defence, neither of the two men who’d invited her out had possessed any of the qualities which she secretly desired in a man: they hadn’t been wickedly handsome, sinfully sexy or even remotely charming. One caught the same bus as she did every day and was as dull as ditch-water. The other worked in the supermarket where she shopped. Despite not being totally unattractive, he was not the kind of chap who was ever likely to make manager of the store.
Neither man had been anything like the irresistible heroes who strutted their arrogant selves through the pages of the romance novels she’d once devoured during the long, lonely hours she’d spent in her pink prison.
Her gaze flicked to the book case which still contained a large number of those romances, all of them historical, favourites that she couldn’t bear to part with. She hadn’t read any of them for ages, however, her reading habits having changed over the years.
At uni she’d been obliged to read Shakespeare and the classics as well as lots of modern literary works—she’d majored in English literature—leaving little time for reading romances. Any spare reading time she had had been spent reading the unpublished novels emailed to her by Henry, a literary agent whom she’d worked for as a paid reader. Most of those books had been thrillers.
Now that she was Henry’s full-time assistant, Violet was also obliged to read a lot of the best sellers published around the world so that she was always up-to-date with the current market. And, whilst some of these books did have romantic elements, none were anything like the raunchy historical romances she’d once been addicted to.
Suddenly, she had the urge to see if they still held the same fascination for her that they once had; if they could still make her heart race. Dropping the handle of her case, she crossed the room to the book case where she began searching for one particular favourite, about a pirate who’d kidnapped an English noble woman then fallen in love with her, and vice versa. It was all total fantasy, of course. But Violet had loved it.
‘Violet, for Pete’s sake, come on,’ her father said impatiently when she bent down to check the bottom shelf.
‘Won’t be a sec,’ she replied, her gaze quickly scanning the row of books.
And there it was, dog-eared and with the pages yellowing, but the cover still as shocking as ever, with the heroine’s clothes in disarray and the handsome pirate hero looming over her with lecherous intent. Wicked devil, she thought, but with a jolt of remembered pleasure.
‘Just wanted something to read on the plane,’ she said as she quickly shoved the book into her carry-all.
Saying goodbye to her mother was the only difficult part in leaving. Her mother always cried.
‘Don’t wait till next Christmas to come home, love,’ her mother said, sniffling into a wadful of tissues.
‘All right, Mum,’ Violet said, biting her own bottom lip.
‘Promise me you’ll come home for Easter.’
Violet searched her mind for any excuse. But couldn’t find one.
‘I’ll try, Mum. I promise.’
Her father didn’t talk during the drive to the airport. He wasn’t much of a talker. A plumber by trade, he was a good but simple man who loved his wife and his family, though it was clear to both Vanessa and Violet that Gavin was the apple of his eye. Admittedly, they were like two peas in a pod, with Gavin having become a plumber as well. Vanessa was closest to her mother, both in looks and personality, whilst Violet … Well, Violet had always been the odd one out in the family in every way.
Aside from being the only one to be plagued by acne in her teenage years, she’d looked totally different as well. Where both Vanessa and her mother were blue-eyed blondes with small bones and were less than average height, Violet was taller and curvier, with dark brown hair and eyes. Admittedly, her father and brother had dark-brown hair and eyes, but they weren’t big men, both a good few inches less than six feet with lean, wiry frames.
She’d been told, when she’d once questioned her genes, that she looked like her great-aunt Mirabella, the one who’d died and left her the ten grand. Not that she’d ever met the woman. Apparently, she’d died a spinster. It suddenly occurred to Violet that maybe no man would marry her because she’d had a face covered in pimples and scars at a time when there’d been no miracle pill or miracle lasers.
But it wasn’t just in looks that Violet was different from the rest of her family. Her brain was different as well. Measured with an IQ of one hundred and forty, she had a brilliant memory, as well as an analytical mind and a talent for writing—though not creative writing so much, she was beginning to suspect. She’d finally abandoned her attempt to write her first novel this past year when she hadn’t been able to get past the third chapter.
Her writing ability, she’d concluded, lay more in being able to put her analytical thoughts and opinions into words which were original and thought-provoking. Her English essays in high school had been so good that her teachers had been stunned. They’d encouraged her to enter an essay competition on the subject of Jane Austen’s books, first prize being a scholarship to study for an arts degree at Sydney University, where all her fees and books would be paid for.
She’d won it before she’d also noted the scholarship included two thousand dollars a semester towards her living expenses. It was not quite enough for her to live on, but she’d been fortunate to find board with a widow named Joy who’d charged her only a nominal rent provided Violet did some of the heavy cleaning and helped her with the shopping.
Another plus had been the location of Joy’s terraced house. It was in Newtown, an inner-city suburb within walking distance of Sydney University. Even so, her father had still had to give her some money so that she could make ends meet. That was till she had landed the job as one of Henry’s readers, after which she’d been able to survive without outside help.
Violet had quickly found she liked not being beholden to anyone for anything; had liked the feeling of being responsible for herself. As much as she still lacked confidence in her appearance, she did not lack confidence in other areas of her life.
She knew she was good at her job as well as quite a lot of other things. She’d learned to cook well, thanks to helping Joy in the kitchen. She was a good driver, again thanks to Joy, who’d lent her a car and bravely gone with her whilst she clocked up the numbers of hours driving that she needed to secure her licence. She would have bought herself a car, if she’d needed one, but Henry worked out of an apartment in the CBD and it was much easier to catch a bus than drive into the city and find parking.
Violet supposed that, if she had a social life with lots of friends dotted all over Sydney, she would definitely have to buy herself a car. But she didn’t. Occasionally, this bothered her, but she’d grown used to not having friends; grown used to her own company. Not that she stayed home alone all the time. She often went out with Joy, who was still a real live-wire, despite being seventy-five now with two arthritic hips, which gave her hell in the winter. Every Saturday night the two of them would go out for a bite to eat—usually at an Asian restaurant—before going on to see a movie.
Violet could honestly say that she was content with her life, on the whole. She wasn’t unhappy or depressed, as she’d once been. It was a big plus to be able to look in the mirror each morning and not shudder with revulsion. Of course, if she were brutally honest, she did secretly wish that she could find the courage to enter the dating world and eventually do something about her virginal status. She hated to think that next Christmas would eventually come around and she’d make the same tired old excuse over her lack of
