Her Best Worst Mistake (6 page)

At the time he hadn’t stopped to question why, but
Elizabeth had, as she’d so eloquently demonstrated when she gently
but firmly severed the ties that bound them three days ago.

Let’s call a spade a spade here.
For better or for worse, I’m fixed in your mind as the
granddaughter of the man you respect more than any other person in
the world. You said it yourself—you owe him everything. When you
look at me, you see the granddaughter of Edward Whittaker first and
me second.

As much as he wanted to repudiate her view of their
relationship, her words had resonated within him.

Twenty years ago, he’d made a vow to himself that he
would not repeat his parents’ mistakes. He had been determined to
make it out of the cycle of poverty and ignorance into which he’d
been born. He’d stuck with school when his peers had dropped out.
He’d ignored the lures of drugs and drink and girls, even though
the council estate had been rife with distractions and temptations
and even though his mother had been baffled by his determination to
better himself.

He hadn’t been the brightest kid in his class, but
he’d worked his ass off, studying and cramming until he’d aced his
A Levels. When he’d first walked into Wren Library at Trinity
College, he’d looked around and known without a doubt that he was
the roughest, poorest kid in the building. He’d earned himself a
partial scholarship to cover his tuition but missed out on a
Government grant for living expenses, so he’d worked two jobs as
well as doing everything in his power to make himself an attractive
prospect for a future employer. He’d listened to the presenters on
the BBC and practiced until he’d smoothed out his rough North
London accent, and he’d watched where the more well-heeled of his
peers shopped and parroted them. In short, he had reinvented
himself—as much as a man could when he was on the outside looking
in. It had taken a long-established insider like Edward Whittaker
taking an interest in him to complete his transformation. Under
Edward’s guidance he’d shed the last of his rough edges and gained
the polish that allowed him to pass as someone born and bred to
success. To this day he didn’t know why the older man had taken an
interest in him—perhaps because he’d never had a son of his own,
just as Martin had never had a father—but whatever his motivation,
Edward had made his current life possible, and the prospect of
becoming part of the old man’s family through marrying Elizabeth
had held enormous appeal for him, as had Elizabeth herself.

She was a million miles from the girls he’d grown up
with. She always knew the right thing to say or do. She was
beautiful, refined, elegant. Her love had been the final seal on
his success.

And it had all been a house of cards, his facade
balanced precariously on Elizabeth’s.

Sitting in his car, he stared bleakly out the
windshield.

Elizabeth had had the courageto call bullshit on all
the pretense, but he’d been so invested, so desperate to belong
that he’d been prepared to play a part for the rest of his
life.

You sad, pathetic, when-will-I-be-good-enough
bastard.

For a moment he was gripped with the urge to start
the car and simply drive away from it all. The life he’d created
for himself. The career he’d so arduously built. The friends, the
clubs. He could drive and drive and drive until he was somewhere
else. And maybe he could start again. Do it differently this
time.

After a long beat, he started his car and drove home.
The truth was, he’d fought too hard and too long to make this life.
Like it or not, it still meant too much to him. Maybe that made him
weak or tragic or grasping, but it was the truth.

Now he just had to work out what to do with it.

Violet blew onto her cupped hands. She was wearing
gloves, but it was dark and cold and threatening snow and she was
freezing her derriere off in the street outside the offices of
Whittaker, Malcolm and Venables.

She checked her watch again.

Where in the hell was he?

She jiggled from one foot to the other, the heavy
weight of the bottle of Belgian peach schnapps in her shoulder bag
banging against her hip. Not for the first time she wondered what
she was doing, lurking out here in the dark, waiting for a man who
showed every indication of genuinely despising her.

Not for the first time, she had no ready answer.

The obvious reason was that she felt sorry for
Martin. She knew how much he loved Elizabeth, and she knew that
things were over between the two of them, which meant he was
probably feeling more than a little sorry for himself and perhaps
more than a little angry over the shitty hand he’d been dealt.

She knew for a fact that he’d only landed back in the
country two days ago, and she’d made an educated guess that instead
of taking a few days off to recover from jet-lag and lick his
wounds, he would march straight into work like a good little
soldier. As though his heart wasn’t broken and he wasn’t miserable
and sad and lonely.

Idiot.

She blew on her hands again. A figure appeared in the
doorway of the very old, very genteel building where Elizabeth’s
grandfather and former-fiancé plied their trade. She tensed but as
he stepped out into the street she saw that he was too old to be
Martin.

Although they probably patronized the same tailor,
judging by his stuffy attire.

She looked up at the building,
eyeing the one window that was still illuminated. She imagined
Martin bent over some dusty legal tome, burying himself in
precedents and caveats and whatevers because he didn’t know how to
deal with his own feelings. He could be in there
forever
. For all she
knew, he might be the kind of tragic workaholic who slept on the
couch in his office rather than go home and be forced to face his
own life.

She made a decision, crossing the street to stand
outside the front entrance of his building. Two minutes later, her
hopes were answered as a severely dressed woman exited through the
security door. Trying to look as though she knew exactly what she
was doing and where she was going, Violet caught the door before it
could close behind the woman and ducked into the foyer. The dry
warmth of central heating hit her, warming her cheeks, and she
unbuttoned her coat.

Now there was only the small problem of working out
what floor Martin’s office might be on. She crossed to the elevator
and stared at the brass plaque. She knew that Martin worked in
insolvency, but it looked like there were two floors dedicated to
the joys of people going out of business. With the economy the way
it was, they were probably eyeing a third floor.

She stepped into the lift, hitting the buttons for
both floors. She stared at the indicator and tried to ignore the
voice in the back of her head that was telling her this was a bad
idea.

