status among the girls; even with Grace, who pretended hard not to notice. So I began to egg them on. I stole Coke-flavored lip gloss from Woolies, and undid an extra button on my school blouse. I was the first girl in my class to have a boyfriend, and—at fifteen—the first to let him go “all the way.”

The sex was crap, of course; frankly, it usually still is. It doesn't matter. As far as I'm concerned, sex is just a tool: something you trade for something you want. I've rarely had an orgasm I didn't give myself.

OK, I wasn't exactly a class act, but let's get real: I had precious little else going for me. Following in Grace's golden footsteps was
such
fun. Little Miss Perfect. My big sister got straight A's, won the county general knowledge quiz five years running, was a whizz at tennis, became head girl, won a scholarship to Oxford, and generally Made Her Parents Proud. She even found time to raise money for the Anthony Nolan Bone Marrow Trust (for which she was featured in the local papers under the highly original headline “Amazing Grace”). The only thing I ever aced at school was human biology; and we're not talking about the exam.

From the day I started kindergarten, all I got was “You
must be
so
proud of Grace.” After thirteen years of full-time education, half the teachers still didn't even know my name; I was forever Grace Latham's sister.

But the weird thing was, I didn't hate her for it. I
was
proud of her. I'd never tell her in a million years, but I was her biggest fan. I once got suspended for a week for punching another girl who'd been badmouthing Grace. I never told anyone why I did it, of course. I always acted like being her sister was the biggest bore in the world.

She thought she was looking out for me, but the truth was,
I
protected
her
. Without me, the cool clique at school would have made her life miserable. Poor, geeky Grace. Tall and clumsy, she didn't have a clue how to dress; she refused to shave her legs or get her ears pierced until she went to university, like being a virgin at eighteen was a point of
pride
. Her eyes were too narrow, her nose too big, and her long hair (which she flatly refused to have highlighted) was thin and mousy. Back then, her only really good features were her mouth, which was Julia Roberts-wide and full and sexier than she realized, and her hands: elegant and graceful, with long pale fingers and perfect oval nails that she always kept neatly trimmed and painted with frosted pink polish.

If you asked
her
what her best feature was, of course, she'd say her mind. Which just goes to show how little my big sister knows about men.

The flight crew turns out the cabin lights, and I pull my eye mask down, trying to find a comfortable position in this miserable coffin of a seat. The combination of three
vodka tonics and a Xanax is finally beginning to kick in. I close my eyes and yield to the warm fog enveloping me.

Despite the shitty things we said to each other last time we met, I'm looking forward to seeing my sister. I'd do anything for Grace. Not that she'll ever need me to. I don't think Grace has ever needed anyone in her whole life.

I TRUNDLE MY
luggage cart through customs, jonesing for a cigarette as I wait impatiently for the fat tourists ahead of me to get out of the way. For fuck's sake, why'd they have to ban smoking on planes? If there's ever a time you need a smoke, it's trapped in an airborne cattle truck for nine hours with hundreds of sweaty tourists. I'm tempted to ram the swollen ankles of the morons in front of me. Nicotine rage.

“Excuse me, miss?”

Christ all-fucking-mighty, what now?

The customs officer smiles blandly. “We need to check your bags. It's just routine.”

Routine, my peachy ass. I don't see them stopping Mrs. Apple-Pie Mom in her twinset and pearls over there. Hmm. We have a choice: the pretty Stepford wife in ballet pumps and Boden, or punk girl with dreads and tattoos. Goodness me, who
shall
we pick?

I fold my arms and scowl as the customs guy hefts my canvas hold-all onto his table, and unzips it with the reverent care of a new father changing his baby's first nappy. Anyone'd think it's packed with Semtex. They're not
going to find anything. Oakey made me get rid of my stash and then put all my clothes through his washing machine before I left, to make sure there were no traces of anything left behind. I just hope I can find a dealer in darkest bloody Oxfordshire. I'm going to need some serious pharmaceuticals to survive Grace.

