Mango Kisses (26 page)

‘Exactly what I always thought, but Poppy had her way as usual, and I’m used to it now. I wanted to call you Catherine.’ He sat back as if that clinched the argument.

‘I seem to remember your mother having more than a say in it,’ commented her mother mildly. ‘Anyway you had your way naming Hugh.’

‘A sensible, solid name. I gave him a good start in life and look what happens.’

‘He and Lulu are in love. She’s a pretty girl. Petite. Her mother is Chinese and her Dad’s Australian. I just want them to be happy.’

Hugh had suffered agonies at school having to bring home reports he knew wouldn’t measure up. To make things worse his little sister had swanned along in the year below acing exam after exam. She’d looked down her nose at him just as her father had done, never realising it was happening. Hugh had always been the ‘we all know it but we never say it’ dunce of the brilliant Holland family. Belated guilt swamped her and drowned her appetite. Tiffany put her fork down carefully.

Now Hugh had fallen in love. He was one up on her. His girl loved him in return to the point where she wanted what he wanted and would travel thousands of miles to try a new life with him. They can’t have much money. As far as she knew Hugh didn’t have friends up there. They wouldn’t have a place to live or a job to go to. They’d taken a leap into the unknown.

But they were taking the leap holding hands. And Tiffany, for the first time in her life, envied her brother.

Chapter Thirteen

By the look on Erik’s face, Tiffany knew what the decision was before he opened his mouth. Victor had the partnership.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Your heart just hasn’t been in your work since you got back. And on top of losing Frobisher...’ He pursed his pudgy lips and shook his head sadly. ‘I hoped you’d lift your game.’

Lift her game? She worked hard and Erik knew it. Long hours, no social life, what more did he want? Should she set up a bed and camp in her office?

‘I’m sorry Tiffany. It’s not to say you won’t be in the running in the future. You have great skills.’

Expert at accounting, financial management and kissing. A great combo for a rich and satisfying life. Not much use being able to kiss well when nobody wanted to kiss you in the first place.

Images replayed constantly in her mind. Hot sun. Lazy, rolling waves. Friendly, chatty people. Miles. Running on the beach at dawn. Miles. Kissing in the rain on the waterfront. Mango kisses. Fish and chips. Dinner with Jim and Sharon. Miles. Breakfast with Miles. Laughing with Miles. Miles. Her heart ached in her chest.

Three weeks later Victor threw a party after work at a nearby wine bar to celebrate his new status.

‘Congratulations again.’ Tiffany shook his clammy hand. His hands were always moist, not that she touched them much. She even pecked him on his smooth-shaven cheek. It was unnaturally smooth, that skin, as though he polished it. Maybe he waxed instead of shaving. Miles didn’t even bother shaving some days.

‘I was positive you had it in the bag,’ he muttered confidentially, leaning close enough for her to smell mouthwash with an overlay of the red wine clutched in his free hand. ‘Erik much prefers you to me. A pretty blonde has it over an ordinary bloke any day, especially when you thought you had the millionaire in the bag. Shame about him taking off like that.’ His hazel eyes twinkled behind the spectacles as he did his commiserating winner act.

Liar. Tiffany jammed her lips together and nodded.

‘He’s probably blown most of the cash by now. That’s all he could get at straight away, right? Typical. He sounded like a bit of an airhead. What was he? Some sort of beach bum?’ Victor’s eyes strayed over her shoulder towards the door. More interesting company arriving, perhaps? It gave her a tiny sense of superiority in this humiliating situation to be able to look down on him from a two-centimetre height advantage. She wished she’d worn higher heels today.

‘He owned a surf shop and he wasn’t — isn’t — an airhead at all. He just didn’t like city life. His first thought was to give all the money away to charity.’ She could wear four-inch heels with Miles and still only just look him in the eye. And his chest and shoulders were broad and beautifully in proportion from all that swimming. Tanned too, like his legs.

