Her Best Worst Mistake

by Sarah Mayberry

  “Did you change your mind about going to the bar?” Elizabeth asked as he pulled into his allocated parking spot.

  “I thought we could walk. It’s just around the corner.”

  “Oh. Good idea.”

  He helped her out of the car, sliding his arm around her shoulders as they walked.

  “You know, it’s exactly eight weeks to the big day now,” he said as they left the mews and entered the street.

  There was a small pause before Elizabeth responded.

  “It is, isn’t it? It’s all gone so quickly. Amazing, really. When you proposed, I thought six months was plenty of time to plan a wedding. Shows what I knew.”

  Beneath his arm, her shoulders were stiff with tension. She’d been tense a lot lately. A little distant, too. It had been nearly three weeks since she’d stayed a night at his place—not an ice-age, but a sign, if a person was looking for it, that all was not as it should be. Especially with a wedding on the horizon.

  “Everything is going okay? There’s nothing more I can do?” he asked.

  It wasn’t what he wanted to ask, but Elizabeth was hard to pin down sometimes. She tended to keep things to herself and puzzle them out on her own. Since it was something he did himself, he could hardly criticize her for it—but that didn’t stop him from being frustrated when she kept him at arm’s length.

  “Everything is pretty much taken care of. Violet has been a rock. I don’t know what I would have done if she hadn’t kept pointing me in the right direction.”

  He was aware that Violet had put herself at Elizabeth’s disposal in the lead up to the wedding. He couldn’t fault Violet for that—she’d been incredibly generous with her time and energy.

  One point in her favor.

  “It looks a little crowded,” Elizabeth said as they approached the bar.

  She shot him a doubtful look. She knew he wasn’t overly fond of noisy bars and clubs. On the other hand, this had been Elizabeth’s suggestion, and Violet’s words were still ringing in his ears.

  You should sneak out of here, too, and take E somewhere fun. Reward her for being such a stoic.

  He didn’t like the idea that Elizabeth had simply been enduring the fundraiser and not enjoying herself. True, he hadn’t been having a ball himself, but that was beside the point.

  “I’m sure we can negotiate ourselves a corner somewhere,” he said.

  Elizabeth smiled and he knew he’d said the right thing. He held the door open and they walked into a dim space with a low ceiling. As luck would have it, two women were vacating stools at the bar as he and Elizabeth wove their way through the crowd and they were able to secure seats immediately.

  “Perfect,” Elizabeth said, glancing around with bright, interested eyes.

  “Champagne? Brandy?” he asked.

  “I’ll have a Frangelico on the rocks, please.” She swiveled in her seat and stood. “I won’t be a moment.”

  She headed for the restrooms. Martin caught the bartender’s eye and ordered a Scotch for himself and Elizabeth’s Frangelico. He settled into his seat, glancing around the bar with the mildest of curiosity. He knew without asking that he had nothing in common with these people. Almost to a person they were under thirty, fashionably dressed and out for a good time. They’d probably never gone hungry in their lives. Certainly they’d never had to work two jobs to put themselves through University. Like Violet, they probably took all of life’s gifts for granted.

  He frowned, irritated with himself for thinking about her again. He was fully aware that she enjoyed provoking him—hence the strip routine in the back of his car. He refused to spare her another moment’s thought, since it seemed to him that that was what she wanted—any and all attention she could garner for herself. Everyone’s eyes on her. Why else would she wear such short skirts and such high heels? Why else would she have gone to a party tonight in a tiny black top made of silk so sheer that anyone could see at a glance that her small, rounded breasts were unhindered by a bra, her nipples clearly outlined by the soft fabric?

  He reached for his drink and glanced over his shoulder toward the restrooms, willing Elizabeth to return. His shoulders dropped with relief as she exited the door marked with a silhouette of a woman. She met his eyes across the bar and the tight, irritated feeling in his gut and chest eased. He could tolerate a million Violets if it meant having Elizabeth in his life.

