Mango Kisses (4 page)

Shoulders straight, head up, breathing hard, expression casual, Tiffany strolled shakily into the lit forecourt.

There was a car parked at the motel a few doors along from her new model yellow Beetle. Tiffany grinned as she visualised Kevin welcoming the newcomer. He would pretend he didn’t know they were coming. How did he cope with people dropping in off the road — such inconsiderate nuisances?

She looked in at reception as she passed but it was empty. She’d have to clarify her extra nights with him tomorrow. Outside, a woman strolled along the covered walkway as Tiffany reached her door. Heavily made-up eyes studied her as the stranger approached, born on a wave of some heavy fragrance like Opium. The other newly arrived guest?

There was something mildly peculiar about her manner. Her walk, was it? Or maybe it was the hair, so obviously a wig, or the heavy make-up and incongruous figure-hugging cocktail dress of blue satin. And the woman had no figure worth hugging, her middle-aged waistline bulged like the contours of a badly stuffed teddy bear. Where could she possibly be going dressed like that? And walking rather than taking her car?

She stopped as Tiffany opened her door.

‘Good evening,’ she said in a rich contralto. ‘Is everything all right? You seem a little dishevelled.’

Tiffany’s hand flew to her hair and a piece of tree complete with leaves and a gumnut dropped to the ground. The woman’s gaze followed the twig as it fell and then remained at the level of Tiffany’s shins.

‘Oh my dear girl, you’ve torn those beautiful designer jeans. And you’re bleeding!’

A streak of bright red stained the blue denim on Tiffany’s right leg below her knee. Now that she saw the injury, it began to hurt. She looked up and met the concerned pale blue eyes of the stranger and with a jolt of recognition. This was no stranger.

‘It’s nothing really,’ she gabbled. ‘I took a shortcut through the bush from the beach. I’ll be fine.’

‘As long as you’re sure you don’t need my assistance. Fleur’s my name and I’ll be more than happy to render first aid if necessary.’ Far too heavy-handed with the eye shadow. Not surprising given the source of the application.

‘Thanks...Fleur.’ Tiffany shook the proffered ringed fingers briskly and stepped into her room.

‘Good night then.’ Fleur smiled graciously and continued her stately parade, stiletto heels clip-clopping in the still night air.

Tiffany carefully closed the door and locked it as silently as she could. She switched on the light and pulled the blue-green curtains across, taking care to block any view from outside. She sat on the bed and heaved several sighs of relief, amazement and surprise. Good grief! Not that she was bigoted or anti anything a person cared to do in private as long as it was within the bounds of the law, but never before had she encountered a cross-dressing motel manager, Jekyll and Hyde in reverse. Kevin Hyde the monster and Fleur Jekyll...words failed her.

And what’s more she vastly preferred the alter ego to the main one. Give her Fleur with her penchant for a cocktail frock over surly rabbit-like Kevin any day. In the bathroom Tiffany inspected and cleaned her wounds, which turned out to be superficial scratches that bled far more than the lack of severity indicated. A Bandaid was hardly necessary but she thought it wise not to leave traces of blood on the sheets. Who knew what Kevin might suspect and accuse her of?

Now she had an evening to fill. It was only just after nine. The TV mounted on a wall bracket opposite the bed had three channels, two with unwatchable flickery, grainy pictures and the third with a clear picture but no sound.
Should have bought a magazine or a newspaper.
She’d finished the novel she’d brought along and then she’d read the kissing college pamphlet in more detail. She’d learnt about the kiss of betrayal — the Judas kiss — the preoccupation of mediaeval knights for kissing dragons, the kiss of deliverance for Sleeping Beauty and for monsters: the Frog Prince, Beauty and the Beast. Kisses of transformation. Is that what she was hoping for?

Perhaps she should walk back and see if the General Store was open. The pub would be. They may have newspapers. Tiffany slid off the bed and put on a clean pair of jeans, socks and sneakers, scrubbed her teeth, applied some lip-gloss and brushed her hair, checking for unwanted plant matter.

Fleur was in reception as she passed. Fleur would be easier to deal with for her extra nights. She plastered on a big smile, went in and said, ‘Excuse me Fleur, I’d like to stay two extra nights, please. Sunday and Monday, if that’s all right?’

Fleur beamed back and opened the ledger with a flourish, a large faux sapphire on her finger twinkled gaily in the light.

‘No problem at all, Miss Holland. I’m delighted you’re enjoying our humble little establishment.’

‘Thank you very much, I am. Birrigai is a beautiful spot. I don’t suppose you have a newspaper for sale?’

Fleur’s overly reddened smile drooped comically. ‘No, alas, I don’t. I’m so sorry.’

‘That’s all right, I’ll take a walk to the pub and see what I can find. Thanks. Good night.’

She turned to leave but Fleur called after her in a hesitant voice, which made her stop abruptly. ‘Miss Holland, I wonder...do forgive me for asking, but you’re such a stylish and elegant girl, I wonder...could you give me a little advice?’

Tiffany’s mind scuttled for possible avenues in which she could offer Fleur advice. She couldn’t advise on bras, her own breasts were almost as flat as his. She’d be no help on hair either. What about hair removal? Shaving? Waxing? Good grief! Where was Marianne when she needed her?

‘I’ll try.’ She swallowed.

Fleur had flushed an unbecoming deep purple beneath the heavily caked foundation. The garishly painted lips stretched in a nervous smile, which Tiffany returned with trepidation. The words came out in a self-conscious flood.

