Mango Kisses (17 page)

The last thing Miles wanted to do was go to a trivia night at the pub, but Marianne didn’t take no for an answer in a manner that was too frighteningly reminiscent of Fiorella, so he said he’d go, for exactly the same reason he’d agreed to Fiorella’s directive — Tiffany would be there.

Now, however, there were the letters.

After Tiffany and Marianne left, Miles stood staring at the bundles lying on the table. He could barely bring himself to touch them. It was as if they held truth or perhaps lies. He didn’t want to know. and that if he left them where they were, unread, the truth or lies would remain impotent. Except he knew that was naïve and childish, and he was neither. naïve nor childish. He hadn’t ever thought of himself as a coward either. The letters should be read.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge and made a sandwich, finishing the beer between slicing tomato and buttering bread. He carefully cut the sandwich in half and cleared the bench of crumbs. Procrastinating.

His father had secured the letters in bundles with the earliest dates on the bottom. He’d added to the pile as the correspondence grew. Miles flipped all the bundles over and removed the rubber bands. He laid them out in chronological order. The first and oldest letter had been sent about six months after his father had supposedly left without trace.

He took a pull at the beer and put the bottle down. It rocked on the surface and he realised his hand was shaking. A small photo fell out of the folds when he withdrew the flimsy, single sheet of notepaper. A photo of himself as a toddler. He’d seen it in the album his mother had that now sat on the bookshelf against the far wall.

Dear Grant,

Miles is well and I’ve enclosed a photo. He loves to play in the sand and gets very dirty. That’s his favourite truck, the one you sent for Christmas.

I’m sorry but I really don’t think it would do any of us any good for you to visit. He’s too little to miss you and he wouldn’t understand what was happening if you suddenly came back into his life. I know that seems harsh but I’m sure it’s for the best. I really don’t think that argument about needing a man in his life is valid. What sort of life could we offer him? We’ll never be a family again, not now. You need to find someone else, someone more suitable, and make your own life.

Plenty of women bring up children by themselves perfectly well. Think of all the women widowed during war.

Best wishes

Nancy

What had his father done that he should be so ruthlessly excommunicated? For it was ruthless, this excision of his father from his life. Miles grabbed the next letter and ripped it from the envelope.

Dear Grant,

Thanks for the money. Miles is well. He had a touch of flu but that’s cleared up nicely.

Best wishes

Nancy

And so they went on. Polite, distant. What sort of woman wrote those things? Not his mother, his loving, attentive, adoring, creative, intelligent mother? This bland letter-writing woman was a monster.

Occasionally a photo was enclosed along with an explanation of the circumstances — a birthday, Christmas, sporting triumph. He remembered them all. It was his biography in letters and photographic snapshots presented in clinical, callous, courteous notes, totally devoid of warmth and as he read, Miles felt a burning upsurge of rage.

His mother had taken his father from his life. And she’d taken him away from his father’s life. From what Miles could glean from this one-sided correspondence his mother had decided to raise her child by herself and for some reason his father had acquiesced. And the worst thing was, Miles would probably never, ever know why.

Chapter Nine

‘There are the guys.’

Marianne grabbed Tiffany’s arm and dragged her across to the far corner of the crowded bar. The sound system pumped out a deafening dance mix but no-one was here to dance. Most of the previously empty floor space had been taken up by tables at which Birrigai’s brains trusts were gathering.

Two blond-headed surfer guys were already lubricating their brain cells with beer. They hailed Marianne with a raucous cheer.

‘Chris and Brent, this is Tiffany.’ Marianne squeezed herself between the two pairs of bronzed thighs leaving Tiffany to take the chair next to Brent with a free space on her left for Miles.

‘I wonder where Miles is,’ said Marianne staring around. The place was so packed all Tiffany could see was the broad, white-shirted back and khaki clad rear end of a retiree and the front of his floral frocked wife as they settled themselves at the next table.

‘He might not come.’

Tiffany couldn’t imagine Miles turning up after reading those letters. He’d be shattered. And heaven only knew what other revelations had come to light. Perhaps she should have called in to see if he wanted...what? Sympathy? A shoulder to cry on? To talk? Was she capable of offering any of those? That kind of deep emotional hurt always left her bewildered and tongue-tied, not knowing what to say, terrified of saying the wrong thing and intensifying the suffering. At funerals, for example.