  She was the important thing. Nothing else.

  Chapter Two

  As it turned out, Violet didn’t get a chance to catch up with Elizabeth on Monday, but on Tuesday her friend dropped by Violet’s Notting Hill boutique, Violet Femmes, in the early afternoon. Violet had just received a shipment of silk scarves from Cambodia and Elizabeth helped her unpack, press and price the stock before setting up a display.

  Elizabeth was distracted and quiet the entire two hours, but Violet knew her well enough not to push her to talk—she’d learned early in their friendship that Elizabeth would either volunteer what was on her mind all on her own or it would forever remain a secret. She gave her friend an extra long hug before she left, however. So E knew she was there for her if she needed her.

  It was past six and she’d shut the doors and was tidying the shop in preparation for the next day’s trade when someone hammered on the glass panel of the front door. Wary, Violet turned off the vacuum cleaner and moved around a display so that she had a clear view. Elizabeth stood there, her face pale and streaked with tears.

  Alarmed, Violet strode to the front door.

  “E. What’s wrong? Are you okay?” She drew her friend in out of the icy November night.

  “I didn’t know where else to come. I was so angry, Vi. I am so angry. And just...I don’t know...sad and surprised and hurt...”

  For the first time Violet registered that Elizabeth was towing a small wheeled suitcase.

  Oh boy.

  If Elizabeth had left her grandparent’s home, something big had happened.

  “What’s going on?” she asked again.

  “When I got home from seeing you this afternoon the mail was on the hall table. One of the letters was my birth certificate. I had to order a copy for the wedding license.” Elizabeth clutched at Violet’s arm, her expression urgent. “He’s not dead, Vi. My father’s not dead. They lied to me. John Mason was my stepfather, not my biological father. All these years... My real father’s name is Sam Blackwell. And according to my grandfather he’s still alive.”

  Violet blinked, trying to take it all in. Elizabeth’s parents had died in a light plane accident when Elizabeth was just six years old. “So your mother was married to someone else before she married John Mason?”

  “No. Not married. I don’t know what happened, but she and this Sam person definitely weren’t married. But he’s still my father, Vi. And they lied to me and let me believe my parents were dead. And Martin knew. My grandfather told him when we got engaged and he’s known all this time and he didn’t say anything to me. He told me that it didn’t change anything. Can you believe that?”

  Elizabeth’s blue eyes were bright with anger. Violet slid an arm around her shoulders.

  “Come on, let’s go upstairs. This is a conversation that requires alcohol and saturated animal fats, preferably in the form of icecream.”

  “I couldn’t eat a thing. But a drink would be good. A drink would be perfect.”

  Elizabeth waited by the door while Violet turned off lights and set the alarm, then they took the stairs to her apartment, which was situated over the shop. Elizabeth abandoned her suitcase by the door and went straight to the kitchen. Violet watched, worried, as her friend tore the cap off a bottle of vodka and poured two very stiff drinks. Elizabeth lifted hers to her mouth and downed the lot in one long, gulping swallow. Then she set the glass back onto the counter with a loud thunk and met Violet’s eyes.

  “I’ve called off the wedding,” she said boldly. “And I want to find my father.”

  Violet mouthed a four letter word. “You�
�re kidding me?”

  They both know she was referring to the wedding part of Elizabeth’s announcement and not the part where she wanted to search for her newly discovered parent.

  “No. It was suddenly incredibly clear to me. All these months—years, really—I’ve been doing what everyone else wanted me to do. All those committees Grandmother insisted on nominating me for. Giving up teaching full time. Accepting Martin’s proposal. It’s all been about what they wanted, not what I want.”

  Violet watched, stunned, as Elizabeth downed the second vodka as quickly as she’d downed the first.

  “You know what the crazy thing is? I don’t even know what I want. If you held a gun to my head right now and told me I had to tell you where I wanted to be a year from now, I couldn’t do it. I have no idea. None. Nada. The only idea I have in my head is that I need to find my father. I want to know who he is. And maybe knowing him will help me work out who I am.”

