What's Yours Is Mine (7 page)

Right from the start, David didn't bond with the new
baby the way he had with Grace. He rarely picked her up if she was crying, and insisted she sleep in her own bed rather than share ours. The only time he photographed her was when Grace was holding her. My mother said it was only to be expected, that all men found small babies boring; but I remembered how besotted he'd been with Grace when she was born, and it hadn't just been the novelty of new fatherhood. He was
devoted
. Overly so, my mother said. He got up to see to Grace in the night, he soothed her when she was teething and rubbed her back when she had colic. He even took her into work for father-daughter day when she was all of nine months old.

Grace, however, was thrilled with the new arrival; a month shy of her third birthday when Susannah was born, she was old enough to take her new duties as big sister very seriously. She loved helping me bathe or feed her, carefully spooning apple puree into Susannah's gummy smile, her own mouth opening and closing in the unconscious mimicry of mothers the world over.

But as David's indifference coalesced into cool detachment, Grace picked up on it, and, naturally, aligned herself with her father. She still loved her sister, but the feeling was tempered with a faint sense of disapproval; even before there was anything to disapprove of. I've found it very hard to forgive David for that.

I had hoped the divide that had opened up in my family, with David and Grace on one side, and Susannah and me on the other, would eventually heal of its own accord.
But then, when Susannah was four, she suddenly got sick, and I realized things were never going to change.

DAVID IS LOOKING
straight at me; or would be, if he could see me. His eyes are dry, but I can tell from the tightness around his mouth that it's an effort. David cries often, in secret, something his daughters would never guess; but I can't remember the last time he cried in public. His mother's funeral, perhaps.

He squeezes Grace's shoulders, and, watching him, I exclaim with frustration. “Why is it always Grace?” I demand, knowing he can't hear me, as tears sting my eyes. “What has Susannah done that makes her so unlovable to her own father? She's your daughter, too! Why can't you let the past go?”

His head turns sharply. I don't know if it was coincidence, or if, somehow, I'm reaching him.

The doctor coughs for our attention, and the moment is lost. “Your mother can't respond, but she may be able to hear you,” he says. “We need you to keep your tone upbeat. Encourage her. She needs to know you're here.”

“I'd like to spend some time alone with her,” David says.

“Dad—”

“Please, Grace. Just go back to the waiting room. I'll find you when I'm ready for you to come back in. I'd like to talk to your mother in private.”

Susannah and Grace bend over the bed, and I close my
eyes and try to imagine the feel of their lips against my skin. I remember how they smelled when they were babies: that warm yeasty mix of milk and talcum powder. I can't leave just yet. Not while Susannah still needs me so much.

As the door closes, David pulls up a stark black plastic chair and collapses into it.

“I won't let them give up on you,” he says fiercely. “No matter what, I won't let you go.”

“I know.” I sigh. “
That's
why I gave Susannah my power of attorney.”

He picks up my limp hand, mindful of the IV line, and strokes it gently. “Don't leave me, Cathy. I know I don't tell you enough, but I love you so much. I have done since the moment I laid eyes on you at the end of the pier. You lit up the world.”

He chokes off a sob. I wrap my arms around him from behind, and lay my cheek against his. A shudder runs through him, and he touches his shoulder, almost as if he can feel me there.

“I love you, too,” I whisper. “More than you know. I don't want to leave you. If I can come back, I will. But there's something I have to do first.”

Through the glass door, I see the nurse returning. As it slides open, I straighten up and slip past her. Perhaps I can walk through walls, the way ghosts are supposed to, but I don't think I'm quite ready to try that yet.

I glance back at David. I wish with all my heart that I could stay with him, but I don't have a choice.

Sighing inwardly, I go in search of my daughters.

Music drifts over the garden wall as I park my low-slung BMW roadster—a thirty-fifth birthday present to myself; I'm not giving it up, even for Tom's green cause—behind the house. I climb out, shivering slightly in the crisp March air, and fight down an acid wash of resentment.

