Each Way Bet

Ilsa Evans lives in a partially renovated house in the Dandenongs, east of Melbourne. She shares her home with her three children, two dogs, several fish, a multitude of sea-monkeys and a psychotic cat.

She has just completed a PhD at Monash University on the long-term effects of domestic violence and writes fiction on the weekends.
Each Way Bet
is her fourth novel.

www.ilsaevans.com

Also by Ilsa Evans

Spin Cycle
Drip Dry
Odd Socks

I
LSA
E
VANS

First published 2006 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
St Martins Tower, 31 Market Street, Sydney

Copyright © Ilsa Evans 2006

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia
cataloguing-in-publication data:

Evans, Ilsa.
Each way bet.

ISBN-13 978 1 4050 3700 6.
ISBN-10 1 40503700 8.

I. Title

A823.4

Typeset in 13/16 pt Bembo by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

The characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products
made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes
conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

These electronic editions published in 2007 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

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Each Way Bet

Ilsa Evans

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This book is dedicated to my girls,
Jaime Christine and Caitlin Jain:
the two brightest silver linings that I
could ever have wished for.

Thanks to all the usual suspects, like Charlotte Evans, Patricia Woodroffe, Michael Evans, and all the rest of you who make my job that little bit smoother. Thanks also to Dr Maryanne Dever and Dr Jo Lindsay, who never complained that I was doing this when I really shouldn’t have been.

In addition, I’d like to express my thanks to Peter and Joan from Dezyn1 computer services, who have saved my life (technologically speaking) on so many occasions that I’ve lost count. Thanks also to Clare Lindop, who very kindly checked my amateurish race calling and, with several judicious changes, made it sound legitimate. A big thanks also to all the midweek ladies from Boronia Tennis Club, whose continual support and encouragement have always been much appreciated. And a huge all-round thanks to my ‘army buddies’ – Lyn McLindin, Maria Caven, Cathri Caljouw, Leanne Rountos, Mandy Pemberton, Joe Mollica, Rhondah Northrope – hope we’re all still catching up in twenty years time!

And, as usual, my ongoing thanks to Cate Paterson, Sarina Rowell, Jo Jarrah, Anyez Lindop – and all of the Pan Macmillan family. I sincerely appreciate your wonderful mix of professionalism, friendliness and support – and hope to continue experiencing it for quite some time!

Finally, my heartfelt thanks must go to Fran Bryson and Liz Kemp of the Bryson Agency. Fran, you gave me the start I needed, and words cannot describe how much that was, and is, appreciated. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the past four years and I wish you both all the best of luck in your new ventures.

‘So what do you want to be when you grow up, Em?’

‘Um . . .’ Emily, who was sitting up on top of the mottled-green Formica table having her shoelaces tied, looked thoughtfully down at her mother. ‘I fink I wanna be a nun when I’m growed up. Then I wanna be a hermit who reads books, then I wanna be a warrior princess, then I wanna be –’

‘
I
want to be a famous person,’ interrupted her brother with enthusiasm, abandoning his own shoelace-tying efforts, ‘and people from faraway lands will get down on their knees before me.’

‘Huh!’ said Emily disdainfully.

‘And I’ll have beautiful clothes, all silky and stuff like Mum’s, and –’ Adam paused while he looked down at the shoelaces, which were sporting a rather strange, and very loose, arrangement of four different sized loops each – ‘and I’ll never wear shoes again. Only thongs.’

‘Well, I want to have adventures,’ said their thirteen year old sister, who was sitting by the kitchen window and staring dreamily out into the backyard, ‘and then I’m going to meet a really groovy guy like Shirley from Skyhooks and we’re going to have twins, a boy and a girl, and live happily ever after.’

‘There’s no such thing as happily ever after, Jillian,’ interjected Corinne, the eldest of the lot, as she wandered in and placed her schoolbag neatly by the door. ‘Life’s only what you
make it. And
I’m
going to make mine perfect. First a career in something useful, then marriage to someone with ambitions, then a lovely big house with a pool, and air-conditioning throughout, and two wall telephones. Oh, and two colour televisions.’

‘Two colour televisions!’ Jillian rolled her eyes, and then glanced at her sister curiously. ‘But what about kids?’

‘One. But not until we’ve been married a good few years and are financially secure. It’ll be a daughter named Charlotte.’

‘Yuk,’ said Emily, jumping down from the table. ‘If ’n you’re going to have kids, you two, does that mean you have to be sexed?’

‘Of course Jillian and I are going to have sex. We
all
are . . . except maybe Adam.’ Corinne raised her eyebrows as she looked across at their brother, who had picked up one of Emily’s Barbie dolls and was busily rearranging its crocheted outfit. ‘Because he’s freaky.’

