Her Best Worst Mistake

by Sarah Mayberry

  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.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why.”

  “Because it’s from me?”

  Did he really dislike her so much?

  “Because I don’t need your bloody pity, Violet.”

  “Tough. You’ve got it.”

  She turned to go again but he strode forward and grabbed her arm. Suddenly she was breathing in his aftershave and the smell of shirt starch as he opened her shoulder bag and shoved the schnapps inside it. She stared at his face, very close to her own, but he was intent on his task and didn’t look up until he’d released her and taken a step away.

  “Now you can go.”

  “Lovely. Beautiful manners. Maybe I was wrong, maybe you don’t deserve my sympathy at all. Maybe E’s the one I should feel sorry for, for putting up with a rude bastard like you for so many years.”

  Martin gave her a scathing head to toe, his signature look where she was concerned, apparently.

  “There are many things I will miss about sharing Elizabeth’s life, but spending time with you will not be one of them. I can honestly say that I have never been more...relieved to think that I need never lay eyes on a person again. Was that polite enough for you, Violet, or should I drop a few four letter words in there so you feel more at home?”

  Hurt and anger and something else she didn’t even dare name rose up inside her in a messy, confusing rush. She opened her mouth but nothing smart or bolshy or sharp came out.

  And so she did the next best thing that leapt to mind—she poked her tongue out and blew a noisy raspberry, at the same time grasping the waistband of her sweater and lifting it up, flashing her breasts at him. It was a tactic she’d last employed when she’d been working very hard to be expelled from school, and it came from the same frustrated, hurt, angry place.

  She didn’t hang around to hear the inevitable censure. She swiveled on her heel and marched down the corridor toward the elevator. Once inside, she stabbed the button for the ground floor half a dozen times until the doors slid closed and she started descending.

  Martin St Clair was a pig. An ungrateful, ignorant, hateful pi
g and she hoped he suffocated in his self-imposed prison. She hoped he met some horrible over-bred woman at someone’s dinner party very soon and married her and had lots of horrible children with big teeth and braying laughs and the smug air of entitlement that came from knowing that mummy and daddy had lots of money and important friends in high places.

  She hoped—

  A big, fat tear slid down her face and plopped onto her hand. She stared at it, utterly baffled. Where on earth had that come from...? She didn’t care what Martin St Clair thought of her.

  Did she?

  The answer came from somewhere well hidden and barricaded inside her: yes.

  She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the rear wall of the elevator.

  She was such an idiot.

  The elevator announced its arrival on the ground floor and she pushed away from the wall and stepped out into the echoing foyer. She started toward the entrance, then pivoted on her heel and walked back to the lift. She left the bottle of schnapps front and centre on the floor of the elevator car.

  At least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing she’d had the last word between them.

  That was something. Not much, but something.

  Chapter Four

  Martin walked around his desk and resumed his seat. He pulled the contract he’d been working on toward himself and resumed reading, determined not to be rattled by Violet’s visit. Determined not to give her the satisfaction of affecting his equilibrium.

  He read the same paragraph three times before he swore and threw the contract across the room. Its many pages hit the wall with a pronounced thud before sliding down the panelling to the carpet. He pushed his chair back and strode to the window. Four stories below, a slim, slight figure crossed the road. He didn’t need to see the red hair to know it was Violet—the distinctive sway to her hips and the way she held her shoulders and head gave her away. Within seconds she’d walked out of sight, her step brisk and efficient. Putting as much distance between her and him as she possibly could.

  He had no idea why she’d come here. As for that stunt she’d pulled at the end... It was so typical of Violet it made him grind his teeth. She was like a peacock, constantly displaying her wares, always needing to be the centre of attention.

  Or so it seemed to him.

  Typical, also, that she hadn’t been wearing a bra. If ever he’d been in any doubt about what was beneath her usually-plunging necklines, he knew now. Soft pink nipples, small, perky breasts, creamy skin.

  Knowledge he’d prefer not to have, thank you very much.

  He ran his hand through his hair, then went to collect the contract. He threw it in his briefcase, along with a couple of other files, then shrugged into his overcoat. He turned off the lights in his office and made his way to the elevator. It arrived with a cheery ping, stainless steel doors sliding open. He took a step forward, then stopped in his tracks.

  A tall, frosted bottle sat in the centre of the elevator car, the artificial lighting glinting off the large illustration of a peach on its label.

  He shook his head as he stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the ground floor.

  Of course Violet had to have the final word. God forbid she walk away from any fight without at least trying to do so. When he arrived at the ground floor, he stepped out into the foyer and headed straight for the exit.

  Let someone else find the bottle. The cleaners, some early bird tomorrow morning. He didn’t want Violet’s guilt gift in his home.

  He stepped out into the icy darkness, pulling his coat up around his ears. The sky overhead was dark with cloud, a sure sign that the weather bureau’s prediction of snow was on the money.

  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.

  He’d been about to walk to his car, but he stopped and let his breath hiss out between his teeth.

  Bloody Violet.

