Mango Kisses (13 page)

Kevin must know she was staying on. He would be expecting her to make the date, which reminded her she needed to book for the extra nights. Till the end of the week at least. What chance would she have of getting that sorted if she stood Fleur up?

But she couldn’t cry off dinner with Jim and Sharon either. She’d have to make it an early night and come home for a quick, late night girl-date with Fleur. She would plead tiredness to her dinner hosts, which was true. Lazing in the sun all afternoon was draining.

Kevin was signing in new guests when she popped her head in at reception. A young man stood at the desk, while his wife and two small, squabbling children waited in the car. Tiffany hovered in the doorway until the man had finished his transaction, which proceeded with surprising civility on Kevin’s part. A good sign.

‘Hello.’

Kevin looked up from his register like a startled rabbit. ‘H-h-hello,’ he stuttered. If he had had whiskers they would have been twitching like crazy.

‘Could I book my room until the end of the week please?’

‘Umm, yes, probably, yes.’ He studied the register and wrote feverishly.

‘Is anything wrong?’ she asked carefully.

‘Oh. No. It’s just that I have...I’m afraid I c-c...Fleur is unable to...tonight...’ His face had gone a very unbecoming shade of mottled burgundy.

‘You mean Fleur has another engagement?’

‘Yes, yes. That’s right.’ He failed to meet her eye, still studying the guest register as though it had all the answers to life’s big questions.

‘Tell Fleur,’ Tiffany said. ‘That I said no problem and I hope she has a good time. It was only a casual arrangement anyway. We can do it another night.’

A smile flickered on and off Kevin’s lips so swiftly Tiffany thought she may have imagined it. He finally looked up.

‘Good night.’

‘Good night.’

Tiffany showered rapidly and dressed slowly. Jim had said seven-ish, and it was already ten to seven by the time she’d decided what to wear. It was ridiculous; they really wouldn’t mind if she turned up in her shorts but she had to land somewhere between competent, professional financial advisor and casual dinner guest. Aura had nothing to do with her final choice of navy linen skirt and cream sleeveless blouse.

She climbed into the VW and drove south along the seafront past the little row of shops. Driving by the pub reminded her she should take a bottle of wine. She couldn’t turn up empty handed although she didn’t know whether they drank alcohol or not. The publican would know. She could always drink it herself. Stuff Miles and his opinion.

Most of the town appeared to have congregated in the bar. Drinkers spilled out on to the footpath with beers in hand. The smokers stood in groups and chatted, setting up a haze of noxious fumes around the doorway. They stood aside as she stepped passed them into the cool, dim interior.

Ceiling fans swished overhead. A nasal voiced country singer was complaining his dog and his girl had both broken his heart. Tiffany weaved through the crowd and spotted Miles at the bar, laughing with Fiorella and a balding man with a rim of grey hair sliding backwards off his head and a comfortable paunch. Husband? Kissing expert? Whoever he was Tiffany did not want to meet him and definitely did not want to become part of that cosy little trio. And what were they laughing so uproariously about? The last group of inept singles?

Sweat prickled her underarms. Perhaps she need nott take any wine after all. Jim and Sharon probably brewed their own gin from carrots or rose hips or something.

‘Tiffany.’ Too late. ‘You’re still here,’ Fiorella yelled over the roar of voices. She was wearing orange earthy tones tonight. ‘Come and join us.’

The smile was wide and sincere. Tiffany swallowed hard and managed to smile in return.

‘Hello Fiorella. Did you find the umbrella? I left it on the porch.’

‘Yes, thank you. This is Jerry, my husband. Tiffany, holidaying from Sydney. You already know Miles?’ She cocked her head enquiringly, and Tiffany nodded. Not Boris. Not Marianne, either.

‘Yes, hello,’ she murmured and avoided looking at him by shaking hands with Jerry whose hand was big, warm and comforting like her father’s.

‘Hello Tiffany,’ Jerry said, then added with a grin, ‘Sorry. Miles is in the middle of a joke and I need a good supply for the golf course.’

‘Don’t let me interrupt. I’m on my way to dinner, just stopped in for a bottle. Nice to meet you. Bye everyone,’ Tiffany babbled.