‘Girls! I think that’s quite enough about sex, thank you very much!’

‘Mummy!’ Emily suddenly shrieked, staring at her mother with horror dawning on her face. ‘
You
! You’ve been sexed!’

‘What! When?’ Their mother flushed a deep crimson as she stared down at her youngest daughter guiltily. ‘I didn’t! How do you know?’

‘Oh,
yuk
!’ Jillian grimaced at her little sister and turned back to the window.

‘Don’t be silly, Emily,’ said Corinne dismissively, ‘Mum’s too old.’

‘Anyway, it’s okay, Em,’ said Adam, placing the Barbie doll into its black metallic stand and adjusting its arms and legs, ‘coz Mum’s only had
it
four times. You know, she had to – for us. It’s a sacrifice they make.’

‘That’s right – a sacrifice.’ Their mother nodded fiercely.
‘Because I love you. And now, we’ll leave sex right alone, please. I’m getting a headache.’

‘Well, I’m not never letting anyone sex me,’ Emily said emphatically, rescuing her Barbie doll from her brother’s attentions, ‘that’s why I’m gonna be a nun. And if’n I want kids, I’ll adopt. Or steal them. But no-one’s never putting their rude fing anywhere near me. Never ever ever.’

‘Is it me?’

Completely naked, Emily Broadhurst sat up in the middle of the bed, crossed her legs and stared over with frustration at her boyfriend of seven weeks. As she sat up, the black satin sheet slipped off her chest and pooled silkily into her lap, displaying a petite, toned body and small but firm breasts. She ran both hands through her short dark hair but made no move to cover herself, deciding that he might as well have a good look at what he was rejecting. Maybe then he would change his mind.

‘Of
course
it’s not you, Em!’Tim turned away from the mirror, where he had been studiously adjusting his tie, and stared at her with surprise. ‘How could you
say
that? Just look at you – you’re bloody gorgeous!’

‘Well, then, why? Why don’t you want to stay?’

‘I
told
you – I’ve got work on today.’

‘That’s not what you said yesterday, when we made arrangements to have breakfast this morning. It wasn’t until you got here and saw what I meant by breakfast that you suddenly decided you had work that
couldn’t
wait!’

‘Look, Em – I forgot, that’s all.’ Tim came over to the bed,
sat down, and reached out to clasp her hand between his own. ‘I’m really, really sorry. And I’ll make it up to you, I promise. When are you next free?’

‘Never. It’ll cost you at least a bottle of champagne. Good champagne.’

‘Done.’ Tim shook her hand and then released it. ‘And I’ve got time for a coffee now, if you like. How does that sound?’

‘Oh, positively orgasmic,’ muttered Emily sarcastically as she pleated the sheet between her fingers. ‘Just what I need.’

‘Excellent,’ said Tim with relief, ‘and don’t you move a muscle – I’ll get it. You relax. Back in a moment.’

Emily watched him exit the room and then flung herself back onto the bed and pulled the sheet half over her body. If he had time for coffee, she wondered resentfully, why didn’t he have time for sex? She’d
seen
him drink coffee, and he wasn’t exactly a gulper – more like a sipper, slow and steady and taking about twenty minutes. She could have squeezed in a couple of orgasms just while the damn stuff was percolating – or maybe they could have had iced coffee. And dribbled it all over each other’s bodies so that they had to chase it with their tongues before it could reach the sheets – now
that
was the sort of coffee she was in the mood for.

And what a body Tim had. Six foot tall with a six-pack to die for. Not too muscly, just enough so that when he flexed, his biceps bulged and the skin stretched tight over taut ribbons of muscle. And he was gorgeous into the bargain. A deep, husky voice with an ever so slight American accent that hinted at his country of birth. Dark wavy hair, warm brown eyes and a pair of the most sensual lips she’d ever seen on a man. Just perfect for . . .

Emily groaned and pulled her pillow over her face. It
must
be her, she thought bitterly, it must be. Both of them experienced adults just over thirty, both city people with successful careers,
both single, both with absolutely no dependants. And there was most definitely a spark there, and had been ever since they first met almost two months ago in a Melbourne nightclub.