As she’d already acknowledged,
Martin hated her. He thought she was easy, spoiled and vacuous. Not
that he’d said any of those things to her face—although he
had
made that crack about
the Playboy catalogue. His contempt was in every glance he threw
her way, in every word he said to her.

And yet here she was, a peace offering banging
against her hip.

She must be mad.

The lift pinged to a halt and she ducked her head
out. From what she could see, there wasn’t a single light on
throughout the whole floor. Onwards and upwards, then.

The lift doors slid shut and she tapped her foot
nervously. Another ping and the doors opened again. She stuck her
head out. Ah. A light. Finally.

She started up the corridor, her spiked heels digging
deeply into the plush carpet. She glanced into the darkened offices
as she passed, taking in the shiny wood and burnished leather.
Martin had done well for himself for a kid from the mean streets of
Hackney. She wondered if he ever took a moment to simply stop and
appreciate the fact, or if he was too busy lining up his pens on
his blotter and straightening his tie to notice.

Her steps slowed as she drew closer to what she
assumed was his office until finally she’d come to a complete halt.
Her hand found the neck of the schnapps bottle in her handbag.
Maybe schnapps hadn’t been the right choice. Maybe she should have
bought him cognac or a malt whiskey or something more suited to all
this wood and pomp and circumstance. She’d chosen the schnapps
because she could remember him trying some once and he’d commented
on how much he liked it. She’d figured that if she was going to
encourage him to drown his sorrows and wallow a little, he might as
well do it with something he liked.

She lifted her chin. Either she was going to do this
or she wasn’t.

She strode forward.

Apparently she was going to do this.

She stopped when she reached his doorway. He was
reading over some papers, wearing a pair of glasses that would have
looked at home on Elizabeth’s grandfather. Which, she guessed, was
probably where Martin took most of his fashion cues from.

Yet tonight, like the night he’d accosted her in the
street, he looked far more rumpled and less spic and span than
usual. He’d taken his jacket off and rolled up his shirt sleeves
and yanked his tie loose. Even his hair was mussed, standing up in
uneven spikes as though he’d been running his fingers through
it.

She cleared her throat. “Hi.”

He started. “Bloody hell! Where the blazes did you
spring from?”

Not the most welcoming greeting she’d ever
received.

“
Sorry. Someone was leaving
downstairs so I let myself in.”

He’d recovered from the surprise a little and he
settled back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he
eyed her darkly.

“
Come to gloat, have
you?”

“
No. Of course not.”

Martin stood, rounding the desk so he could face her.
God forbid he cede her the advantage of standing while he remained
seated.

“
You don’t have to be coy. We both
know this is a triumph for you. Elizabeth tossing over her stodgy,
anal-retentive fiancé at last and taking up with some bronzed
Aussie surf god.”

“
Bronzed Aussie surf god? What are
you talking about?”

He looked over his glasses at her.

“
A tip for you—the Little Miss
Innocent routine only works when there’s a credible belief that
innocence is possible.”

Violet glared at him. Screw trying to make amends if
he was going to insult her before she’d said more than hello.

“
You are unbelievable, you know
that? You want to throw around blame, how about you take a good
hard look at yourself and your stupid, prematurely middle-aged
life? This is the twenty-first century, not the 1800s. People have
sex in positions other than missionary, and lots of women like
doing it doggy style. And no, they’re not all prostitutes or porn
stars—they’re people who are in touch with their own feelings and
wants and desires. Unlike you, Mr. Stick-Up-Your-Ass.”

Martin flushed a deep red. “Charming, as always,
Violet. Your parents must be so proud.”

She could feel her own face flush with heat. “I
wouldn’t know, since they disowned me years ago. You should ask my
father about it next time you’re smooching ass over at the Savage
Club.”

His nostrils flared. “Well, I must say, this has been
a real treat. Goodbye, Violet.”

She stared at him, all the anger draining out of her
as she realized how quickly and easily they’d descended into
acrimony when she’d come here offering sympathy.

“
Look. I’m sorry. Okay? That’s what
I came to say.” She took the bottle of Schnapps from her bag and
put it on his desk. “I even brought a peace offering.”

He went very still, then his lips curled into a thin
parody of a smile.

“
Experiencing a little
post-manipulation remorse, Violet? I’m sure it will
pass.”

“
Martin. Just...shut up and listen,
okay? I think what’s happened between you and E sucks. Yes, I
thought you were bad for each other, but that doesn’t mean I think
you’re a bad person or that I don’t want you to be happy. And I
might have made a few jokes about you being uptight and called you
Droopy Drawers, but I never told E to dump you. I know how much you
love her.”

Martin blinked. Then he took his glasses off and made
a big deal out of putting them in his pocket.

“
Again, thank you for your brilliant
analysis of my private life. Next time I want to be judged by a
woman who has wasted almost her entire life thumbing her nose at
her parents, I’ll know just where to come.”

It was Violet’s turn to blink. “You know nothing
about me and my parents. So don’t you dare offer judgment.”

“
Oh, I see. You’re the only one who
is allowed to have an opinion on something that has nothing
whatsoever to do with you. Is that right?”

Violet sighed. Why did they always end up at
loggerheads? Despite the angry words that kept popping out of her
mouth, she actually quite admired him. She knew he did lots of pro
bono work. She had huge respect for the way he’d dragged himself up
by the boot straps. A part of her even liked how serious he was,
even though the outward manifestations of that—the clothing, those
stupid glasses—drove her nuts. And yet she couldn’t spend five
minutes in his company without rubbing him the wrong way and vice
versa.

“
Maybe we should just pretend this
never happened.” She turned to go.

“
Aren’t you forgetting
something?”

He picked up the bottle of schnapps and offered it to
her.

“
It was a gift.”