Her Best Worst Mistake (5 page)

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.

Funny, but he’d always wanted to go
to Australia. As a kid, his mother had been an avid viewer of
Australian soap operas, and he couldn’t hear the familiar theme
song to
Neighbours
without being transported back to the cramped flat where he’d
grown up. Shirley St Clair had loved the wide blue skies and the
brightness of life in Australia as depicted on the show and every
day she’d sit ensconced in her armchair, the tea pot in its cosy at
the ready, him at her feet as they watched half an hour of pure
fiction about a world that even then he’d known was too good to be
true. Still, it had made him want to go and see for himself. In the
back of his mind, he’d thought that it was something he and
Elizabeth might do together one day.

He felt tired and grubby by the time he stepped into
the cool pre-dawn of a Melbourne summer’s day some twenty-four
hours later. He’d booked a hire car on-line and he made his way to
the kiosk and filled out the required paperwork. Half an hour later
he was on the road, squinting at road signs and trying to get his
bearings.

Philip Island was an hour and a half’s drive out of
Melbourne. He stopped twice for coffee, and it was nearing nine in
the morning when he pulled into a parking spot in the sleepy
seaside town of Cowes on Philip Island. To his left was a silvered
wooden jetty, thrusting into sparkling blue water, to his right a
series of beach-themed boutiques selling bikinis and beach towels
and board shorts. He flipped the visor down to check his
appearance. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a mess, his shirt
wrinkled and limp. He smoothed his hair with his fingers before
flipping the visor back up. It didn’t matter that his clothes were
wrinkled and his eyes bloodshot. Neither of those things was going
to convince Elizabeth to come home with him.

Loathe to leave his valuables in the car in a strange
town, he took both his overnight bag and his briefcase with him as
he headed for the Isle of Wight Hotel. The girl behind the counter
was very young, which was perhaps why she was happy to hand out
Elizabeth’s room number to a complete stranger.

He glanced around the main bar as he followed her
directions to the stairs that would take him to the first floor.
The carpet was sticky beneath his feet and the air smelled of old
beer and cooking oil. A tanned, heavyset man with sun-bleached hair
raised a friendly hand to him as he passed the bar. Martin nodded
in acknowledgement before stepping onto the staircase.

He paused when he reached Elizabeth’s room, aware
that his heart was pounding inside his chest.

He loved her. He loved her kindness and her patience
and her quiet determination. He loved her elegance and discreet
dignity. She was one of the best people he knew. He needed her in
his life.

He needed to make this work between them. Otherwise
everything he’d strived for would be for nothing and no one.

He raised his hand and knocked. There was a moment’s
silence, then he heard someone moving around on the other side of
the door.

He took a deep breath, waiting. Hoping.

And then the door opened.

Violet agonized for a full day over how to tell
Elizabeth what she’d done and finally settled for the coward’s
way—email. She sat down to compose a message three times before
finally simply confessing that she’d blabbed to D.D.—short for
Droopy Drawers—and that she was sorry for being such a feeble
friend but that he’d been so insistent and sad that she’d felt
unable to deny him. She’d hit send and sat back to wait for her
friend’s response.

It took two days before Elizabeth’s reply arrived in
her in-box—two days of Violet sweating it out and feeling like the
worst friend ever.

It’s okay, Vi. You did the right thing. I didn’t
mean for you to get caught in the middle of all this. Martin turned
up on my doorstep a couple of days ago. We talked. I hope we parted
as friends. I guess time will tell. Will write more when I can.

Love you,

E

Violet frowned at her laptop screen. Was it just her,
or was Elizabeth’s account of what had happened woefully
inadequate? Where was Martin now, for example? Had he come home
again? When was Elizabeth coming home? Maybe Violet was reading way
too much into her friend’s economical email, but she sensed that
there was something else going on with her friend. Something
unrelated to both Martin and her father.

The shop bell tingled and she glanced up to see a
tall, broad shouldered figure filling the doorway. The sun was
directly behind him, reducing him to a silhouette, and her heart
gave a crazy, nervous thump against her rib cage.

“
Martin?” she said.

The moment he stepped into the light she saw it
wasn’t Martin. Disappointment thudded in her belly.

“
Excuse me. Can you tell me where I
would find the nearest Tube Station?” he asked with a broad
American accent.

“
End of the street, turn right. You
should see the sign on your left.”

“
Thank you. Have a great
day.”

The polite smile faded from her lips as he exited.
She had no idea why she’d thought he might have been Martin, why
Martin had been the first person to leap to mind when she’d seen
that tall, broad silhouette in the doorway. There was no way Martin
would ever turn up at her shop voluntarily. He despised her. He
thought she was a bad influence on Elizabeth. Hell, he probably
blamed her for everything that had happened with her friend.

