Her Best Worst Mistake Read online

Elizabeth stared at the note for a long beat before meeting Violet’s gaze.

  “Then I guess I’d better book a ticket for Australia.”

  “We could try to call him first.”

  “No,” Elizabeth said firmly. “I want to do this in person. And it will be good to get away for a few days.”

  “Then lets book you that ticket, baby cakes.”

  Four days later, Violet waited until the customer she’d just served had left the store before dialing her friend’s cell number. She’d been counting down the hours, checking the arrivals information for Tullamarine airport in Melbourne, Australia, waiting for her friend to touch down.

  She bit her thumb nail as she waited for E to pick up.

  “Violet.” Elizabeth’s voice came down the line clear as a bell, almost as though she was in the next room instead of halfway around the world.

  “E. How was your flight? What’s happening? Have you spoken to him yet?”

  They’d discussed strategy before Elizabeth left, so she knew her friend planned to go straight to her biological father’s house and make contact.

  “Long. Not much. And no. I’m sitting out the front of his house right now, trying to get up the courage to knock on the door.”

  Violet’s hand tightened on the phone. She could hear the fear in Elizabeth’s voice. Guilt ate at her. If only she had been able to leave the shop, she would have gone with her. Then Elizabeth wouldn’t be facing this huge challenge alone.

  “You’re nervous,” Violet said.

  “Just a little.”

  “Don’t be. Once he gets to know you, he’ll be over the moon you’ve tracked him down.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m doing this all wrong. Maybe I should have made contact with a letter or email first, used a lawyer to break the ice...”

  “No. You’ve done the right thing. And even if you haven’t, you’re there now. All you have to do is go knock on his door.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  Violet could hear the smile in her friend’s voice.

  “Come on, E. You’re a woman on a mission, remember? You’re reclaiming your life, striking out on your own. Shaking off old Droopy Drawers was just the first step.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call him that. Just because I’ve decided not to marry him doesn’t mean he’s a bad person.”

  “True. It’s not as though he goes around literally boring people to death. Although he took a fairly good stab at stifling the life out of you.”

  “Vi...”

  “Sorry. I just think it should be a punishable offense for someone as young as he is to carry on like a crusty old bugger. How many thirty-two year olds do you know who wear cardigans with leather elbow patches?”

  “Just because he dresses conservatively doesn’t mean he’s crusty, Vi. He’s just ... conservative,” Elizabeth finished lamely.

  “Conservative? I’m sorry, E, but that is not the word for a man who refuses to have sex in anything other than the missionary position. The word you’re looking for is repressed.”

  “You have no idea how much I regret ever saying anything to you about that, Vi.”

  Several months ago Elizabeth had confessed she’d asked Martin to spice up their sex life a little after reading a magazine article on being responsible for your own sexuality. It had been a rare moment of complete frankness from her friend, who was usually very private with all things pertaining to the bedroom, and Violet had been appalled when she’d learned that not only had Martin refused to discuss Elizabeth’s needs, he’d succeeded in making Elizabeth feel small and dirty and wrong, too.

  “I’m not going to apologize for refusing to let you sweep that sterling little moment under the rug,” Violet said. “Normal people—note I’m stressing the word normal, as opposed to uptight repressives—talk to each other about sex and explore their sexuality and have fun in bed. They don’t pat you on the head and tell you they respect you too much to objectify you, or whatever rubbish excuse he came out with after you’d finally got up the gumption to talk to him. And I love that he tried to make it all about you, by the way, and not about his hang ups.”

  “I really don’t want to talk about this again.”

  Violet heard her friend’s words but she was off and running, the words welling up from some long-suppressed place inside her.

  “For God’s sake, it wasn’t as though you asked him to tie you up and go at you with a cheese grater or something. You wanted to do it doggy style, big bloody deal. There were no small animals involved, no leatherwear or hot wax.”

  “I’ve called off the wedding, Vi. This is definitely filed under The Past. You need to let it go.”