  Turning on his heel, he swiped his access card to get back into the building and crossed to the lift. Naturally, it took an age for the elevator car to travel from the top of the building to the foyer. He glared at the floor indicator, and the moment the doors slid open he stepped inside and stooped to grab the bottle. Schnapps in hand, he headed for the door.

  He set the bottle on the kitchen bench when he arrived home. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he’d skipped lunch and he knew he had to eat. There was cheese and bread and he turned the griller on and made grilled cheese on toast, a meal he hadn’t enjoyed since his Trinity College years. Throughout, the schnapps bottle seemed to mock him, and finally he reached across and grabbed it, thrusting it into the first cabinet that came to hand.

  He killed the rest of the evening going over financial reports and making notes before falling into bed. He was bone-tired, but his brain circled and circled, churning over Violet’s visit and the accusations they’d thrown at each other again and again.

  It was a good thing they didn’t have to see each other any more. She made him say and do things he wasn’t proud of—like the way he’d all but kicked her out of his office, accusing her of gloating and rejecting her gift.

  Yes, it had been a pity-gift, but that was beside the point. She’d come all the way across town on a cold winter’s night in order to see him. She’d gone out of her way. And he’d hurled accusations and insults at her head.

  Not that she would care what someone like him said to her. She made no secret of the fact that she found him highly amusing. A funny little man worrying about funny little things—things that had been handed to her on a silver platter the day she was born.

  He punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and rolled onto his back. He frowned, willing Violet out of his head. He needed to sleep. He had heavy schedule tomorrow, and he needed to be fresh.

  He concentrated on reciting the 2007 amendments to the Tax Act in his head. Slowly his muscles and mind relaxed and he drifted toward sleep. He was on the verge of dropping off when an image popped into his mind: Violet’s face after he’d told her how relieved and happy he was that he’d never have to see her again. There had been a long moment there when they’d both been very still, his words hanging in the air between them. For a split second, her golden brown eyes had stared back into his own and he’d seen...what, exactly?

  Hurt?

  Pain?

  Surely not. His eyes flicked open and he stared at the ceiling. Violet Sutcliffe had been insulted by far better men than him in her day. He was sure of it. She was a hardened party girl, cynical and worldly and always up for a good time. Anything he said to her would be water off a duck’s back.

  It took him another recitation of the Tax Act to slip off to sleep.

  He woke feeling tired. His work day was punctuated with difficult, intense meetings, the highlight of which was an awkward, deeply uncomfortable session with Edward and a number of other senior partners.

  He’d talked briefly with Edward when he landed two days ago, reporting in to let the older man know that his visit to Australia had been fruitless in terms of bringing Elizabeth home. It had been a difficult conversation, full of undercurrents and unspoken regret, and every meeting or encounter with Edward since had been tinged with the same unease and restraint. That Edward was embarrassed on Elizabeth’s behalf was clear, but Martin had no idea how to address the chasm that had opened between them.

  Fortunately there was always more than enough work to bury himself in and he pushed on into the afternoon, losing himself in a complicated brief. He was still hard at it when his assistant poked her head into his office at five.

  “Don’t forget they’ve got the men coming into steam clean the carpets tonight,” she said.

  He saw her handbag was already on her shoulder—clearly, she was more than happy to leave work early for a change. Behind her he could see the cleaning crew setting up their equipment.

  Great. S
o much for getting some work done in the quiet after hours.

  “Thanks, Tam. Have a good weekend.”

  “You, too. Although you’ll probably be busy doing wedding things, huh? I had Johnny running around like a chicken with his head cut off at this stage when we got married.”

  She smiled, friendly and expectant, waiting for his response.

  He stared at her, very aware that he needed to start telling people that things were over with Elizabeth. He opened his mouth to make the first of what would no doubt be many explanations.

  “I’m not sure what’s on the agenda for the weekend,” he heard himself say.

  “Trust me, she’ll put you to work.”

  Tammy pushed away from the door frame and disappeared from view. Martin stared at the space where she’d been, annoyed and surprised with himself. Never in his life had he shrunk from facing the unpalatable.

  He stood and rounded his desk. Tammy was just about to disappear into the elevator.

  “Tammy!”

  She stopped in her tracks, clearly surprised to have him holler after her. A number of heads turned in the open plan area in the centre of the office. Martin strode toward her.

  “Did I forget something?” she said.

  He stopped in front of her, very aware that anything he was about to say would be overheard by the staff nearby.

  Well. So be it.

  “You should probably know, Elizabeth and I have called off the wedding.”

  Tammy’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, no. Is everything all right?” She blushed furiously. “Sorry. That pretty much rates as the stupidest question ever. Forget I asked.”

  He managed a smile. “It’s okay. We’ve decided to go our separate ways. Nothing too complicated about it.”

  He shut his jaw with a click, biting back the urge to explain further.

  “I see. Well, I’m really sorry to hear that.”

  She surprised him by leaning forward and giving him an awkward, one armed hug.

  “If there’s anything you need... Help with canceling anything, whatever...”