Mango Kisses (20 page)

‘I’m sorry,’ he said through an equally stiffened jaw.

Tiffany gave him one last furious stare and sat down on her towel. Miles hesitated a moment but she didn’t pick up her book dismissively, and she didn’t stuff things into her bag to leave, so he sat beside her, slowly so as not to alarm her. The sand was hot, burning through his cotton shorts. He shifted his buttocks searching for the cooler underlying layer, rested his forearms on his bent knees and gazed out at the ocean.

‘I didn’t sleep much last night,’ he said, not looking at her.

‘Neither did I,’ she admitted after a pause.

Several waves crashed in and withdrew. The young man and woman closest to them got up and sprinted to the water, laughing and pushing at each other.

‘I just can’t understand why she did it.’

Tiffany shifted and stretched her legs out, then drew them up and dusted sand off one knee.

‘I don’t know either.’

‘Sorry. I shouldn’t keep involving you in this.’ Miles glanced at her. ‘It’s just that I can’t talk about it to anyone else.’

‘It’s all right.’ Her voice had a slight catch in it. ‘I don’t mind. I’m just not very good at giving answers to those sorts of questions. It’s not my area of expertise, I’m sorry.’

‘Who is?’ muttered Miles. He reached out and grasped the hand that lay closest to him on the warm sun-soaked towel. He squeezed her fingers. She returned the pressure and it seemed to him that some of her innate calmness and strength flowed between their hands, stabilizing the whirlpool in his head and bringing a measure of comfort.

‘When will you finish the report?’ he asked.

Tiffany withdrew her hand slowly. ‘I thought I may have it done by tomorrow but now I doubt it. I’ve decided not to work on Saturday as you suggested so I guess it won’t be till Monday now.’

Miles turned to look at her. Her manner had changed in an instant, her voice lost its hesitancy, the icy withdrawal was palpable. She must be really ticked off by the lost morning. Before, she’d gone on about getting the work done regardless. He swallowed and licked his lips.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry you have to stay on longer than you wanted to. Make sure you bill me properly for the time wasted.’ He stood up. ‘I’d better get back to the shop. Lord only knows what Boris is doing. See you Monday?’

Tiffany glanced at him and nodded. She opened her book. Dismissed, Miles strode across the sand. She couldn’t wait for him to leave her alone, to get out of her sight, she’d held his hand just as long as was polite. The way a stranger would if someone fell over in the street and needed assistance. What a bloody fool he was thinking a girl like Tiffany might be even slightly interested in a man like him.

Marianne insisted on driving to Coff’s Harbour that night. Tiffany virtually forced Fleur to sit in the front seat after a little argument along the lines of, ‘You sit there,’ ‘No, you sit in front,’ ‘No you, please, I insist,’ until Marianne started the engine and threatened to leave them both standing in the motel parking lot as they became increasingly and vehemently polite to each other.

‘What’s the club called, Fleur?’

‘The Equator.’ Fleur patted at her hair nervously.

‘Stop fiddling, you look fantastic.’ Marianne had put the convertible’s top up earlier, muttering about not wanting to lose anyone’s wig on the way.

Fleur glanced back at Tiffany with a nervous smile on her glossy pink, courtesy of Tiffany, painted lips.

‘You do,’ Tiffany reassured her. She damn well ought to, they’d spent the best part of two hours getting Fleur ready. Marianne had taken to the task with the enthusiasm of a mother launching her debutante daughter into society. She poked and peered into Fleur’s wardrobe, flinging clothes aside, frowning, assessing and admiring, chortling and fussing. The result, admittedly, was spectacular — restrained but sequinned, over the top but classy.

‘I hope I’m dressed okay. I didn’t bring any night clubbing clothes with me.’

Tiffany wore Marianne’s sheer black blouse over her own silky silver, sleeveless top and the same slacks she’d worn to Jim and Sharon’s, and Marianne’s jewellery.

‘You always look marvellous,’ cried Fleur. ‘You’d look elegant in a potato sack.’

‘She always does,’ agreed Marianne who had brought, as far as Tiffany could tell, most of her extensive wardrobe with her. Tonight she’d squeezed herself into a short, shiny black number with spaghetti straps and hardly any back. ‘Are you performing tonight?’

‘I may. It’s talent night.’

‘What will you sing?’ Tiffany, curious, leaned forward. She still couldn’t get over the personality transformation sequins and eyeliner achieved. Imagining Kevin the surly rabbit standing up in public and doing anything was a mental feat her mind couldn’t cope with.

Maybe that’s what she needed to do, completely reassess her wardrobe, and allow Marianne free rein on her as well. The name change had worked momentarily at the kissing class, but how to make the change permanent? Was it possible to undergo a radical character shift without using some sort of mind-altering drugs?

‘I do Barbra,’ announced Fleur dramatically. She let fly with, ‘Peeeeeeple, peeeeple who need peeeeple’ in a surprisingly rich, loud and vibrant contralto.

‘Fabulous. I adore Barbra Streisand.’ Marianne took both hands off the wheel to clap.

‘Great,’ echoed Tiffany. She sank back into the seat. Babs wasn’t on her top of the pops list but Fleur was hardly likely to belt out something by Puccini or Mozart.

Perhaps she should have invited Miles after all. Why not? The worst he could have done was refuse. But most straight guys felt uncomfortable in clubs such as the one they were heading for. Threatened, probably, they would be used to being the hunter not the hunted.