  Elizabeth reached for the vodka bottle again, but Violet beat her to it.

  “Have you had anything to eat?”

  “I don’t want food. I want oblivion. I want to feel angry with all the people who have lied to me without having to feel guilty and obligated at the same time. I want to get really, really, horribly drunk.”

  Violet met her friend’s eyes. She could see the hurt and the anger and the panic there. Elizabeth’s whole world had just been rocked on its axis. She deserved a good blow out, complete with hideous morning-after hang-over. It was practically a rite of passage.

  She released her grip on the vodka bottle. “Okay.”

  Elizabeth’s face crumpled, all the defiance leaking out of her. “Thank you for understanding. Thank you for always understanding.”

  She threw her arms around Violet, crushing her close. Violet hugged her back just as fiercely. This woman was her best, most loyal, most wonderful friend. More than anything she wanted her to be happy and fulfilled.

  “Let’s get toasted,” she said as they both drew back from the embrace.

  They kicked off their shoes and made themselves comfortable on Violet’s saggy three seater sofa, and all the while Elizabeth talked, pausing only to gulp at the vodka and cranberry juice Violet made for her. She talked about the panic attacks she’d been having in the lead up to the wedding, and how stifled she felt sometimes living with her grandparents. She talked about knowing that her grandmother used her heart condition to ruthlessly manipulate and emotionally blackmail the people in her life but that up until now she’d felt powerless to resist her. She talked about standing in the hallway at her grandparent’s Mayfair mansion less than an hour ago and looking into Martin’s eyes and knowing that she didn’t love him the way she should love the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with and understanding, finally, that marrying him would be the biggest mistake of her life.

  Violet nodded and made the right noises in the right places and got outraged on her friend’s behalf and passed the tissues when Elizabeth got to the maudlin, self-pitying drunken part of the evening. It was well into the small hours and they were both bleary-eyed and hoarse by the time Violet made up a bed for Elizabeth on the couch and staggered to her own room.

  Lying in bed, she worried for her friend while a part of her rejoiced that for the first time in years Elizabeth was being honest about how she felt and what she wanted. A more cynical part of her wondered if Elizabeth wouldn’t wake up full of regrets and remorse tomorrow, but her gut told her that something had shifted irreversibly for her friend tonight. Elizabeth had broken free. With a bit of luck, she’d be able to hang onto that and start making some decisions about her life.

  Violet’s thoughts drifted to Martin as she edged toward sleep. She wondered how he was feeling right now. Angry? Thwarted? Wounded? She waited for a sense of satisfaction to wash over herself—she’d never liked him, after all—but it didn’t come. Instead she felt a peculiar tightness in her chest and throat.

  Almost as though she was sorry for him.

  Which was nuts. Obviously she was drunker than she’d thought. Martin St Clair did not need her pity. He was probably already planning his campaign for another well-bred, beautiful wife who would be perfectly suited to his upwardly mobile ambitions.

  The tight feeling remained in her chest and she pressed a hand to her sternum.

  “Go away. I don’t care.”

  Eventually she dropped off to sleep, waking when her alarm blared next to her ear at seven-thirty the next morning. She felt terrible—headachy and dry mouthed and nauseous—and she shuffled into the bathroom and stood beneath the shower until she could face the prospect of getting out and battling the day. Elizabeth was deeply asleep on the sofa and Violet dressed quietly before making her way downstairs to the shop. She ducked out to grab coffees and muffins a few minutes before opening time and was sucking the froth off her latte when a heavy-eyed Elizabeth entered the store.

  “Hey. How are you feeling?” Violet asked.

  “Like something the cat threw up.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. She’d had a shower and pulled her long blonde hair into a pony tail. She looked tired and drawn, but Violet was glad to see the spark of anger and defiance remained in her friend’s eyes.

