Each Way Bet Read online

  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

  EACH

  WAY

  BET

  ILSA EVANS

  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

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced

  or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any

  person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any

  form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying,

  recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the

  publisher.

  Each Way Bet

  Ilsa Evans

  Adobe eReader format 978-1-74197-074-6

  Microsoft Reader format 978-1-74197-275-7

  Mobipocket format 978-1-74197-476-8

  Online format 978-1-74197-677-9

  Epub format 978-1-74262-533-1

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy

  both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and

  news of any author events.

  This book is dedicated to my girls,

  Jaime Christine and Caitlin Jain:

  the two brightest silver linings that I

  could ever have wished for.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ALSO BY ILSA EVANS FROM PAN MACMILLAN

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  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.

  PROLOGUE

  ‘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.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  Emily

  ‘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.