Not so many days ago, Elizabeth had told her that she
needn’t bother getting hot under the collar about Martin any more,
since she never had to see him again. Violet should have been
grateful for the knowledge. She should be celebrating even now that
she would never have to look into his condemning grey eyes
again.

So why wasn’t she?

Martin’s footsteps echoed around the empty space as
he walked from the formal dining room into the kitchen. He glanced
around the room at the gleaming white cabinets and Carrera marble
counters, then crossed to the window to see if the sash had been
repaired, as per his instructions.

Not that it mattered. He would never live in this
apartment. He’d bought it for Elizabeth. He’d planned to surprise
her with the purchase when they returned from their honeymoon. He’d
searched for months for just the right property. The right
neighborhood, the right proportions. He’d had the whole place
repainted, taking his cues from Elizabeth’s grandparents’ stately
Mayfair mansion.

He’d been deluded. He could see that now. What woman
wanted a house she hadn’t chosen for herself? Better yet, what
woman wanted a house that had been decorated to someone else’s
taste?

The window moved smoothly, indicating the sash cords
had been replaced. He let the window thump back down to the
sill.

He should go home. It was late, and there was no
point to this. He was simply rubbing salt into the wound. Tomorrow
he would call the real estate agent and put this place on the
market. With a bit of luck, he’d get his money back. That was what
he should be concentrating on right now.

There was nowhere to sit, so he sat on the floor, his
back against one of the kitchen cabinets, feet flat on the floor,
knees bent. He rested his forearms on his knees and stared down the
hallway to the front door, ignoring the fact that he was probably
getting dust on his suit.

He didn’t know how to feel, what to do with himself.
For so long his future had stretched in front of him like this
hallway—straight and clean and utterly known. He’d known exactly
what he needed to do—build his reputation at Whittaker, Malcolm and
Venables, make partner, solidify his position in the world.
Elizabeth had been an integral part of that, the woman he’d
imagined at his side as he took the steps required to get him to
where he wanted to be.

As it turned out, where he’d wanted to be was not
where she’d wanted to be. Funny, but he’d never thought to even ask
her.

Just as he’d never thought to ask her if she would
like to live in this house, with these paint colors.

He lowered his head and massaged the small muscle
between his eyebrows. He’d been an idiot. A blind, foolish idiot.
And he’d paid the price. He’d lost Elizabeth.

The woman you think you want to
marry doesn’t exist. She’s a construct, cobbled together by my
over-developed sense of duty and your desire to be connected to a
man who in many respects has filled the role of father in your
life. I would make a terrible, terrible wife for you.

Elizabeth’s words from three days ago echoed in his
mind. At the time, he had denied them. Hadn’t wanted to hear what
she’d been saying. He’d been driven by fear and pride, determined
to bring her home with him. They were supposed to walk down the
aisle barely six weeks from today. All their friends were invited
to the wedding, along with the most important of his work
colleagues. If—when—they called the wedding off, the fact that
Elizabeth had jilted him would be common knowledge. People would
talk and snicker behind their hands. There would be speculation. He
would be a laughing stock. A man who couldn’t hold onto his
woman.

Even as humiliation rose afresh within him, he knew
that the blow he’d taken to his pride was the least of his
problems. More important to him was the fact that Elizabeth had
been frustrated and stifled by him and the life they’d planned
together.

He’d made her unhappy, and he hadn’t seen it. She’d
hidden it from him, toed the line, agreed to everything, and yet
inside she had been suffocating.

Not my fault. She’s a grown woman. She could have
spoken up. Told me what she wanted, how she felt. We were supposed
to be equals, after all.

He pushed himself to his feet. Brushing dust off the
seat of his pants, he strode for the front door.

He couldn’t leave his thoughts behind so easily. They
caught up with him as he got into his car.

Because Elizabeth
had
tried to talk to
him—and he’d ignored her. Not so many months ago, she’d waited
until they were having a quiet night in and she’d told him in a
nervous, self-conscious way that she’d like to experiment more in
the bedroom. She’d told him that she wanted to spice things up
between them, try something new.

And he’d been so uncomfortable with what she’d asked
that he’d shut her down. Self-conscious heat burned through his
body as he recalled the way he’d dismissed her suggestions. He’d
all but patted her on the head and told her not to worry herself
about such matters in his rush to end the conversation.

It wasn’t as though she’d asked for anything
ridiculously kinky, either. Certainly nothing he hadn’t done with
his other girlfriends. Her sexual fantasies had been very vanilla,
very tame by modern standards—and yet the thought of throwing her
on a bed and taking her from behind had felt as decadent and out of
the question for him as if she’d asked him to beat her bloody and
watch her sleep with ten different men.