Clearly she was emotionally and socially stunted. Going to the kissing course had been a pathetic attempt to change an aspect of herself that was unchangeable. She was doomed to operate on a level where spontaneous displays of passion and emotion were nonexistent.

Miles had discovered this deficiency within her almost immediately. To his credit he’d given it a couple of polite tries and then, frustrated, had backed off with the usual angry accusations of coldness and single-mindedness in regards to her career. Her career was the one thing she could rely upon. Accounting, numbers, mathematical quandaries, financial strategies — these were consistent and reliable and followed the rules set down in black and white. As long as she was honest, which she was, worked hard, which she did, and enjoyed the challenges, which she also did, success would be assured. And it wasn’t about money, it was about job satisfaction. Not many people seemed to understand that.

Brent said, ‘We’ve asked a guy from the campground. Andrew. He looks brainy.’

Andrew? Tiffany’s meandering thoughts sprang to red alert. Kissing Andrew? Surely he’d folded his tent and stolen away that stormy night. That’s if his tent hadn’t blown away. If it was he’d used his real name. Perhaps everyone had, having nothing to hide or be ashamed of, except her and Miles.

‘Andrew who?’ Marianne asked. Already those two surfers were hanging off her every word. Upmarket art buyers, city business types, beach bums — she charmed them all. She was an equal opportunity seductress.

‘Not sure. He’s been here a week. He said, and you’ll like this...’ Brent nudged Marianne’s bare arm while she waited with eagerly parted lips and expectant expression, ‘...that he’d come to Birrigai for a kissing course.’

Tiffany jumped as though he’d stuck her with a cattle prod. Marianne almost choked. ‘What?’

‘Hello everyone.’

Marianne’s screech of delight and the inevitable next question were cut off by the quiet voice.

‘Miles. We thought you’d piked.’

‘No. Drink anyone?’ He didn’t look the eager quiz-goer.

‘Chris is getting a jug, mate,’ said Brent. ‘Just need a glass.’

Miles left. Chris reappeared, placed a jug of beer and glasses on the table. He sat down and began pouring.

Tiffany stared at the bubbles rising slowly through the amber liquid. Andrew would call her Marianne unless she could somehow catch him first and warn him. To do that she’d have to go and stand at the door and she’d need a good excuse to satisfy Marianne. Then she’d need to explain how she already knew Andrew. He’d have to pretend he didn’t know her. But what if Miles said something? Or if Fiorella turned up? It looked very much as though the secret had come back to bite her on the bum.

Perhaps the easiest solution was to feign illness and go home. But Miles would be angry with her because she’d promised to be here. And she really wanted to be here with him regardless of all the stupid tensions between them because, after making up her report there would be no reason for her to stay on in Birrigai. And Miles was her fantasy man.

Miles placed more glasses and beer on the table. He sat next to her and she leaned towards him.

‘Andrew’s coming,’ she said softly. ‘Those two invited him. He was camping, remember? I thought he’d left by now.’

Miles grimaced. ‘He’ll think I’m Boris and you’re Marianne.’

‘Does it matter to you?’ said Tiffany. Maybe Miles didn’t care. Why would he? He’d helped Fiorella out before and he knew he didn’t need lessons in kissing.
She
knew he didn’t need kissing lessons.

He tilted his head and said into her ear, ‘Does Marianne know you did the session?’

His breath tickled the hair on her cheek and her own breathing tightened as though constrained by a corset. How come he suspected that? Tiffany turned her head and found his face very close to hers. He smiled, teasing. He was going to have some fun at her expense.

‘No.’

‘And you’d rather she didn’t know?’

‘Yes.’ That came out in a whisper she hoped didn’t sound as much like pleading as it was.

‘Me too.’

‘Really?’ Tiffany frowned and caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

Miles nodded and held her gaze.

‘What are you two whispering about?’ called Marianne. She didn’t wait for an answer because someone dumped a pile of pencils and paper on their table; she and the surfers began distributing them and arguing about which pencil was best.

‘We’ll have to catch him and tell him before he gets here,’ Tiffany said.