I try out a smile, making sure he catches a good eyeful as I lean towards him. “Look. I've been stuck on a plane all night and I'm dying for a cigarette. Is there
any
way we could hurry this along?”

He delivers a pair of grubby black Converses from the belly of my bag, then pulls out a pair of handcuffs and dangles them meaningfully from his index finger.

“I just use them in bed,” I say crossly. “If I was going to hijack a plane, they wouldn't be fur-lined. Look, I'm not a terrorist. I'm not smuggling drugs, and I don't have any ivory hidden in my knickers. My sister's out there waiting for me, and we haven't spoken in five years. If I don't get a smoke in the next five minutes, I'm going into a complete meltdown.”

He nods towards a screened area to the side of the hall. “There's no CCTV over there. Sit on the floor and blow the smoke down, so the detectors don't pick it up. And if anyone catches you, I never saw you, OK?”

I sneak behind the screens and slump on the cold marble floor, sucking in a lungful of nicotine with something akin to ecstasy. I wish I'd brought a couple of vodka miniatures off the plane, too. I really don't need to be sober when I face Grace.

Five minutes later, the customs officer hands me back my bag and my boarding card, with his phone number scribbled on the back. I promise to call him, and bin it the moment he's gone.

My stomach is a knot of excitement and nerves as I walk into the arrivals hall. I spot Grace before she sees me, though for a moment or two, I don't recognize her. It's not so much that she's changed since I last saw her; more that I still think of her as she looked at eighteen.

She's had her hair cut shorter, which makes it seem thicker, and colored it a deep chestnut, which warms her face and brings out the hazel lights in her eyes. I don't know much about designer labels, but even I can tell her high-heeled boots and nipped-in cinnamon suede jacket are expensive; I wouldn't mind betting her jeans alone cost more than my entire wardrobe. She's got that sort of glossy sheen about her now that only money can buy. She's still not pretty, but she makes you look twice now. Mum always said Grace had the kind of face she'd “grow into” in her thirties. For the first time, I can see what she meant.

Tom, on the other hand, hasn't improved with age. He's got really chubby since I last saw him, and his brown curls are too thin these days for him to carry off the hippy drummer look. Mind you, I wouldn't kick him out of bed. I've always had a bit of a thing for Tom; but maybe that's just because he belongs to Grace.

Grace strides forward as they catch sight of me, her boots clicking briskly across the concourse.

“What happened?” she demands, without a word of
greeting. “It's been an hour since your plane landed. Everyone else came through customs ages ago.”

“I got stopped—”

“Well, I'm not surprised, dressed like that.”

Tom kisses me on the cheek. “Good to have you back, Zee.”

“Thanks, John.”

“It's Tom,” Grace says crossly.

“I knew that.” I smile.

Tom takes charge of my cart. “Did you have a good flight?” he asks kindly.

“I got a couple hours' sleep, but you know what it's like on planes.” I shiver as I follow them out to the car park, pulling my leather jacket up around my ears. “God! I'd forgotten how bloody freezing it is in this country!”

“You'll catch your death of cold if you don't put on some proper clothes.” Grace sniffs. “It's February, Susannah, you can't just wander around in a miniskirt.”

“There's not much call for sheepskin coats and fur boots in Florida, Grace.”

“Well, you chose to go there.”

I want to hit her, but I keep my cool. No point winding her up before we've even got out of the airport. I'll cut her a bit of slack because of Mum, but she'd better not push it.

Tom leads the way towards a gleaming black 4×4, but just as I'm about to make some wisecrack about his carbon footprint, he stops beside a tiny little hatchback and unlocks it with his remote. “You own a
hybrid
?” I snort.

“Nearly sixty mpg,” Tom says proudly. “More when you're on the open road.”

“What happened to ‘a man's Land Rover is his castle'?”

“He's still got the bloody thing,” Grace says tartly. “It's parked behind the garage. He's keeping chickens in it.”

“Be fair, darling,” Tom protests. “Only the chicks. It's easier to keep them warm, and it stops the other birds from attacking them.”

