Mango Kisses (25 page)

‘Thanks, Kevin. I’m off to bed now. Early start.’

‘Goodbye, Tiffany. I’ll be in touch.’ He held out his hand and she shook it firmly.

‘Me too. Goodbye. And good luck.’ Because you’ll be needing it in truckloads.

Erik stretched back in his chair causing alarming creaks as it took the strain of his corpulent torso. He spread his arms. ‘What a terrific addition to our client base. Well done, Tiffany.’

Tiffany licked her lips. ‘Mr Frobisher hasn’t actually signed on with us to take care of his account, Erik. He was knocked out by the amount he’d inherited. Stunned. He wanted to give it away to charity!’

‘Didn’t you offer to handle his affairs for him? Surely it was a natural progression? What were you thinking?’ The chair straightened abruptly as Erik lowered his arms in shock. His stomach catapulted against the edge of the desk.

‘He hadn’t decided anything.’

Erik leaned forward with a thunderous expression. ‘But did it occur to you he may go elsewhere for assistance? Get on that phone, madam, and sign him up. I can’t believe you let so many millions slip through your fingers. I regard your mind as a steel trap when it comes to money.’

That summed her up nicely. A steel trap. Not a woman, a metal, money-grasping machine whose mechanism had failed at a crucial moment. The junior partnership slid away. Victor was welcome to it. Did she care?

She went to her office and sat at her desk staring at the phone. Call Miles. Any other client and she’d do it without a second thought. Any other client and she wouldn’t have left without having them on board, especially one as lucrative as Miles.

Tiffany swung her chair around to stare out the window at her view, the office block across the road. The sole excitement today was a man slung from a couple of cables washing the windows. Not much compared to the view from Miles’s verandah.

Why did everything seem pointless and boring? Perhaps she should have stayed away, finished her holiday. But the two days at home since she’d returned late on Sunday had nearly driven her crazy. Pointless and boring neatly summed up her whole life.

Miles. Always Miles. What could she say to him if she screwed up the courage to call? She’d as good as told him to find another financial advisor. Erik would have an apoplectic fit if he knew that. She’d left without saying a proper goodbye. Miles would be, rightfully, furious and feeling let down. He’d think she’d run away that she didn’t care about him and his problems when really it was quite the opposite, she cared far too much.

But all that was emotional overlay or underlay or whatever. This was a business matter, professional. She would be calling as a professional, following up her work at her boss’s insistence.

Tiffany dialled Miles’s number. She pictured the phone ringing on the shelf next to his fax machine and printer, his makeshift office in the large room with the spectacular view of the ocean. No wonder he chose to work there. Even she didn’t find it strange to sit gazing out at the scenery. Miles would find it essential to have the link with the outdoors while he was constrained by detestable numbers and paperwork.

How would he manage all that property and money? He couldn’t do it himself. He needed a financial manager he could trust. The phone rang and rang. No heart-stoppingly sexy male voice said, ‘Hello’, no answering machine clicked on. Tiffany hung up and tried the shop number. Boris answered.

‘Birrigai Surf Shop. Can I help you?’

Tiffany smiled at the carefully uttered phrases, imagining Boris in his baggy shorts and palm tree patterned shirt.

‘Hello, Boris. It’s Tiffany Holland speaking. Is Miles there please?’

‘The accountant?’ He made it sound like ‘the assassin’.

‘Yes. Is Miles there?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Tiffany sighed. She’d forgotten about Boris’s ability to complicate the simple. He seemed to harbour some strange sort of mistrust of her, dating from their first peculiar encounter.

‘Have you seen him today?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is he in the shop now?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘So he was in but he’s now out?’

‘Probably. Yes. He’s out.’

‘Will he be long?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will he be back today?’

‘Couldn’t say.’

Why did she get the impression he was lying very inexpertly? Could Miles really be there and be refusing to speak to her? She gulped and tasted those salty tears in the back of her throat again. Had she treated him so badly he didn’t even want to talk to her?

‘Could you ask him to call me please at one of these number when he comes in?’ She recited her work number, added her home and mobile numbers. ‘Have you got all those down?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ And Boris, very politely, hung up in her ear.

Tiffany clutched the receiver against her head in astonishment for several seconds. A tear slid slowly down her cheek from the corner of one eye.

Not much chance of his calling, in fact there was no chance at all judging by that debacle. Tiffany wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Technically she was still on leave. Could she sneak out without being questioned again by Erik?

First though, she would prepare the account for Mr Miles Frobisher of The Esplanade, Birrigai.

And it was about time she made contact with her parents. They at least, loved her. She could count on that.

‘How’s that mad girl Marianne?’ Tiffany’s father plonked himself down at the dining table. He peered over the top of his spectacles at the plate before him. ‘What’s this?’

‘Chicken cooked in beer,’ replied her mother. ‘Sylvia gave me the recipe.’

‘Strong smell.’ He poked at it suspiciously with his fork. ‘Why didn’t you do a curry? You know that always works well.’

Tiffany said, ‘I haven’t seen Marianne for a while. I suppose she’s okay. She usually is.’ Hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard from her, hadn’t wanted to.

The chicken cooked in beer was an odd colour but it tasted reasonable. Tiffany suspected Mum hadn’t used beer and had substituted something else instead — cider perhaps or Guinness. She was pathologically incapable of following a recipe the way it was written down. When an apricot cake with almonds turned into apple cake with walnut cinnamon crumble topping it would drive Dad crazy. ‘I didn’t have any apricots and I much prefer walnuts,’ she’d say.

