Mango Kisses (31 page)

‘Because I loved the lifestyle.’ He still did. All the luxury world travel and all the money wouldn’t change that. ‘You’re right. I had thought of hiring a manager. I’ll get that happening right away and then I can come back and do interviews in a few weeks time.’ With or without the love of his life. He’d know by then.

‘Sounds like a reasonable plan,’ said Jerry. ‘

Miles locked up the house. He deliberately didn’t linger at the view over the beach and he forced himself not to remember the breakfast he’d had with Tiffany on the verandah. He threw his repacked suitcase into the bright red car, locked the front door with nary a backward glance and headed off to see Boris on his way to Sydney.

Boris woke up on his arrival. He made even less sense than normal in his sleep addled state, but he nodded and said, ‘Don’t worry, Miles ‘ and ‘Thank you’ several times.

‘Open up the shop when you want to. Stay closed for a day or two. There won’t be any customers until the smoke clears anyway,’ he repeated as he waved goodbye.

‘Take care,’ said Boris, which was the most sensible thing he’d said all visit.

Tiffany stared around at the house crammed full of her possessions. Apart from the furniture which the removalists had positioned for her, everything was in boxes. She should make a start on the crockery and kitchen paraphernalia and get the bedroom in order. Unpack. Get organised.

She opened a box and took out a pile of plates individually wrapped in paper. She unwrapped three and set them on a shelf in the kitchen. They looked forlorn sitting there all alone. She went back to the box for more. Now the breakfast bowls came out along with the other plates. They had to go on another shelf for easy access. Which was best? Tiffany stood and stared. Her mind went blank. She turned, still holding the bowls and looked through the kitchen doorway.

Packing crates lined the hallway and half-filled the living room. Discarded paper lay on the floor. Miles smiled in her mind, Miles said, ‘I love you’, Miles’s lips touched hers. The bowls rattled as she dumped them on the bench.

Stuff it! This could wait.

Tiffany strode into the bedroom and threw her recently unpacked clothes back into her suitcase. She locked all the doors securely, pulled the blinds and walked out to the VW. No way could she stay in the house with Miles stomping about in her head. Driving meant she was doing something, taking action, driving towards him. No more Miss Think Too Much. This time when she spoke to Miles she would tell him exactly how she felt, lay herself bare and trust that Fiorella was right.

With still three hours travel ahead of her and darkness approaching, her growling stomach forced her to stop and eat. An hour later, with the road blurring before her eyes and yawns cracking her jaw Tiffany decided she had to sleep or risk ploughing into an oncoming car or a tree. She pulled off the highway into the first motel she saw, where she fell into bed with the clock radio alarm set to put her on the road again by six.

The throaty roar of an exhaust woke her at five-thirty. She pulled the heavy blue curtains aside enough to see a bright red Holden leave the parking area in the misty morning light. Time to get going herself. Tiffany hauled her weary body out of bed and stood under a showerhead that produced a spray like hailstones. Too early for the motel breakfast so she made two cups of tea bag tea and ate the little packs of complimentary biscuits. She’d be in the Chatswood house by nine-thirty. Miles might have left a message. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought.

Miles drove straight to the address in Chatswood. His car crawled along the leafy tree-lined street as he peered at house numbers until he found the right one. His heightened spirits sagged. The neat red brick house looked deserted. The garage door was closed, as were the curtains. Unusual for quarter to nine in the morning. He parked and sat in the car staring blankly at the house for signs of occupation. Nothing stirred, neither here at the Holland house nor in the street as a whole. Not even a cat. Not even a neighbour collecting the paper or leaving for work.

Hang on. What day was it?

He frowned and tried to figure it out. He’d left LA on Wednesday and he’d lost a day coming from the US so he’d arrived on Friday. It’d been such a crazy whirl since then, it must be Sunday. No wonder there’d been hardly any traffic when he reached the outskirts of Sydney. Tiffany was probably having a sleep in.

Miles jumped out of the car and almost sprinted up the path to the front door. He jammed a finger on the bell. Chimes sounded faintly inside, restrained and gentle compared to the force with which he’d generated them. Frustratingly impossible to make those demure bell-like sounds convey his urgency, his passion.

No answer. He walked around to the side of the house but the gate was locked, barring access to a tidy back yard. He tried the front door again, peering through the coloured panels in the small stained glass inset but seeing nothing. He rang again, and knocked but he knew there’d be no answer. She wasn’t here.

Miles returned to the red car and drove slowly into the city. The remnants of his anticipation-fuelled energy fizzled away. He’d have to return the car and book into the Hyatt again. He’d have to stay there because that’s where Tiffany had called before. The Hyatt and the Chatswood house were the only contact points he had to cling to, the only life preservers for a man drowning in despair.