  Her gut had been right—Elizabeth wasn’t going back.

  “Here,” she said, pushing the second coffee across the counter. “I got a spare, just in case.”

  “Bless you.” Elizabeth buried her nose in the coffee.

  “There’s a muffin, too, if you’re up to solids yet.”

  “Might need a few minutes before I can go there,” Elizabeth said.

  “So...Whats on the agenda for today?” Violet asked cautiously.

  “Finding my father. I have his name and his birthdate. In the days of Google, that’s got to count for something, don’t you think?”

  Violet broke off a piece of muffin, a part of her brain noticing that Elizabeth hadn’t so much as mouthed Martin’s name, despite it being a new day. Surely he must be on her mind in some shape or form?

  “We can search for him. And there’s always Andy. He owes me a favor.”

  Her cousin, Andy, was a policeman. She’d helped him out when he’d messed things up with his girlfriend a few months ago, so she was pretty sure she should be able to lean on him to get him to look up Elizabeth’s biological father.

  “I’d forgotten about Andy. He’s perfect. Can we call him now?”

  Violet studied her. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you? You’re really going to go find him.”

  “Yes. Absolutely. I want to know the truth. I want to know who I am.”

  Elizabeth had said something similar last night. It was on the tip of Violet’s tongue to point out that the only person who defined Elizabeth was Elizabeth herself, but she decided that it wasn’t what her friend needed to hear right now. She needed to be a bit reckless and impulsive, and if that meant racing off to Dublin or Yorkshire or New York on what might turn out to be a goose chase, so be it.

  Elizabeth’s phone rang. Violet watched as she pulled it from her bag, checked the screen, then slid it back into her bag without taking the call.

  “Martin?” Violet couldn’t resist asking.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not going to talk to him?”

  “No.”

  Violet told herself to mind her own business. It worked for all of five seconds. “Don’t you think he might be worried about you?”

  “I don’t want to talk to him right now. I’m still angry with him, and I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.”

  “Does that mean you’re having second thoughts about calling off the wedding?”

  “No. That was the right thing to do, no matter what happens. I don’t love him, Vi.”

  For some reason, her friend’s words hit her like a blow to the solar plexus. She had no idea why. It wasn’t as though she’d ever truly believed in them as a couple.

  It took her a few seconds to gather her suddenly scattered
thoughts together.

  “Okay. But that doesn’t mean you can’t talk to him. Reassure the guy.”

  Elizabeth gave her a look. “Since when have you been on his side?”

  “I’m not on his side. It’s just that it occurred to me last night that this must have hit him really hard.”

  For a moment Elizabeth’s face sagged with guilt. Then she lifted her chin. “I can’t think about him. I know that sounds selfish, but if I stop to think about all the people I’ll be disappointing, I’ll never do this. And I need to do this, Vi.”

  “I know.”

  “Can we call Andy now?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She called her cousin, and after ten minutes of cajoling that soon degenerated into outright sucking up, she managed to secure his promise to run a search on Sam Blackwell. Elizabeth thanked her profusely and went back upstairs to sleep off more of her hangover. At three that afternoon, Andy called back with the last known address for Sam Blackwell. Feeling a little dazed, Violet put the “back in five minutes” sign in the window and shut the shop up before heading upstairs.

  She walked into a shining, immaculate apartment and the smell of cleaning fluid.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I needed something to do while waiting. Other than sit around and doubt myself, I mean,” Elizabeth said as she straightened the pile of magazines on the coffee table.

  “Why would I mind? You can stay any time.” Violet marveled at how nice her living space looked when it wasn’t buried under papers and discarded clothes.

  Elizabeth’s gaze dropped to the piece of paper in her hand. “Is that it? Did Andy call?”

  Violet handed the piece of paper over. She watched as Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline.

  “Australia? He’s in Australia?”

  “According to Andy he is.”

  “Philip Island. I’ve never even heard of it.”

  “I looked it up. It’s south of Melbourne. A beach community.”