  There was a sharp note to Elizabeth’s voice and it acted like a bucket of cold water. Violet blinked, then passed a hand over her face.

  “You’re right. Sorry. He just really gets on my wick,” she muttered, fully aware that she’d stepped over the line, big time.

  “Well, you’ll probably never have to see him again, since he’s hardly going to want to know me once he’s gotten over the fact that I’ve dumped him. That should make you feel better.”

  Violet frowned as Elizabeth’s words hit home. Because E was right, of course—there was absolutely no reason for Violet to ever have to spend time in Droopy Drawer’s company now that he and Elizabeth were over. Violet would never again have to watch his nostrils flare with distaste over something she’d said, or endure one of his judgmental head to toe visual surveys. She would never know if he secured the membership to the Savage Club that he so fervently coveted, or if he made partner. She would never again have to grind her teeth as he opted for the safe, buttoned-down option in everything from his choice of drink to his taste in reading material.

  The bell over the door rang sharply as three women entered the store, jerking her from her thoughts. She smiled at them distractedly.

  “E. Someone’s come into the shop and I have to go. But you can do this, okay? Just get out of the car and go introduce yourself. Whatever comes after that, you’ll handle it.”

  “Thanks, coach. And thanks for all the hand holding and tissue passing and intel gathering over the past few days,” Elizabeth said.

  “Pshaw.”

  She ended the call, but didn’t immediately step out from behind the counter to serve her customers. She didn’t understand where her rant against Martin had come from. For the past few days she’d been feeling sorry for him, conscious of the fact that no matter what was going on in Elizabeth’s life, he must be feeling let down now that the wedding had been called off.

  So where had all that pent-up frustration and anger come from?

  She had no idea.

  She shook her head, sending her long earrings swinging. The workings of her subconscious were a mystery to her at the best of times—and perhaps it was preferable to leave them that way. Some things were better left unacknowledged.

  Business was steady for the rest of the day and she managed to push Elizabeth and Martin’s messy break up from her mind. Which was just as well. She didn’t want to become one of those tragic people who lived off the drama of other people’s lives. While it was true that it had been a while since she’d had a relationship herself, she wasn’t that sad yet. She hoped.

  It was pitch black outside by the time she cashed out the till at six. She secured the takings in the floor safe, then flicked off all but one security light and made her way past clothing racks and hat stands and jewelry displays to the front door. One day, when the money tree she had yet to plant in her window box bore fruit, she would knock a hole in the wall and install an internal doorway through to the stairway to her apartment. Originally intended to offer autonomy to both the retail tenant and the upstairs resident, the separate entrance was a right royal pain in the behind when it was freezing like it was tonight.

  She slipped into the bitter cold and pulled the door shut behind her, trying to race through the necessary steps so she could retreat to the warmth and com
fort of her apartment.

  The man seemed to loom at her out of nowhere, tall and broad and angry. She squeaked with terror and jumped backwards, slamming the back of her head against the door.

  “Where is she? Where are you hiding her?”

  She pressed her hands to her chest and glared at her assailant.

  “Blooming hell, Martin, you almost made me wet myself. Ever heard of the telephone?”

  “And have you hang up on me? I’m not stupid, Violet. Tell me where she is.”

  She rubbed the back of her head. “If E didn’t tell you where she’s gone, it’s not my place.”

  He moved closer. Despite the fact that she didn’t believe Martin St Clair would hurt a fly, she felt a twinge of alarm. She’d never seen him so angry. Or so disheveled, now that she really looked at him. His hair was ruffled and his face bristly with five o’clock shadow. He looked positively rakish compared to his usual anal, meticulous appearance.

  “What’s wrong? Didn’t you get a chance to iron your underwear this morning?” she asked.

  He flicked a gaze down her figure-hugging outfit. She was wearing a push-up bra beneath a plunging vintage sequined top. Her black skirt was short - okay, very short - and her stockings lacy. Her knee boots boasted high, spiky heels. Her bedroom mirror told her she looked foxy, but Martin’s condemning glance begged to differ.