‘Until he found out how much there was.’ Victor laughed. ‘So you haven’t heard from him at all? Did he pay his bill?’

‘Yes. Promptly.’ Where had Miles gone? Had all those protestations about having too much money fallen away under the reality of possessing vast wealth. Had he realised the freedom it could provide, and flown? Three hundred thousand dollars was more than enough to clear his immediate debts and enjoy himself until the rest of his assets were cleared and became available. He must have found someone to do the work. Why not her?

‘That’s the main thing. Excuse me. Here’s someone...’ He moved away with a cry of delight. The sounds of backslapping and hearty voices rang out behind her as she headed for the bar and ordered white wine. Most of the office staff were there, plus Victor had a lot of friends milling about and chatting to the vigorous accompaniment of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
. Not the type of bar Tiffany went to with Marianne. This one was restrained and refined, with dark red walls, dark wood furniture, watercolours of English hunting parties and squires with shotguns and hounds. Its name had something to do with pheasants — ‘The Dead Pheasant’?

‘Hello, don’t I know you?’

Tiffany turned to inspect the owner of the voice. Tall, dark hair, eyes too close together. One of Marianne’s pick-ups come friend, dressed in a smart grey suit and smiling politely.

‘I think so. I’m Tiffany. You know Marianne, right?’

‘Yes. I’m Paul. I’m meeting her here as a matter of fact.’

‘I haven’t seen her for a month or so.’ What could she say to Marianne? What would Marianne say to her? They’d had fights before but never with such bitter, wounding revelations.

‘She said you’d been away on holidays. Up north. How was it?’ She obviously hadn’t shared
all
the details.

‘It was...’ Tiffany paused, remembering. Not the fight, but those other images — all featuring Miles. ‘...wonderful. Just wonderful.’ She managed a smile but it felt sad. Miles. Her heart hurt.

‘Holidays are great but I always like to get back to work. I’ve never seen you in here before. What are you doing drinking all alone?’ A twinkle in his eye took the edge off his question.

‘I’m not, I’m with people from work celebrating a new junior partner.’ Tiffany indicated Victor and his crew, laughing and clinking glasses on the opposite side of the room. ‘I’ve never been to this place. I don’t go out to bars at all, really. Not by myself.’ What a wowser she sounded. Or pompous, or worse still, both.

‘I drop in now and again. It’s close to work and convenient for Marianne, too. Rather staid for her, though.’ He laughed. Tiffany nodded. It was. She could imagine what Marianne would have to say about the artwork.

‘Have you seen Marianne much?’

‘We’ve been out a few times. Nothing serious. She’s great company. Here she is!’

He raised his arm and waved in the general direction of the door. Marianne appeared. She smiled when she saw Paul then her attention slid to Tiffany. Her expression changed. For a moment she looked frightened, certainly wary, definitely uncomfortable. Tiffany’s face probably portrayed the same range of emotions minus the fear. She’d never been frightened by Marianne. Surely the reverse was true?

Marianne stood on tiptoe to kiss Paul’s cheek.

‘Hello Tiff,’ she said with a tight little smile.

‘Hello.’

‘What’s all this in aid of?’ Marianne gestured at the throng of Tiffany’s colleagues. Feigning nonchalance for Paul’s benefit but the underlying tension was unmistakeable, — like lava or that bubbling mud in Rotorua.

‘Victor’s just been made a junior partner. We’re celebrating.’

‘Victor has? What about you?’ A flash of the old Marianne shone through. Tiffany’s heart warmed at the indignation and disgust in her tone.

‘Erik thinks I’ve lost my drive.’

‘But you landed him a multi-millionaire. What more does he want? Blood?’

‘Miles didn’t sign on with us. He’s disappeared so I couldn’t follow up.’

‘What would you like to drink, Marianne? Refill Tiffany?’ Paul turned and signalled the barman.