Dad couldn’t stand such haphazard creativity. He liked order.

‘Marianne’s such a lively girl,’ said Mum. ‘Beautiful smile. Makes you just want to smile along with her.’

‘She was running wild,’ stated Dad. ‘Needed straightening out. Those parents of hers did nothing, just spoiled her rotten. Odd thing that. Greek families are usually very strict with their daughters.’

‘Lydia and Stan are second generation. They’re as Australian as you are. Marianne’s a very kind girl. She sends us invitations to the new exhibition openings at the gallery.’ Tiffany’s mother passed the salad bowl to her husband who took it and picked out most of the cherry tomatoes and olives.

‘Do you go?’ asked Tiffany in surprise. Neither of them had ever mentioned that connection.

‘Your father doesn’t, of course, but Esther from over the road and I go along occasionally. Esther does pottery, you know. It’s always fun and we get to see the latest in art and have free wine and nibblies.’

‘How come you never told tell me?’
How come Marianne never invited her?

‘Didn’t I? I suppose I assumed you knew. You’re always so tied up in your own work. It’s a completely different world, Marianne’s. She should have been an artist of some sort. She’s very creative.’

‘Only thing Marianne ever created was mayhem.’ Dad cackled with laughter. ‘You’ve no idea how your mother used to worry when you two were out together. Chalk and cheese. Never knew what you saw in each other.’

‘No. Neither did I,’ said Tiffany. It seemed her mother appreciated Marianne’s finer points now, though.

‘It’s lovely to see you, darling,’ said Mum. ‘But it took you a while to get around to visiting us.’

‘Don’t pick on her, Poppy, she’s a busy woman with a career and she doesn’t need to run to her parents all the time and check in.’

‘Mum’s right, Dad. I have been slack,’ said Tiffany. ‘But I’ve been away for a couple of weeks. I left a message.’

‘The phone works both ways,’ continued her father. ‘Your mother could have called you.’

‘I did,’ protested Mum. ‘I called both her numbers a couple of times but got machines and you know I hate leaving messages, George.’

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ Had it always been like this or were they getting worse?

‘You can’t expect her to keep calling you all the time. She has a job and a very good one. Plus she’s about to be offered a partnership.’ He’d pounced on that piece of information like a prospector on a nugget in an otherwise barren landscape.

Tiffany picked at her chicken.

‘Oh yes, how wonderful,’ exclaimed Mum.

‘I’m not completely sure I’ll get it,’ Tiffany said. In fact she was completely sure she wouldn’t. Miles hadn’t called back and when she finally screwed up the courage to ring again, Boris had told her Miles left Birrigai the previous week and there was no contact number.

‘Why on earth not?’ thundered her father. He speared an olive. ‘What’s that fellow Songstrom thinking, messing you about like this? Is the man on drugs?’

‘He’s not messing me about. I just think he’ll offer it to Victor. He hasn’t made a decision yet.’

‘Hah! If he takes on that unimaginative, plodding dolt of a man instead of my brilliant daughter he’s not worth working for. If you don’t get the partnership, quit and move on. I always said you could do far better than that little business, didn’t I? I honestly don’t know why you signed on with them in the first place. Aim for the top. You’ve got the brains and the ambition. You can go anywhere and do anything. Hard work and dedication are always rewarded, Tiffany. Nose to the grindstone. You just have to stick at it and seize the opportunities when they arise. Don’t get yourself stuck in a dead-end position. You must cut your losses and get out once the situation is unproductive.’ He shoved a forkful of chicken into his mouth and chewed, glaring at her.

How many times had she heard that speech? But this time after swallowing and washing the food down with a swig of water he added a coda she hadn’t heard for a good number of years. ‘You don’t want to end up like your brother.’

He said it in such a resigned tone Tiffany looked up sharply then glanced at her mother. ‘What’s Hugh done?’ Hardly anything her older brother did satisfied their father. Marianne had been right about that.

‘I knew he’d never amount to anything. No drive, no ambition,’ he said bitterly. ‘If God gave you the brains you should use them and go to university.’

Hugh hadn’t wanted to go to university. Hugh hadn’t wanted to do anything in particular, to the disgust of their father who had switched his attentions to Tiffany fairly early in their childhood, when it became apparent, by about the age of ten, that Hugh wasn’t a chip off the old mathematical cube.

‘Dad, what’s he done? Mum?’

‘He’s met some girl and they’ve gone bumming around up north,’ Dad said before her mother could speak.

‘Holidaying?’

‘From what?’ interjected Dad with a snort.

Her mother said, ‘Permanently, from what we can gather.’

‘Who’s the girl?’ Tiffany concentrated on the least combustible of the pair in the hope of getting a straight answer.

‘Lulu.’ Another derisive snort from Tiffany’s left. ‘I ask you. What sort of name is that?’

‘You called me Tiffany,’ said Tiffany with some astringency. Definitely not her choice of name.

Mum chimed in, ‘You were named after your grandmother.’ She regarded Tiffany in dismay. ‘Don’t you like your name?’

‘It doesn’t really suit me.’ It didn’t suit Gran either. She was a woman with purpose and that purpose was to bend every will to hers. Grandpa had withered under the pressure and quietly died of a stroke at the age of 59. Dad inherited the ambition but not so much the skill.

Brunnhilde was a name more suited to the tall, steely-eyed blonde woman, or maybe Gudrun or Solveig, something Viking-like, able to withstand arctic winds and frozen emotional wastelands. A woman charging, or rather barging through life wielding a cleaver and a battle axe, metaphorically speaking.