‘Would you help me with my make-up? Please? I’m self-taught and I think I’m a bit over the top on the eyes, and I’m not altogether sure if this colour lippy suits me. What do you think?’

On his way to the kitchen Miles barely glanced at the pile of papers on the dining room table. They balanced precariously on top of the ledgers and the manila folders. Pretending the mess wasn’t there was an avoidance technique he’d developed in the hope that somehow the whole insurmountable problem would melt away. If he waited long enough the paper might disintegrate and the words become illegible. The dust and moths might take over and he could shovel the lot into the garbage bin.

He spooned coffee into the plunger pot and stuck bread in the toaster. She hadn’t been on the beach this morning, or if she had he’d missed her. Maybe she’d left Birrigai. She hadn’t said how long she was staying. Miles leaned against the bench with his arms folded, staring sightlessly at the worn linoleum, which was supposed to look like cork tiles but didn’t.

If she’d left, it meant she wasn’t the girl who signed up for Fiorella’s course after all and he’d committed himself tomorrow for nothing.
Damn.
He took a plate and a mug from the cupboard, finished making the coffee, opened the fridge and peered in. No marmalade.
Double damn.
He sniffed suspiciously at the few centimetres of milk left in the carton and poured it down the sink.

He took his toast and vegemite and black coffee to the table and sat morosely staring at the newspaper he’d picked up on the way home from his swim. Bushfires — a blaze burning for several days in a nearby national park had been controlled but could erupt again if weather conditions changed.

Miles read that item with a flicker of interest; Birrigai was isolated and surrounded by bush. The fire was far enough away not to be a threat, but as a member of the local volunteer bushfire brigade he was conscious of the constant danger as the heat intensified every summer. A lightning strike or an idiot tossing a cigarette butt and all hell could break loose.

He drained his coffee. One of the folders teetered on its stack and slid to the floor in a cascade of paper.
Damn, damn, damn and blast!
He was tempted to leave it there. So much for the helpful and fantastic accountant both Denise and Louisa had recommended. The accountant’s boss had promised she’d call especially when he’d implied there could be vast sums involved. That was two weeks ago but since then
nada
, zip, zilch. He’d gathered she was supposed to appear sometime soon, calling in while on leave. Be nice if she’d made an appointment. Hers wasn’t the only valuable time.

He was damned if he was going to call them again. Miles strode to the kitchen and slammed the dirty dishes into the sink. A couple of papers floated after him. He couldn’t get away from the bloody stuff. Then there were the boxes of account books, receipts, bank statements and heaven knows what else stashed away in crates in the spare room. The paper in view was the tip of the iceberg. He’d read and discarded the first few then given up.

The man was nothing to him. Why he’d left his entire estate to Miles was beyond his comprehension. Miles wanted nothing to do with his father. Hadn’t even taken his name when was old enough to decide. Just because the selfish bastard had a belated attack of conscience and tried to make amends for a lifetime of neglect didn’t mean Miles had to pretend forgiveness all of a sudden.

Where was he when Miles was growing up fatherless? Where was he when Mum needed help and support, let alone money? Where was he when she lay ill and dying from cancer? Where was he when she died? Miles gritted his teeth against the grief, still recent enough to cause a sharp pang at unexpected moments.

Grant Davidson had offered nothing to his son in his lifetime and now he’d heaped insult upon injury by leaving an estate in one hell of a mess.

‘Your father owned no property and was resident in a hotel at the time of his death. You are his sole beneficiary.’

The court appointed legal representative had looked at him with a blank expression.

‘Must I be?’ was his immediate reaction.

‘That’s entirely up to you,’ came the reply, ‘but I am legally bound to pass on the effects.’ And his whole demeanour said, Get on with it. Sign the papers and let me get back to civilisation.

‘What did he have?’ asked Miles. It couldn’t have been much. According to this Frederick Givens from some Brisbane law firm he’d been living in a rundown establishment frequented by long-term residents down on their luck.

‘I’m not sure. There could be a considerable sum of money involved. I suggest you contact an experienced accountant.’

‘Thank you,’ said Miles and signed the papers.

And that’s as far as he’d got, beyond dumping the suitcases and plastic bags full of smelly, worn clothes — the detritus of a useless, wasted life — at the local tip.

Tiffany woke with a start and couldn’t remember where she was for a few moments. The sheet was tangled around her body and twisted across the pillow under her cheek. The dimly lit room was totally unfamiliar. The glowing red numbers on the bedside clock flashing 9:24 a.m. added to her confusion.

She lifted her head and remembered, vague pictures coming to her as if through a fog. How late had she gone to bed? Can’t have been more than midnight. Fleur!

The memories crashed back. Helping Fleur with her make-up, drinking Hunter Valley shiraz, assessing Fleur’s wardrobe of gaudy satin and brocade and sequinned frocks, drinking Clare Valley burgundy, trying on Fleur’s stilettos and wigs — had she really done that? Drinking Long Flat red. Dancing to Barry White records. Fleur had some nifty moves! Did they attempt a tango?

Birrigai. Kissing college. Saturday morning. Blue-green light filtered through the drawn curtains. She knew it was hot outside by the stuffy warmth of the room and the stale smell of her own body in the wreckage of bedding.

Tiffany sat up slowly. Her head objected. She slid her legs out of the bed, waited for a minute or two as her body parts regrouped then launched herself towards the bathroom. where she swallowed two tumblers full of water straight down without stopping. She gripped the basin; she couldn’t be starting a migraine, not this weekend. More likely she was dehydrated from too much fat and salt in last night’s dinner. Not enough water, an airless, stifling room — she should have left a window open.