‘Vodka and orange, thanks. What do you mean disappeared?’ How easily they slipped back into familiar territory. Maybe that’s what old friends did, rode out the storms and let the insults and hurt slide by beneath the hull, swamped by waves until they sank out of reach of memory.

‘I left Birrigai and so did he apparently. House white thanks, Paul.’

‘That’s very unlike you to let a client slip through your fingers.’

Tiffany put her empty glass on the bar counter. Marianne gazed around the room and her eye fell on the nearest watercolour, a large black horse with a red-jacketed man standing beside it holding the reins, a dead fox at their feet. She grimaced with one raised eyebrow but made no derisive comment.

‘How do you feel about Victor?’ Marianne asked suddenly, her tone distant, wary again.

Tiffany shrugged. After the silence had stretched for another few moments Marianne said, ‘I’d be pretty pissed off.’

‘I’m not you.’

‘Tiff, are you still mad at me?’ Marianne demanded.

Tiffany didn’t reply. She wasn’t a holder of grudges, generally speaking, but what Marianne had said that night prodded something she’d rather keep buried. Marianne had spoken a truth, which at the time had seemed completely untrue; had seemed a monstrous injustice about her father, herself and the way Tiffany had shaped her life around his desires.

If she took her father’s aspirations away and examined what was left, as she had done many times since, especially after Erik’s dissertation on her failings, it became apparent there wasn’t much depth to Tiffany Anne Holland. True, she loved numbers, planning financial strategies and solving problems but there’d been no room or encouragement given to anything else. Her teenage life had focussed on getting better results, not just better than her classmates but better than herself. She’d refused invitations, stayed home with books and homework and done no sport beyond the running and gym training she’d taken up as an adult — solitary pursuits.

But now her world had shrunk even more. Marianne had always been her saving grace, forcing a vestige of craziness and femininity into an increasingly narrowing existence. But it was Marianne who had ruthlessly and tactlessly dragged this withering soul into the daylight and Tiffany, on some level, hated her for it.

‘No, I’m not mad at you,’ she said flatly.

Marianne’s eyes narrowed sceptically and her chin rose a notch. She opened her mouth to speak but Paul finished his negotiations at the bar and returned with their drinks.

‘Cheers,’ he said.

‘Thanks, Paul.’ Tiffany raised her wine glass. ‘Kevin is here,’ she said directly at Marianne. ‘He moved two days ago. Did you know?’

‘Kevin?’

‘Fleur.’

‘Oh that Kevin. No. I’ve only spoken to him once since I left.’

‘Marianne, it was because of you that he moved here in the first place.’ Tiffany shook her head, disgusted. ‘I knew this would happen.’

‘What did you know would happen?’ Marianne’s voice dropped dangerously low.

‘He’d be all fired up by your enthusiasm and you wouldn’t follow through and help him.’

‘I’ll help him if he asks. He has my number. He hasn’t asked.’

‘Who’s this Kevin person?’ asked Paul.

‘Someone I met on holidays. Marianne convinced him to toss his job in and move to Sydney.’

‘He’s an adult, Tiffany. Adults make their own decisions.’

‘Sometimes they need support and advice. Sensible advice.’

Marianne tossed her free hand in the air indicating resignation combined with a total lack of interest in pursuing the topic. Bracelets jangled. She flicked a strand of hair from her forehead and drained her glass in one gulp. ‘I think we should go now, Paul.’

Paul’s eyebrows rose in astonishment but he was smart enough not to say anything except, ‘Nice to see you again, Tiffany.’

‘Likewise. Thanks for the drink.’ She scraped up a smile for him. ‘Goodbye Marianne.’ Marianne threw a brief, enigmatic glance her way and headed for the door with Paul trailing behind. Tiffany downed the remains of her wine and went to say goodbye to Victor.

After a taxi ride home, she had the scintillating prospect of a microwaved, lo-cal dinner: a choice of sweet and sour chicken or roast lamb, and an evening staring at the TV, or she could read a book, or go to bed and huddle under the doona and try not to cry.