“You make a good mattress,” she said.
“You make a good blanket.”
His hand wandered onto her thigh, gripping it lightly.
“So, do you have a big day planned for tomorrow?” he asked idly. “Doing the rounds of the rellies, eating plum pudd until you feel sick?”
She thought about her relatives and the big house in Sussex that she hadn’t visited in years. “Something like that. How about you?”
“Lunch with Mum. Usually a bit hit and miss but she likes to think she can cook and I don’t see the point in disillusioning her at this late stage.”
“Very gallant of you.”
“I do try.”
He knew she was taking the piss, however, and he levered their joint bodyweight up off the bed and toppled her to the side. She laughed, then sighed as he lowered his head to her breasts and drew a nipple into his mouth.
“What did you get her?” she asked.
“Sorry?” His words were muffled by her breast.
“Your mother. What did you get her?”
She wasn’t sure why she was asking. She didn’t know Mrs. St Clair. She would have no idea if his gift was appropriate or if it might be appreciated. But for some reason she wanted to know more. About him, about his life, his world.
“She claimed she doesn’t need or want anything. She always does. So I bought her a new TV and tickets for ‘Phantom of the Opera’. She’s seen it three times already but she loves it to death, so…”
“Have you been with her all three times?”
“Yes.”
There was a certain wryness to the single word that told her that he didn’t share his mother’s love for Andrew Lloyd Webber. Yet he’d taken her three times, and was gearing up for a fourth.
She felt a sudden, almost overwhelming wave of affection and liking for him as she imagined him escorting his mother into the city on her big night out and tolerantly enduring two plus hours of musical theatre. She rested her hand on his head, fingers tangling in his hair, a little blindsided by the strength of her reaction.
“Believe it or not, it’s possible to sleep through the second act if you have the right seats,” he said in between peppering kisses across the slope of her breast.
“Well, then, that’s okay.”
They made love again before he rolled from the bed and started collecting his clothes. Even though intellectually she’d guessed he would go home—it was Christmas Eve, after all—a part of her had secretly hoped he might stay the night, the way he had on Sunday.
She wasn’t about to ask him to, though. Not in a million years. Instead, she tugged on her robe and saw him to the door.
“Have a Merry Christmas tomorrow,” she called down the stairs as he descended.
“You, too, Violet.”
Yet again they hadn’t discussed when they would see each other again. She pondered the significance of what was definitely becoming a habit as she locked up.
Was it because neither one of them wanted to be pinned down? He was fresh from a six year relationship and almost-marriage, after all. And she was betraying her best friend every second she spent with him.
Or perhaps it was simply that they were both aware of how fragile, how nebulous this thing was between them. If they shone too bright a light on it or hung too many expectations on it, it might well crumble into dust. After all, it was just sex. Not much of a foundation for anything substantial.
She slipped back into sheets still warm from Martin’s body and slept deeply, waking to the resonant ringing of her phone.
She knew who it was before she answered it: Elizabeth, getting the time difference between England and Australia wrong again.
“I know, I know, it’s practically the middle of the night,” Elizabeth said. “It hit me that I’ve been so wrapped up with everything that’s going on here that I haven’t spoken to you for weeks. Vi, there’s so much stuff I need to tell you…”
“I’m listening.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “I’m in love, and I’m not coming home. Those are the two big headlines.”
Violet sat up in bed, adrenalin and dread surging through her. “What?”
“I’m sorry it’s been so long since I called, but it’s been so intense, Vi. Nathan and I… I love him so much. He’s sweet and smart and funny and irreverent and so gentle. And, yes, a bit broken. But I don’t think it’s irreparable. And you know what? Even if it is, I’ll take him as is, any day. He’s the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
“Okay. I get the being-in-love bit.” After all, she’d pretty much guessed that Elizabeth had fallen in love with Nathan a while ago. Every conversation they’d shared had been peppered with references to him and how great he was and how E couldn’t wait until Violet had a chance to meet him. “Go over the not-coming-home-bit again. That’s the bit that’s freaking me out right now.”
Violet hugged her knees to her chest, aware that she wasn’t going to like what she was about to hear.
“He has a business here, Vi. And he’s got too much going on in his life right now to deal with a big move. Plus the weather is pretty amazing. People keep warning me that winter can be pretty nasty, but it can’t be nastier than London, right? And my Dad is here… This feels like where I need to be right now.”
“I thought your Dad wasn’t interested?”
“Something happened. Promise me you won’t freak out, but last week I had a bit of an accident and cut myself pretty badly. Nate had to rush me to the hospital and I think it scared Sam. Made him realize that we might not get another chance to get this right. So, we’re talking. It’s not perfect. He’s definitely not perfect. But, then, neither am I. Thank God.” Elizabeth laughed, and Violet could hear a wealth of experience and realization in the sound.
Suddenly she felt as though a yawning void had opened between them, a Grand Canyon of insurmountable distance, both geographical and emotional. E was on the other side of the world, madly in love with an Australian. She wanted to stay there and settle down. No doubt they’d get married and have children one day. The last month had clearly been a watershed for her—and she’d gone through it all without Violet.