  “You’ll excuse me if I’m not prepared to take fashion advice from someone who dresses from the Playboy catalogue.”

  He sounded so snooty she had to laugh, even though a small part of her smarted at his open contempt. It seemed the gloves were well and truly off now that Elizabeth wasn’t standing between them.

  She flicked her hair over her ear, displaying her multiple piercings. She knew he particularly hated them because Elizabeth had told her so once.

  “Shouldn’t you be sweet talking me? Isn’t that what people normally do when they want something?”

  Martin’s breath steamed in the air between them. She watched as he made a visible effort to rein in his temper.

  “My apologies. My only excuse is that I haven’t been sleeping well. I want only what’s best for Elizabeth. Please tell me where she is.”

  Every word was torn from him like teeth at the dentist’s.

  “E is the best judge of what’s best for her,” Violet said. “You and the Whittakers are always trying to decide things for her, push her into whatever shape you want her to be. Let her do her own thing for a change. If you two are meant to be, she’ll come back.”

  She was shivering with cold and she turned to open the door to her apartment. She assumed Martin’s silence meant she’d finally gotten through to him but when she tried to slip into the relative warmth of the stairwell he blocked the door with his arm.

  “Please, Violet. If you want me to beg, I will.”

  He held her eyes, not even trying to hide his hurt and pain.

  Until this moment she had been convinced that he merely saw Elizabeth as a trophy, yet another accomplishment he’d acquired on his climb up the social ranks. But the look in his eyes...

  “You really love her, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course I do.” He said it as though it was the most natural and obvious thing in the world.

  For a moment - a hundredth of a second - Violet felt a squeeze of envy in her heart. Would that she had ever inspired so much heart-felt devotion in a man. Her past boyfriends had all been out for what they could get, be it sex, free room and board or endless emotional support. She’d never had anyone - ever - state their love so unequivocally.

  “She’s gone to find her father. Her real father,” she said.

  He didn’t say anything, just continued to look at her in mute appeal.

  Bloody hell.

  “Okay, all right. She didn’t expressly tell me not to tell you. Which doesn’t mean she won’t tear strips off me when she finds out I’ve squealed, but still. She’s staying at some old pub called the Isle of Wight on Philip Island, in Australia. She flew out yesterday and I spoke to her this morning.”

  “Australia?” Martin looked dazed.

  “That’s right. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got several Playboy catalogues I need to get through before taking to the streets for the night.”

  Martin nodded his head once in brief thanks, then he was gone. She slipped inside the door and locked it behind her.

  Her stomach flipped with nervousness. Elizabeth was not going to be happy that Violet had blabbed her whereabouts to her ex-fiancé. And she dreaded to think what Martin would do now - call Elizabeth and demand she come home and take up her place as the mother of his future children?

  Another thought hit her.

  Surely he wouldn’t race to the other side of the world for Elizabeth?

  Inexplicable tears filled her eyes as she thought about him doing just that. The big idiot.

  He really loved Elizabeth. Truly, deeply, maybe even a bit madly.

  And the really sad thing was that she knew her friend didn’t feel anything close to the same for him.

  Blinking away her foolish tears, she let herself into her apartment. No doubt Martin St Clair would choose to eat glass rather than know she felt sorry for him, but he couldn’t stop her from doing so from afar. He might be old before his time and too stitched up for his own good, but he was a decent man at heart - sincere, generous, loving, considerate. He didn’t deserve to be hurt like this.

  Her lips twisted into a cynical little smile.

  Who of us gets what we deserve in life?

  Precious few, as she knew from her own experience. Heavy of heart and mind, she threw her keys on the hall table and tried to work out how and when to tell Elizabeth that she should be on the look-out for an unexpected visitor.

  Chapter Three

  Martin drove straight home, his pride and everything else burning after his encounter with Violet. The pity in her eyes. The sympathy...