Three weeks. She's been here three weeks, and in that time, she's achieved what I couldn't in seven years.

I let myself through the gate and walk towards the kitchen door as a roar of masculine laughter reverberates across the garden. I don't want to be that person, the girl who's jealous of her sister for daring to enjoy herself. I don't want to be petty and small-minded. But this is
my
house, in
my
village; these are
my
friends. I've lived here seven years. In less than a month, Susannah has made me feel like the interloper, an extra in my own life.

Tom's thrown open the French doors and turned on the solar-powered patio heaters, so that the conservatory is open onto the back lawn. I stand for a moment in the shadows watching, unseen.

My sister is at the center of both table and attention; as always. On one side of her is Tom, and on the other, Blake. Claudia is chatting earnestly to a neighbor, Paul, while his boyfriend, Ned, pours everyone another glass of wine. As I watch, Blake regales them with some witty, gossipy anecdote about the modeling world, to which his cutting-edge photography gives him unquestioned entree. His gaze is on my sister; I can tell that even from this distance. Even without being able to see his face. Perhaps that's why Paul is so conscientiously keeping Claudia entertained.

Blake's a natural flirt. Unlike Tom, he always notices if I've had my hair cut, or when I wear a new dress. His hand lingers on my back a fraction longer than it should when he guides me into one of the many dinners the four of us have enjoyed over the years. But his flirtation with me is a reflexive gesture, automatic, inbuilt. With my sister it's something else entirely. Something darker, more primitive. She brings out the worst in men.

She's your sister, Grace. She needs you. Why don't you try giving her a chance?

I can hear my mother as clearly as if she were standing next to me. With a sigh, I step into the light.

“Grace!” Tom exclaims, getting up from the table and kissing my cheek. “We were beginning to give up on you.”

“Sorry. I should've called. The Baxter case I told you about—the judge turned down the continuance, so we've got less than four weeks to prepare. It's been a difficult day,
as you can imagine.” I force a lighter note into my voice. “Are you having a party?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Claudia and Blake dropped by, and then Susannah invited Ned and Paul over—”

“It's OK, Tom, you don't have to explain.”

“We ordered Chinese—there's still some left—”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Let me get you a glass of wine. We've got red and white open—”

“Actually, Tom, I'm pretty tired. I think I'll go up to bed.”

“C'mon, Grace!” Susannah calls suddenly. “Don't wimp out. Come and join us.”

“I don't think so.”

“Oh, go on. Live a little.”

“Some of us have work in the morning,” I say, pointedly.

“
Some
of us know which day it is.” Susannah smirks.

“Tomorrow's Saturday, Grace,” Claudia says gently. “Come on. Have a drink. It'll help you unwind.”

Try taking a leaf out of your sister's book once in a while, Grace. Smile. It'll suit you so much more than that sour expression
.

I push my mother's voice out of my head. Claudia's right. I need to relax.

“Actually, I could do with a glass,” I say, pulling out a chair. “This divorce case I'm working on is enough to drive anyone to drink. The wife is worth millions, but
she's squirreled it away God knows where so her husband can't get it—”

Blake reaches across me for the bottle of wine. “Claudia's trying to talk your sister into giving her a tattoo. What d'you reckon she should have done?”

“Are you even allowed to get a tattoo when you're pregnant?” Ned asks.

Blake grins. “Be good preparation for childbirth. You should've seen her yelling when she had the twins. A bit of pain before she has to do it again will be good for her. Toughen her up a bit.”

Claudia thumps his arm. “You try shitting a football through your nostril and see how you like it.”

I take a large gulp of wine.

“I'm thinking of giving up tattooing anyway,” Susannah says.

Blake looks surprised. “Oh? What'll you do instead?”

My sister leans her elbows on the table, treating Blake to an unrestricted view of her breasts, and giving him the full benefit of her turquoise gaze, as warm and inviting as the Caribbean. He can't take his eyes off her.

“Lap dancing,” she says, straight-faced.