Meanwhile, Violet had been in England, carrying on a dishonest, ill-thought-out out affair with Elizabeth’s ex. Lying to her best friend. Terrified of telling her the truth.
So many years of friendship. So much love. How on earth had it come to this?
It’s your fault. You should never have taken him that schnapps. But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? And you can’t help yourself now.
“Say something, Vi,” Elizabeth said quietly.
“I’ll miss you,” Vi said, her throat closing. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked rapidly.
She should be happy for her friend. Happy she was in love, that she was about to embark on an exciting new adventure. But apparently she was too selfish to get past her own sense of loss.
“I’ll miss you, too, Vi. I’ll come home heaps, don’t worry. And you can come here. Every holiday you get, for the next forty years.” Elizabeth sniffed and Violet knew she was crying, too.
“I’m sorry. I’m happy for you. Thrilled for you, actually. But I’m going to miss you like crazy, E. You’re my girl.”
“You’re my girl, too, sweetie. So much so. If it hadn’t been for you, I would never have had the courage to take this leap. Every time I had the choice of either taking a risk or playing it safe, I heard your voice in my head, cheering me on. Really, when I think about it, all of this is your fault.”
Violet couldn’t speak then, she was too busy sobbing, holding the mouthpiece away so Elizabeth couldn’t hear how distressed she was.
“Vi, if you are bawling your eyes out right now I am going to jump on a plane and come shake some sense into you. We can talk on the phone and Skype and email and visit. It won’t be the same, I know. But we won’t lose each other.”
Violet used the corner of the sheet to mop her eyes. She took a dee
p breath and brought the handset close again. “I know. It’ll be great. And I’ve always wanted to come to Australia. People keep on telling me how hot the guys are there.”
“They are. So hot. You will love it. Maybe you’ll even decide to emigrate, too.” There was a wistful, hopeful note in Elizabeth’s voice.
It was such a big thing, what E was doing. Abandoning her friends, her family, everything she knew and loved and taking on a new life in a new country. All for love. Suddenly an upswell of emotion swamped Violet—pride and joy for her friend that she’d succeeded so well in finding her own path.
“E, you’re such a super star,” she said, unable to articulate the emotions filling her chest and belly. “If you were here right now I would give you the biggest smooch then take you out to drink French champagne and dance your feet off.”
“Isn’t it Christmas Day? Where would we do this champagne swilling and dancing?”
“We’d find somewhere. We’re ingenious, resourceful wenches.”
She sniffed mightily, sucking back the rest of her tears. She would not make this any harder for Elizabeth than it already was. She would be happy for her.
They talked for a few more minutes, then Elizabeth’s battery started beeping and they had to wind up the call. Violet fell back onto the bed afterward, her face stiff with dried tears.
E wasn’t coming home. And Violet still hadn’t told her what a shitty friend she’d been.
All the usual excuses were getting old: that Elizabeth had so much on her plate, that it would be better to do it face-to-face, that Elizabeth needed friendship and support more than honesty and self-serving confession.
They were bullshit, all of them. Violet was a coward. A lily-livered, yellow-bellied coward. Too scared to face up to the consequences of her own actions.
Thoroughly miserable, she turned her face into the pillow and dragged the quilt over her head. To add to her misery, it was Christmas Day and for once she simply didn’t have the energy to pretend that she didn’t care that she was estranged from her family. It had been nearly ten years since she’d given up fighting against her step-mother’s determination to believe the worst of her and turned her back on her half-sisters and her father. For each of those ten years, she had done her damnedest to not miss them, to not think of them, to not dwell on what could have been.
This morning, she gave in to sentiment and let herself imagine what their day would be like. Breakfast in the kitchen over-looking her step-mother, Diana’s, prized rose garden, then morning service at the village church. Lunch would be served in the formal dining room, on the best china, with everyone in their Sunday best. Her two half-sisters, Isabella and Sophie, were fifteen and eighteen, respectively, now. No doubt they would get something beautiful and luxurious from her father from under the Christmas tree. He’d always been generous with gifts, if not his attention or time or affection. And even if he wasn’t, Diana would ensure that her girls were taken care of. She’d always been very assiduous about that, down to barring bad influences from their lives.
She wondered what Bella and Sophie looked like now. The last time she’d seen them had been five years ago, an accidental meeting in the food hall at Harrod’s. Diana had been with them, and Violet could still remember the haughty disdain in her eyes as she’d taken in Violet’s vintage faux-leopard skin coat and black mini-dress.
Her scathing head-to-toe had been worthy of Martin at his most obnoxious. Was it any wonder Violet had always risen so readily to his bait? She’d had so much disapproval in her life, she hadn’t been able to stomach one iota more.
Her nose was pushed into the pillow, making it hard to breathe, but she didn’t want to come out from her bedding cocoon. She wanted to curl up and go to sleep and wake up to find that everything that was wrong in her life had been righted. She wanted E to be home and she wanted her father to remember that he had three daughters.
And she wanted Martin to just be an amazing, hot guy she’d met and not Elizabeth’s ex-fiancé.