Tiffany sniffed as she entered her parents’ house. It always smelled odd when it had been closed up for a time, like damp concrete, a slightly musty odour her mother had attempted but failed to remove with many ingenious remedies in the years they’d lived here.

By nine-thirty the day was already heating up. She opened windows and curtains to air the place before the temperature rose too much and she had to close up again. Then she went to the phone. The display on the answering machine said three messages.

Miles’s voice said, ‘Hello, My name is Miles Frobisher and I’m trying to contact Tiffany Holland. I wondered if she might be related to you in some way.’

Tiffany clamped her lips together. She hadn’t erased the call, couldn’t erase his voice. The next one began. ‘Tiffany? It’s Miles. I’m so glad you called back, I didn’t know how to contact you when the other numbers didn’t work. Can you call me again, please? I’ve been...’

She listened all the way through. She
had
called him back. Why hadn’t he waited for her? Why? Maybe the third message...

But this wasn’t Miles, it was Marianne. A distraught Marianne.

‘Hello, George and Poppy, it’s Marianne.’ A sound like a sob made Tiffany frown and gulp in sudden alarm. ‘My Dad had a stroke last night, I thought you’d like to know.’ Her voice quavered. ‘He’s in hospital — at St Vincent’s. I can’t contact Tiffany, I don’t have her new phone numbers. Could you tell her please? I’m sure she’d want to know. Thanks.’

Tiffany dived on the phone and dialled, her head filled with images of Stan. Stan, the charmer from way back, the man who embraced her like another daughter, who exclaimed she was beautiful and called her Helen. ‘The face that launched a thousand ships,’ he’d announced when Marianne asked why. ‘She was so beautiful thousands of men went into battle for her honour.’

She and Marianne had laughed and Marianne said later, groaning, ‘He’s so embarrassing!’ But Tiffany had secretly glowed. Her father never complimented her on her looks, only her brain.

Tiffany peeped nervously around the door to the private room and saw Marianne’s mother Lydia fussing with the blankets covering the patient. As always, when the Contaxis family did anything, the room was filled with relatives — from ninety-one year old Yiayia to the baby Arianna, and all the aunts, uncles, cousins and in-laws in between — all talking and waving their arms about, although less vigorously and far more quietly than usual. Flowers and cards filled every available surface and overflowed on to the floor.

Ed, Marianne’s younger brother, saw her and cried, ‘Tiffany, come in.’ He hugged her and she was passed around the group, to be kissed and embraced like the long-lost almost-relative she was.

Marianne stood at the end of the bed by her father’s head. She smiled as Lydia enveloped Tiffany.

‘Thank you for coming, Tiffany,’ Lydia said. He loves you like a daughter.’ She glanced at her husband’s still form. A tube ran into his nostrils and a drip was attached to one arm. ‘He’s very sedated at the moment so he can’t see what’s happening. But he knows in his heart, and he feels all the love in this room.’

‘How is he?’

Stan’s normally cheerful expression had been replaced by one of unusual calm. He looked smaller and paler as he lay there, eyes closed. His face had a melted, lopsided look. Marianne confirmed her suspicions.

‘He’s paralysed on the left side. They’re not sure about his speech yet. They’re not really sure about anything.’ The bitterness and despair in her tone was so uncharacteristic Tiffany said nothing but squeezed past uncles and aunts and flung her arms around Marianne who stood rigidly in acceptance.

‘Why don’t you go with Tiffany and have a cup of coffee and a chat,’ said Lydia. Tiffany knew by the firm way she said it that their rift was common knowledge and one the family wanted healed. Now.

‘I don’t want coffee,’ said Marianne as they walked along the corridor to the lift.

Tiffany didn’t either. ‘Your dad will be all right, Marianne.’ Hopeless as always in these situations. ‘Remember when my Grandpa had a stroke? He was fine after a while and Stan is much younger.’

In the foyer Marianne strode across to the exit, then, ignoring the blast of heat which greeted them outside, turned and headed for a small grassed area with a couple of trees and benches, deserted in the ferocious noonday temperature. They sat side-by-side saying nothing. Tiffany put on her dark glasses but Marianne didn’t seem to notice the glare or the heat.

‘Thanks for coming.’ Marianne sat slumped against the uncomfortable wooden seat exuding don’t-give-a-damn-ness.

‘Of course, I came. Mum and Dad are away or they’d be here too.’ Tiffany shifted her sweat-sticky back away from the seat. Couldn’t they have sat inside in the air-conditioning?

‘Where have you been? I tried your phone numbers and they weren’t operating anymore.’