Emily lowered the pillow and pressed it across her breasts, staring up at the ceiling as she pictured her eyes meeting Tim’s across a crowded dance-floor, and the slight smile of recognition on his face as he made his way determinedly across to her. It was an extremely romantic scenario, and a lot more appealing than the truth – which was that she had stuck out her foot and tripped him up while he danced because she’d been checking him out for a while and hadn’t been able to make eye contact. Unfortunately, his staggering fall had created a domino effect and resulted in a woman on the other side of the dance floor being taken to the emergency room with a suspected ankle fracture and hip dislocation. Emily had felt terribly guilty until she noticed the height of her stilettos, and then she decided that the woman had simply been asking for toppling-type trouble anyway. So, instead, she had concentrated on helping Tim to his feet and buying him a drink to apologise for her clumsiness. And that, as they say, was that. Apart from this.

Because how many virile young men went out with a female they obviously found attractive and never, not once, tried advancing to third base, let alone going for the home run? And now, when the entire diamond was presented on a silver platter, so to speak, with each of the bases there for the taking – he went to make coffee. Leaving her to percolate alone. There always seemed to be some excuse for him to draw back at the last minute – sometimes literally. Work he had forgotten, or a calf muscle that he had just strained, or, on one remarkable occasion two weeks ago when the situation got rather hot and heavy on Emily’s couch, the sudden recollection that he was in mourning. Apparently, a great-aunt had
passed away the night before and sex, under the circumstances, would have been inappropriate. So here they were – with a seven-week relationship that had yet to be consummated. It was unheard of.

Twisting around, Emily knelt up on the bed and, resting her arms on the window ledge, stared out of the huge semicircular window behind her bed-head. The window itself had a thick border of stained glass framing the top half, with lozenges of emerald green, rose red and egg yolk yellow shimmering with the morning sun. And from this viewpoint she could see life as it passed by in busy Fitzroy, an inner-city suburb of Melbourne. Straight across the road was a French patisserie which sold the most delicious croissants, perfect for a quick breakfast on the way to work. For those more leisurely weekend breakfasts, next door to it was a large café with a striped awning that shaded the outdoor tables so you could sit drinking a latte and greeting various friends and acquaintances as they passed by. And for evening meals, apart from the several pubs within walking distance, there was a veritable smorgasbord of international choice along the street. Thai, Chinese, Mexican, Japanese, Italian – even a tiny little Moroccan hole-in-the-wall that served the most delicious lentil Harira found this side of . . . well, Morocco.

While she watched, two trams trundled along the centre of the road in opposite directions, ferrying all those unfortunates whose employers were forcing them to report in today, the Monday sandwiched between the weekend and Melbourne Cup Day on the morrow. Fortunately for Emily, her boss, who had been invited to some huge celebrity shindig over at Flemington Racecourse, had not only given herself the day off but had closed down the entire branch as well.

And that was one of her favourite things about her apartment – life went on right outside her doorstep whether she
chose to join it or stay in and simply feel connected visually. It was almost impossible to feel isolated when all you had to do was look out a window to see life churning and surging by. Lonely, perhaps, but isolated? Never. It was the main reason Emily had bought the converted warehouse-apartment six years ago when, after a stint at the head office in Sydney, she had been transferred back to Melbourne by her publishing company and given the word that it was to be a long-term posting. At the time, she had been extremely lucky to have scrambled her way into the real estate market with a minimum deposit, right on the eve of a housing boom that had seen inner-city prices soar far out of her reach within twelve months.

Originally designed for storage, the apartment had been completely renovated in the late eighties and now boasted a huge open space that constituted lounge, dining and kitchen, all painted a warm Tuscan yellow, with a six-metre ceiling that was topped by a row of skylights set amongst the rattan lining. At either end of this huge area was a wrought-iron staircase. One led to a small mezzanine level that was book-lined and decorated with comfy armchairs, and the other to her bedroom and a small but functional bathroom. And although she occasionally let friends squat on the mezzanine level when they were temporarily homeless, she always made it perfectly clear that it was a short-term solution. Because Emily had discovered fairly early, during the haphazard living conditions of her time in Sydney, that she was not particularly good at sharing. Mismatched furniture, eclectic music tastes, coming home to strange men lolling on the couch eating overflowing bowls of cereal from packets clearly marked ‘Emily’ – it all got tiresome very quickly. So, whenever rental-hunting friends who had been sidelined by the property boom hinted at all that space she had, she would simply smile and agree happily, but ruthlessly squash any idea of a boarder. Because she had set
things up so that the apartment reflected her personality perfectly: one owner, open and generous, tastefully decorated, solitary, but with some enclosed areas that a select few were invited into for short periods of time.

But here was the rub: sometime over the past few months – or perhaps even longer without her noticing – all this perfection had begun to wear a trifle thin. Not that she was sad or depressed, simply not quite as . . .
happy
as she had been. Her life felt a bit like day-old bread: bearable and quite sustaining, but stale around the edges and downright chewy in the middle. It was probably, she decided with annoyance, all a reaction to her current state of sexual frustration.