She gave up the battle against her pillow and rolled onto her side, keeping her eyes tightly closed. Maybe she would sleep through Christmas Day. Maybe that was the best present she could give herself this year.
Chapter Eight
Martin endured Christmas at his mother’s apartment as long as he could. Like last year and the year before, she’d invited a mismatched collection of waifs and strays from around the estate to celebrate with them, unable to let anyone spend Christmas alone. The result was a crowded table, an overcooked meal, too loud Christmas carols blaring from the radio and a bunch of strangers who all seemed to know each other.
He was the odd man out, as he’d always been, really. He was one of only a handful of his peers who had gone on to study at university after high school. Most of his old school friends didn’t understand why he’d always worked so hard for good grades, why he was always planning for the future. Truth be known, Martin wasn’t exactly sure what drove him, either, why he was wired differently from them. They’d all grown up poor, after all. Most of them came from single parent households, too. Yet he’d always wanted more.
He had more now. A lovely apartment in the right part of town, money in the bank, an elegant, classic car. Soon, unless he was misreading the signs, he would be made partner at the firm. His shoes were Italian and handmade, his shirt bespoke. He drank thirty year old Scotch and ate at the best restaurants. And until recently he’d had the perfect, sophisticated, refined partner to share it all with.
He’d thought Elizabeth was what he wanted, what he needed. But Elizabeth had never filled his thoughts the way Violet did. She’d never drifted into his mind during important meetings, or taken over his dreams. She’d never inspired so much frustration or given him a hard-on that lasted three courses because she’d taken her panties off and tucked them into his pocket.
Martin was jerked out of his thoughts by a nudge in his ribs, courtesy of Mrs. Slater, his mother’s neighbor.
“Pay attention. Your mother’s speaking to you.”
“Sorry, Mum,” he said. “I wasn’t concentrating.”
“No kidding. I asked if you wanted another piece of plum pudding?”
Martin’s gaze went to the enormous, still-steaming mound of flour and fruit his mother had unwrapped from its calico shroud not half an hour ago. It was her pride and joy, a family recipe, and even though it gave him indigestion he handed over his bowl for a second helping.
It was Christmas, after all.
His goodwill ran out when someone suggested charades after lunch. The idea of spending several hours miming old movie titles in his mother’s over-furnished front room made him want to bang his head against the wall. He stayed long enough to set up the new flat screen TV he’d bought her, then he kissed her goodbye and left her to it.
His guess was that she was as relieved to have him gone as he was to leave. She’d always been a bit baffled by him. Not that he doubted her love or that she was proud of him. But she didn’t understand him. Her world was defined by what was on the TV, who won the football on the weekend and what her neighbors were doing and saying. They might as well live on different planets.
He drove home through the preternaturally quiet city, marveling at how easy it was to get around when everyone else was sleeping off turkey and too much brandy sauce. Even though it was out of his way, he found himself driving past Violet’s shop on the way home. Not because he expected her to be there, or because he wanted sex. He wasn’t really sure what drew him there—at least, he wasn’t prepared to examine the urge closely enough to work it out.
Not yet, anyway.
He cruised past, glancing at the upstairs window. A shadow passed behind the curtain. He put his foot on the brake, frowning. Violet was home, then. He checked his watch. It was barely three. She’d clearly had a quick Christmas celebration, like himself. Or perhaps her family had different traditions. Maybe they did something in the evenings.
Two things came back to him then: the lack
of Christmas frou-frou in Violet’s apartment, and the way her body had tensed for a few split seconds last night when he’d asked what she was doing today.
He pulled over to the curb and shut off the engine. Still frowning, he crossed the road and hit the bell.
“Hello?” Her voice sounded odd over the intercom.
“Merry Christmas,” he said.
There was a long pause. Then:
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my way home. Buzz me up.”
“I’m on my way out.”
He tipped his head back, considering the blank upstairs window. “No you’re not.”
Another long pause.
“I’m not good company right now.”
“Perfect. Buzz me up, Violet.”
He waited, his hand on the knob. He knew she’d let him in. If it was her on his doorstep, he couldn’t deny her, and he knew, in his gut, that she couldn’t deny him, either.
The door buzzed and he pushed inside. She waited at the top of the stairs, framed by the doorway, her arms crossed over her breasts, jaw set. She was wearing the same pajamas as last night with an over-sized hoodie and big fluffy socks. Her eyes were puffy, her hair pulled into lop-sided pigtails. There was a small chocolate smear on her cheek and another on her top.
He paused on the top-most step, assessing her mood. Lonely and sad with base notes of defiance, he decided.
“What happened to dinner with the relatives?” he asked.
“Change of plans.”
Right.
“Why do I get the feeling there were no plans to begin with?”
That was what that moment of tension had been about last night, of course. Twenty-twenty hindsight.
She didn’t bat an eyelid. “Does it matter?”
“Yes. Definitely it matters that you fully intended to spend Christmas day alone.”
“It’s not a big deal. I do it every year. It’s my thing.”
Six years he’d known her, and only in the past few weeks had he started to understand her and know how to read her.
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