My sister and I exchange a glance. She gives me a brief but real smile, and helps me load my bag into the boot while Tom returns the trolley to a bay at the end of the car park.

“How's Mum?” I ask.

“No change since yesterday. The doctors say she could be in this coma for weeks. Until she comes out of it, there's no way of knowing how much damage the stroke has caused.”

“But she's not going to die?”

She sighs. “I don't know, Susannah.”

Grace
always
knows. All my life, she's known what to do next. It's the only certainty I've ever had, next to death and avoiding taxes.

I clamber awkwardly into the back of the hatchback, wondering for the first time if her insistence that I come home wasn't just because Mum needs me.

“It wasn't easy to track you down,” Grace says suddenly. “Even your ex-husband didn't know where you were. In the end, I had to call Donny to get your number.”

“Donny?”

“Your son,” she snaps.

“Yes, I know who Donny is, thank you very much. I just hadn't realized you were in touch with him.”

“Why wouldn't I be? The boys need to know they have some family left.”

“I call them—”

“Donny says the last time you bothered to ring was over a year ago.”

I pick at my nails. “It's not easy, what with the time difference—”

“They're your sons, Susannah. The least you could do is call them and see how they are, even if it means you have to get up in the middle of the night. You
are
going to see them while you're here?”

“The social worker said seeing me might stop them settling with their new family.”

“That was five years ago, Susannah. They're not kids anymore, they're fifteen and twelve. They understand who their family is. But you're their mother. You
owe
them.”

“Don't call me Susannah,” I say childishly.

“Why not? It's your name.”

I'm on the verge of climbing right back out of the car, but then Tom returns, cheerily complaining about finding the right change for the car park meter. His amiable perkiness is almost as annoying as Grace's constant bitching. But short of breaking a window, I'm trapped with the pair of them. Who am I kidding anyway? I can't go back to Florida: I have no money, and nowhere to go. Like it or not, I'm stuck with Grace; and she's just as stuck with me.

The traffic out of Heathrow is heavy, and as soon as we reach the M25, it grinds to a complete halt. I'm too wired to fall asleep, so I lean forward between the seats. “OK if I light up?”

“No, it's not—”

“Grace, give her a break. We can open the windows.”

Grace shrugs and turns her back on both of us; quite a feat in a car this small. Frankly, I don't know how Tom puts up with her. Half an hour in her company, and already I want to kill myself.

“Can I get to the trunk from inside the car?” I ask Tom. “I've finished my cigarettes.”

“
Trunk?
” Grace snaps. “We all know you've been living it up in Florida, Susannah. You don't have to show off. We're not impressed.”

“
So-rr-eeee,
” I retort.

No one speaks for the rest of the journey. I finally manage to doze off, and when Tom shakes me awake, we're in an underground car park outside the hospital. I stumble out of the backseat and follow him and Grace towards the lift. My head is thick with tiredness and too many vodkas and Xanax.

“She's in intensive care, Susannah,” Grace says abruptly. “You need to be prepared for what that means. There are all sorts of machines and tubes. She's on a ventilator at the moment, which is doing her breathing for her, though they're hoping to take her off that soon. They've put her on an IV, and there are all sorts of monitors keeping track
of her heart rate and blood pressure. It's not like it is on
ER,
” she adds thickly. “It's so much worse.”

“Is Dad here?”

She hits the call button again. “I should think so.”

Tom casually drapes his arm around Grace's shoulders as we ride up to the ICU on the fifth floor. I watch her lean into him with a sharp pang of envy. I've been married three times, and screwed more men than I can remember, but I've never shared that closeness with anyone.

Grace buzzes for entry at the door to the ICU. I reach nervously in my jacket pocket for my cigarettes, then remember where I am and put them away.

“It's going to be OK, Zee,” she says unexpectedly.

I nod, my throat suddenly tight. Grace can be beyond annoying, but if Mum … if anything happens to Mum … she'll be the only person left on the planet who even remotely gives a damn about me.