  She was the last person he wanted feeling sorry for him. The very last.

  And yet it was all he could do to stop himself from turning the car around to plead with her to tell him what Elizabeth had said to her over the last five days.

  That she’d confided in Violet he had no doubt, just as he knew that right now Violet had a far better notion of where he stood with his fiancee - ex-fiancee - than he did. The knowledge sat like a rock in his belly, as unpalatable as Violet’s pity.

  It wouldn’t be the first time Elizabeth had confided deeply personal matters to do with their relationship to her friend. It galled him just as much now as it had then. He had committed to sharing his life with Elizabeth. To having children and growing old with her. He hated the thought that there were things she didn’t feel she could discuss with him.

  It’s not as though you tell her everything. What’s good for the goose...

  He pushed the errant thought away. This wasn’t about him. This was about Elizabeth. About what she wanted - which, apparently, Violet was privy to and he was not.

  All his life he’d possessed the ability to compartmentalize his feelings and thoughts, a survival skill that had served him well in the Government-owned housing estate where he’d grown up. As he pulled into the parking spot behind his apartment, he shook off his doubts and anger and injured pride. His immediate goal was to find Elizabeth. Everything else could wait.

  Once he was inside and in front of his computer, it took him five minutes to book the next flight to Melbourne, Australia. He made a quick call to Elizabeth’s grandfather, Edward Whittaker, to let him know that he was going after Elizabeth, listening with increasing impatience to the other man’s advice that he be patient but uncompromising in his dealings with her. Elizabeth’s grandfather loved her dearly but there was no getting away from the fact that his attitude toward her was over-protective and more than a little Victorian.

  It was a stance that had always made Martin uncomfortable, but he’d never felt able to comment on it to either Edward or Elizabeth herself.
Against the odds, Edward had taken him on as a fresh-out-of-law-school baby solicitor and, when he’d noticed Martin flailing in his new environment, offered him the guidance and advice he’d needed to navigate the internecine politics and hierarchies of a long established law firm. Everything he was today he owed to Edward Whittaker.

  Everything.

  “I appreciate the advice,” he said when the older man finally stopped to draw breath, “but I’m not sure laying down the law is going to get me anywhere with Elizabeth right now.”

  “She’s upset. We all understand that. But once she calms down she’ll understand that everyone was only doing what was best for her.”

  Martin winced. Hadn’t he just said something similar to Violet barely twenty minutes ago? Hearing his own words out of someone else’s mouth made him acutely aware of how pompous and patronizing he must have sounded.

  He shifted uneasily as he remembered other occasions when he’d said something similar to Elizabeth. For five days he’d lived on hope and the certainty that whatever was wrong between them could be fixed - they were both rational people, after all, and they had six good years between them - but for the first time a splinter of doubt crept into his mind.

  Before she’d walked out of her grandparents’ house, Elizabeth had accused him of not knowing her. She’d said that he was so busy telling her what was good for her, he had no idea who she was or what she really wanted. She’d called herself a coward for not speaking up with her true feelings.

  Then she’d called off their wedding.

  Again, he pushed the disturbing thoughts away. Once he had found her, they would talk. One bridge, one challenge at a time.

  “Edward, I need to get to the airport. I’ve emailed my assistant, Tammy, about rescheduling my cases for the rest of the week. With luck, I’ll be back with Elizabeth by the beginning of next week.”

  “Stay in touch,” Edward said. There was a fragile note to his voice, a reminder that he was on the wrong side of seventy.

  “I will. You and Vera take it easy, okay? I’ve got this in hand.”

  He ended the call and pulled his overnight bag from the top shelf of the closet. He threw in a couple of changes of underwear, a fresh shirt and various toiletries, then he ordered a cab and tossed his current work file into his briefcase—if he was going to be stuck in transit for hours on end, he might as well be productive. Four hours later he was in the air, flying to the other side of the world.