It shouldn't sting, after all these years, and yet it does. Men have never looked at me the way Blake is now looking at Susannah. Not even Tom.

It's not just that she's beautiful; although, even with her tattoos and piercings and matted hair, she is. She has a dangerous, fearless charm that draws you in; there's a whiff of sulphur about her, Tom always says. She's funny and
sexy and likeable; it's not just men who can't resist her, but women, too. They want to be near her, as if some of her allure will rub off on them.

I'm not beautiful. I'm not even pretty; I'd scrape to reach attractive. I know that. I know too that looks are not supposed to be important. But it's like being told that money isn't everything: the only people who really believe that are those who have it. Being plain, especially when you're young, is a misery you have to experience to understand. It's all very well to talk about beauty coming from within and being in the eye of the beholder, but the truth is that as a teenager—and actually, for most of our lives—looks do matter, are the
only
thing that matters, and without them, you're second rate, no matter what else you do.

My mother once admitted, under pressure, that my sister was prettier than me. She followed it with words like
striking
and
handsome
and
intelligent features
, but all I heard was that my younger sister outranked me in the only way that counted.

Of course, things change. I learned how to dress well, to perform a magician's sleight of hand and distract with witty conversation, chic accessories, smart friends. Success mends your looks, and so does money. Their scent makes you a different person. But when Susannah's around, it's as if I'm seventeen again, ungainly, unlovely, unloved.

“Susannah doesn't need a job,” I say suddenly. I knock back my glass of wine. “She's not going to be staying much longer.”

It comes out more harshly than I intended, but I don't
take it back. I've just come home after a grueling fourteen-hour day, at the end of a week of fourteen-hour days, and I'm exhausted and stressed and worried,
so
worried, about my mother. And here is Susannah, relaxed, sleek, borrowing my clothes and returning them torn, dropping her damp towels on the bathroom floor, stealing from my wallet, losing my phone charger, smoking in the living room despite me asking her not to, burning the sofa with her cigarettes, drinking Tom's twenty-five-year-old malt, talking for hours on the phone to America, crashing my computer, denting Tom's car, seducing my best friend's husband, and—

—and yes, I know I sound like a teenager,
I do know;
but Susannah is behaving like one.

“Grace!” Tom exclaims.

“Well, she can't stay here forever. She has a life to go back to. A job. I'm sure she wants to get back to the sunshine as soon as she can.”

“Actually, Grace. About that. Me staying here, I mean.” Susannah hesitates. “There's a bit of a problem with my visa. I'm sure I can sort it out, but it might take a bit of time—”

“What sort of problem?”

“Well. They'll deport me if I go back. But I'm sure I can fix it,” she adds hastily. “It's just a question of filling in a few forms.”

She smiles, challenging me to call her bluff.
She knew about this
, I realize suddenly. She knew before she even left Florida. She let me beg her to come home, pay for her
flight, and keep her once she arrived, knowing this. And she's telling me now, in front of my friends, because she knows I can't say anything.

I should have known.
I should have known
.

Tom's calming hand is on my arm. “I'm sure it'll be sorted by the time Catherine's out of the hospital, Grace. The doctors still don't know when she'll come around. Susannah can't leave before then anyway.”

“We'll find her something to keep her busy.” Claudia smiles. “Even if this village isn't ready for a tattoo parlor quite yet.”

“All these designs you do,” Paul asks. “Did you train at art school, or was it something you picked up as you went along?”

“Susannah had a place at the Slade,” Tom says, seizing the conversational lifeline. “I think you did a year or two, didn't you?”

“I left at the end of my first year.” Susannah shrugs.

“Oh, yes. You got pregnant with Davey, didn't you?” I say.

Ned picks up the wine bottle, and refills his glass. “She should speak to Michael. Shouldn't she, Paul? He's an artist who lives in the village,” he explains, turning to Susannah, “very talented. He's got a lot of contacts in Oxford. He might be able to get you work at one of the galleries or something if you do end up staying around for a while.”