‘Here we go!’ Tim was carrying a rattan tray on which were artfully placed two mugs of steaming coffee, a plate with a flaky croissant, and a crystal stem vase holding a single frond of fern. ‘Breakfast fit for a queen!’

‘Delicious,’ murmured Emily in her most sensual voice, as she turned away from the window and stretched gracefully, making sure as she did so that her back was arched and her breasts thrust forward. She kept this up for a few moments, extending her arms and yawning while carefully not looking towards Tim, before she surreptitiously glanced sidelong under her lashes to see how he was taking this little demonstration. But he wasn’t even paying attention; instead he was clearing her bedside table to make room for the tray and humming happily to himself. With a snort of disgust, Emily gave up the pose and flopped down onto the bed, pulling a T-shirt out from under her pillow and tugging it over her head.

‘Here you go,’ Tim repeated as he finally turned towards her, grinning as he passed her a mug of coffee. ‘White with one, just how you like it.’

‘Thanks,’ replied Emily shortly, scuttling across the bed to sit cross-legged by the tray. ‘Perfect.’

‘I suspected as much,’ said Tim, obviously pleased with himself. He sat down next to her and picked up his own mug. ‘I found the croissant in the fridge. What do you think?’

‘Oh – smashing.’

‘So what have you got planned for the day?’

‘I
had
planned on floating around in a state of satiated euphoria,’ said Emily, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively for one last try. ‘Hmm?’

‘And now?’

Emily pulled her T-shirt right down over her knees with disgust. ‘Well, seeing as
that’s
not on the cards, I’ll probably just have a lazy day, I suppose. Go for a wander, maybe catch up with some friends for lunch, grab something for us to take along to my sister’s Melbourne Cup thing tomorrow.’

‘So who’s going to be there, anyway?’

‘Oh, just family,’ Emily grimaced. ‘My two sisters, and their husbands and kids. Jill, that’s the sister next up from me, she’s good value, but Corinne, she’s the eldest – well, let’s just say that if anal retention were a university course, she’d have a PhD. Unfortunately, it’s at her house. Anyway, then there’ll be my mother, who’s pretty dotty nowadays, and maybe my brother. That’s it.’

‘Your
brother
?’

‘Yes.’ Emily looked at Tim curiously. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll like him. He’s great fun.’

‘Yeah.’ Tim lapsed into silence and took a gulp of his coffee. Then he put the mug back down and slapped his thigh. ‘ That’s great. I mean, I don’t want to get stuck with a room full of women all day, you know. The more guys, the better.’

‘Okay,’ Emily frowned at him, ‘whatever. But he’ll probably beg off, anyway, that’s what he usually does.’

‘Ah.’ Tim picked up his mug again and lapsed once more into silence while he drank.

Emily leant over and picked up the croissant, breaking it in half and passing one piece to Tim, who mumbled some thanks and devoured it in two gulps. She examined him pensively while she nibbled at her own half, trying to work out what all that had been about. Hopefully, he was just nervous at the idea of meeting her family for the first time – but she was beginning to have an apprehensive little thought that perhaps he was more blokey than she realised. Maybe he was one of those men who like there to be two groups at functions – one for the women, one for the guys. If so, their relationship was doomed – even apart from the lack of sex. Well, all would be revealed tomorrow. Because if there was anyone who could send men running for cover, it was her sister Corinne.

But, Emily decided firmly, if this particular relationship wasn’t heading anywhere anyway, she was damn well going to get laid before it collapsed. She wasn’t about to let
that
body wander out of her life without even a free sample. After seven weeks, she deserved it. She finished off her croissant, brushed the pastry flakes from her lap and then picked up her coffee and regarded Tim contemplatively while she drank it.

‘Tim?’

‘Huh?’ Tim jolted himself out of his reverie and looked across at her. ‘Yes, Em?’

‘About us . . .’ Emily tried to think of a subtle way to word her question but soon gave up and decided just to be frank. ‘The sex, I mean. Is there any particular reason why we haven’t had it? Is there a – a problem?’

‘No! No problem!’ Tim said quickly in a rather panicked voice, before making an obvious attempt to pull himself together and continuing in a deeper than usual tone: ‘No problem at all. Why do you ask?’

‘Well –
seven
weeks!’

‘Look, Em –’Tim turned to face her, taking her free hand
between his own – ‘I probably should have told you this earlier. Especially when you thought it was you. And, hell, it’s
not
you – god! You’re so damn sexy! I mean, you – you look like Winona Ryder! It’s all I can do just to sit here and not leap on you!’