Miles stood up. His hand brushed her shoulder before he edged towards the door. A few minutes later Andrew pushed through the throng. Miles sat down without giving him more than a curious glance.

The surfers made the introductions. Andrew held out his hand politely first to Marianne and then Tiffany, without so much as a blink — a veritable champion. Tiffany gave his hand a little squeeze and Andrew grinned. He sat beside Miles.

‘What’s your area of expertise, Andrew?’ asked Marianne. ‘We’ve got art, finance and sport covered so far.’

‘I’m a policeman,’ he said.

Brent and Chris looked at each other in dismay.

Andrew picked up his beer. ‘It always puts a damper on things when I say that.’

‘I’m an accountant,’ Tiffany said. ‘It has the same effect.’

‘We’re social wet blankets,’ he said and laughed. ‘A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.’

Tiffany laughed and glanced at Miles. He grinned. Why was she surprised and pleased that he’d recognised the Gilbert and Sullivan quote, that he was a well-read man with broad tastes in music? Because he chose to live in a small town and liked to surf? She bit her lip. She was a snob as well as emotionally retarded.

But Marianne wasn’t deterred by policemen.

‘Have you got your uniform here?’ she asked and pouted at him. ‘I love a man in uniform.’

‘No, I’m on holiday,’ Andrew replied. He turned to Miles. ‘So, you run the surf shop.’ Tiffany stifled a laugh when she saw the expression on Marianne’s face as she was dismissed so comprehensively. ‘Do you have scuba gear for hire?’

‘Yes. I’ll go out with you if you don’t have a dive buddy.’

The PA system burped and crackled. Jeff said, ‘Good evening ladies and gents.’ He proceeded to go through the rules and how his decision was final because he owned the place and anyone who disagreed could get stuffed.

‘May the best brains win,’ he said. ‘First round. Question one. What’s the capital of Ghana?’

Silence descended like a shroud over the bar, apart from occasional mutterings, sudden choruses of laughter, clinking glasses, furious scribbling, vehement whispered arguments. Tiffany caught Miles’s eye and smiled.

He appeared reasonably cheerful. He could have decided not to read any of the letters but it would take a very strong willed person to ignore them.

Had he read them?
Would he confide in her regarding the contents?

Miles discovered he was enjoying himself. Andrew had been a good sport about the names thing. Marianne and her two lunk-headed admirers were happily arguing and flirting, taking the whole winning thing far too seriously while Tiffany sat and thought, and spoke only when she had an answer. She knew an amazing amount about books and music.

By round three, when Jeff announced a fifteen-minute break, their table was within striking distance of the lead.

‘Andrew,’ called Marianne leaning across the table. ‘Tell us about this kissing course.’

‘It’s a day workshop to improve your kissing technique. It’s run by a woman called Fiorella.’

‘Have you done the course already?’

Tiffany straightened in her chair.

‘Yes, last weekend.’

‘Wow! How much fun would that be? We should go, Tiff. Although...what sort of people go to a thing like that? Isn’t it full of...well...’

‘Losers,’ suggested Chris helpfully and Brent added, ‘Yeah, no offence mate but who needs to learn how to kiss? Doesn’t it come naturally?’

‘People go,’ said Andrew, ‘...who are interested in improving the way they relate to the person they’re kissing. It teaches you awareness of what your partner wants.’

‘Care to demonstrate?’ Marianne moved her chair forward an inch, fixing her attention on Andrew the way a tiger admires a juicy piece of steak.

Andrew regarded her thoughtfully. Miles watched with interest as she shifted subtly so her breasts were more on display. Tiffany sat tight-lipped by his side. Her cheek in profile had turned pink and it was all he could do not to squeeze her hand reassuringly. He didn’t care if anyone knew he’d been there last weekend, but she did. She was so cool, reserved and competent about her work but so brittle about her emotions, even hiding them from her best friend. Fascinating. Frustrating.

‘Perhaps you should sign up for the next course,’ he said dryly to Marianne before Andrew could reply.

‘I don’t think I need to.’ Marianne switched her focus. ‘Maybe you should, Tiff.’

Tiffany jumped six inches in her chair. Miles felt the rapid, jerky movement next to him. Marianne was grinning across the table at her dumbstruck friend. She called herself a friend? Who needed a friend like that?