‘Go through to the bottle shop,’ said Miles as if she were a complete stranger asking the way to the post office. He pointed. As she escaped she heard him saying, ‘So the Devil says, “Do you want to see what’s behind the second door?”’

Miles watched her leave out of the corner of his eye. She looked good enough to eat and where the hell could she be going cool and fresh as morning dew? She didn’t know anyone in town except him, Fiorella and Xanthi. And Boris. Those other kissing course people would have left by now, unless Andrew was still around with his tent. But she wouldn’t be dressed like that to eat dinner over a campfire, with bangles and a gold chain around her gorgeous neck. Would she?

Jerry and Fiorella were still laughing at his punch line.

Fiorella wiped her eyes and said, ‘Tiffany is a lovely girl. There’s something very special about her. I saw it straight away.’

‘Smashing,’ agreed Jerry. ‘Smart as a whip too, I’ll bet.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Miles in amazement.

‘She’s got that look about her. I’d say she was a lawyer or some sort of financial advisor — stock broker or banking.’

‘Don’t forget Jerry worked in the city for thirty years,’ put in Fiorella.

‘Don’t remind me,’ Jerry said and rolled his eyes. ‘Got any more of those jokes, Miles? I’m playing a comp tomorrow and I need to be able to distract the opposition.’

Miles trawled around in his memory bank for a joke, any joke, but Tiffany had effectively obliterated all other thought processes. Not only that, he realised he was experiencing another unfamiliar sensation — unfamiliar since adolescence at least. If anyone had accused him to his face he would have hotly denied it, but he couldn’t hide from himself that what he was feeling was jealousy — gut wrenching, mind contorting jealousy.

He was jealous of the person or persons unknown Tiffany was spending the evening with. The person Tiffany had changed her clothes for, put on jewellery and applied make-up for and was going out of her way to find wine as a gift for. Whoever this man was, and he was positive it was a man — it had to be — Miles hated him with a searing passion.

‘How did you enjoy the course yesterday, Miles?’ asked Jerry, jarring Miles loose from the clutches of the green-eyed dragon.

‘He behaved himself admirably,’ stated Fiorella, and patted him on the shoulder, ‘apart from wanting to go home half-way through. It wasn’t so bad was it?’ She eyed him shrewdly.

‘Huh? No,’ he grunted.

‘If I’d known lovely Tiffany was going to be there I would have signed up myself,’ chortled Jerry.

‘You’re too old you silly duffer! You stick to golf,’ said Fiorella and kissed his cheek fondly.

‘Just don’t ever ask me again, please,’ growled Miles.

‘I won’t,’ promised Fiorella but her eyes twinkled mischievously as she looked at him over the rim of her glass.

‘I’m going home,’ he said and slid off the bar stool.

‘I thought you were buying the next round,’ Jerry said indignantly.

‘Leave him be, love, he’s in a bit of a tangle,’ said Fiorella. ‘Trust in your destiny Miles.’

‘For God’s sake, Fiorella.’ Miles stared at her, but after her heartfelt remark he couldn’t summon more than an exasperated exhalation. He tossed some notes on the bar. ‘Buy yourselves a round. See you later.’

So Miles went home for a grilled steak and another night of tossing and turning and twisted sheets, this time accompanied by relentless images of Tiffany laughing and enjoying herself in the company of someone who wasn’t him. And the way things stood now, never would be.

Chapter Seven

Tiffany came away from the cosy house, buried in its lush five-acre property, with a whole new perspective on what life had to offer. But it wasn’t for her, this idyllic existence. She needed lights, action and challenge or her brain would turn into something resembling the contents of Jim’s compost bin.

She was up and running on the beach at six thirty. Miles may not have any respect for her profession or her ability but last night Jim and Sharon listened, discussed and welcomed her knowledge with profound respect. Her self-confidence had been restored.

Miles didn’t appear. Tiffany jogged home, self-satisfied in the knowledge that he’d slept in and she hadn’t, despite going out the previous evening. Still feeling smug she showered and dressed and prepared her delicious fruit and yoghurt for breakfast. The smugness lasted all the way to Miles’s house until she rapped on his front door. There it turned rapidly into clammy hands and a thudding heart as she waited on his doorstep, listening for his steps on the polished wood floor of the hall.

Miles opened the door with a mug of coffee in his hand, an unshaven chin and the bleary look of a man who’d just crawled out of bed. She’d seen it before. Yesterday. How on earth did he spend his evenings? Drinking? Not much else to do here. He beckoned her in with an elaborate sweeping gesture that bordered on the sarcastic.

Tiffany sidled past him with a brisk, ‘Good morning’. He followed her along the passage to the big open living area where she’d left her briefcase. He must’ve looked at the bank statements because they and several other pages lay scattered messily over the far end of the table.

‘Cup of coffee?’ he rasped.

‘No, thank you. Where would you like me to work?’

‘Isn’t this all right?’

Tiffany glanced around. The table was large enough, there was a power point and phone terminal with a fax machine close by but it was right in the middle of the room.

‘It’s a bit public here? Don’t you have an office?’

‘You’re standing in it.’ His tone dared her to object.

Tiffany eyed him coolly. He stared back.

‘But what if you have visitors? I’ll have to pack up every day. This is all confidential information.’

‘I won’t have visitors.’

Miles continued to gaze at Tiffany. Dark rings underlined his red-rimmed eyes. He looked lost, distant, sad.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked tentatively.

‘Fine,’ he snapped and headed for the kitchen. ‘I’ll get out of your way.’

‘I’ll have some papers for you to sign at lunchtime. About transferring those accounts to your name.’

‘Fine. Leave them and I’ll look them over tonight.’

Tiffany pursed her lips and looped her handbag strap over the back of one of the wooden dining chairs. She opened her briefcase for pens, pencils and a notepad then set up her laptop.

It felt strange to be sitting in front of a computer screen after idling her days away at the beach, especially here with the view she had out Miles’s floor to ceiling windows. Tempted to move out on to the verandah with the first sheaf of papers. But not until after he’d left for the shop. He had a comfortable recliner and a wooden table out there. Sunglasses, a glass of iced water or juice, fresh sea air, shoes off, feet up — what an office. Way too tempting to resist.

The computer finished loading and beeped. Too many emails, mostly junk. She scanned the headings.

Met any hunks
?

No guesses needed who that was from. She opened the message.

Hi Tiff,

Happy holidays. Hope the tanning’s going well. Where are you? Turn your phone on. I’ve called heaps of times and left messages. Jules is redecorating the gallery so I’ve got some time off and thought I’d join you. I’ll try your work for your address.

Love M.

Tiffany stared at the screen, a leaden lump forming in her belly. Marianne in Birrigai? No way! She’d nose out Fiorella in two seconds flat and in another second she’d know everything there was to know about why Tiffany was staying here and what she’d done.

Plus…

Tiffany’s anxious gaze lighted on Miles rinsing his breakfast dishes in the kitchen. His back was to her as he moved about drying plates and wiping down the benches. He had on cargo pants today and a black t-shirt with a surf gear company logo on it. She knew how that body felt under her hands. She knew how soft his lips were, how gentle his touch could be, how his eyes grew misty, the sound of his voice. She knew the passion lurking beneath the surface.

He turned and caught her staring. Tiffany blinked and quickly looked at the computer screen again. She said, with her eyes fastened on the laptop, ‘Could you give me your bank account number before you go, please.’

He said nothing for the longest of pauses during which time Tiffany stared blindly at Marianne’s words on the screen.

‘Sure,’ he growled.

He left the kitchen. She heard a drawer open and close in the spare room.

She clicked delete. Marianne’s message disappeared unanswered.

‘Here.’ A piece of paper fluttered to the table in front of her.

He left shortly after with a brisk, ‘See you later,’ tossed at her from the hallway.

‘Bye,’ she called but the door clicked shut before she’d even finished that one short syllable.

Tiffany organised the transferral of the bank accounts into Miles’s name, which took several phone calls and most of the morning. While waiting to receive the forms by fax she began sorting through more papers. Many could be discarded immediately.

Grant Davidson had hoarded receipts for almost every purchase. She tossed most of them in the reject pile. Why keep 12-year-old receipts for cheap socks?

When Miles returned just before 12, Tiffany had a large pile of rubbish and a smaller pile of more important papers requiring further investigation. She’d also discovered the notebook but left it tucked away in the box out of sight after learning the only items of interest were, as Givens had said, Nancy’s changes of address.

Miles raised his eyebrows at the orderly mess covering his table.