Miles knew about Fleur though and hadn’t been disparaging in any way, which was an indication of what a decent, open-minded man he was. She should have asked him. Marianne would have without a second thought.

What on earth was she thinking? Why keep torturing herself like this? Miles had made it abundantly clear on the beach this morning he was only interested in her as much as she was working on something which would change his life. Perfectly understandable. What she’d discovered had already turned his world on its head, painfully and irrevocably. Of course he’d be interested in her and seek her out. She
was
the only person he could confide in without the whole town knowing every embarrassing little detail of his parental failings.

And here she was being petty, childish and conjuring up fantasies surrounding herself and the poor man with absolutely no basis in reality. She was in Birrigai to do a job and do that job she would, starting again on Monday morning at nine.

Fleur bowed her head to the thunderous applause that greeted ‘
People
’.

‘Encore,’ yelled Marianne, stamping her feet. ‘Encore.’

As nightclubs go The Equator was small and murky but jam packed with whistling, cheering fans of various sexual persuasions and dress, ranging from studded black buttock, revealing leather to camp Oscar Wilde velvet and lace, to full on frocks
a la
Fleur.

Tiffany didn’t think she and Marianne were the only women...

The décor was minimalist comprising mainly tables, chairs and a bar. Large posters of the luminaries of the gay world in provocative poses smiled and pouted down from the walls. A small raised dais provided the stage, a keyboard player surrounded by speakers and equipment provided the backing for the vocalists.

Banks of lights swirled colours over the crowd and the performers giving the impression of glamour and sophistication to what, in the harsh daylight, would be far from the real thing.

Fleur agreed to an encore performance and announced in a sultry voice,
The Way We Were
.

A man called Baron, was Fleur’s best friend and greatest fan. He told them he’d been trying to get Fleur to move to the city where her talent would be better appreciated.

‘She’s a star.’ He clutched his hands together in rapture as the opening chords rang out. With the panache of Pavarotti he wielded a large white linen and lace handkerchief.

‘You’re absolutely right,’ exclaimed Marianne but Baron hissed vehemently and she stopped raving to listen.

Tiffany drank her white wine, watched and marvelled at the man singing so professionally on the tiny stage. How did he do it? And if he could sing like that in drag couldn’t he sing like that as a man? What made him stay on running that motel, clearly unhappy, frustrated, bitter, and hating every moment? It was sad.

She clapped along with the rest when he finished but the evening had lost what little impetus it had had for her now. Despite the enthusiasm of the audience, in the middle of the bittersweet song, a depression had descended over Tiffany, swirling down through the white wine haze. The words resonated too strongly — the way she and Miles were, at Fiorella’s, sharing mango kisses.

Tiffany drained her glass. She wanted to go to bed and sleep a dreamless sleep. She wanted to get up in the morning, finish that report and go back to Sydney. Leave tomorrow afternoon if at all possible. Go back to her own life where she knew what was what and everything was controlled and planned. Get that partnership and climb that professional mountain. And not take any more holidays, ever again.

‘She’s fabulous. I know just the scene for her in Sydney,’ Marianne announced loudly to Baron.

‘That’s exactly what I say to her too!’

‘Fleur would be a sensation.’

‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Marianne and Baron clinked glasses and beamed at each other having neatly decided Fleur’s future for her. Irritation at Marianne’s smug expression and cavalier attitude pierced her depression momentarily with a shaft of fire.

‘Maybe she doesn’t want to move,’ said Tiffany carefully keeping her tone light. ‘And what would you do Baron, without your best friend?’

‘Oh, I’m off overseas in a few weeks time. Paris.’

‘Wonderful. I’ve been to Paris. You’ll adore it, you must go to the Moulin Rouge.’ Marianne began explaining exactly why in great detail.

Fleur stepped carefully down from the stage. She nodded and smiled, accepted kisses and congratulations and threaded her way through the closely packed room to their table against the wall.

‘Champagne! We must have champagne,’ declared Marianne. She leapt to her feet and kissed Fleur enthusiastically on both cheeks. ‘You were absolutely fantastic. I’m speechless with admiration. You’re wasted here. I’m ordering champagne. Back in a sec.’

Fleur accepted hugs from Baron but Tiffany, jammed in her chair against the wall, was spared such a display of affection and blew her a kiss instead. ‘Wonderful. You have a beautiful voice. You must have had lessons.’

‘I did. I wanted to be an opera singer at one stage.’ Fleur sat down, smoothing the fabric of her gown over her thighs. ‘But my parents — well, they thought it was ridiculous.’

‘Opera or you wanting to be a singer?’

‘Both. Too unreliable for a career, they said. Arty-farty nonsense.’

Baron burst in with, ‘Darling, you have such talent, it’s wasted here. Marianne says you should move to Sydney and she’ll set you up in the scene there.’

‘I don’t think that’s quite what Marianne meant,’ said Tiffany quickly. ‘She just knows people who go to the clubs. She’s not an agent or anything.’

‘All Fleur needs is an intro and they’ll snap her up in no time.’ Baron accompanied this pronouncement with a snap of his fingers.

‘I’m not sure...’ Tiffany began but Marianne appeared, struggling through the crowd with a tray precariously balancing an ice bucket and four champagne flutes.

‘Celebration time!’

‘Oh what a treat!’ Fleur and Baron clapped happily.

‘You deserve it,’ said Marianne.

Baron poured the bubbling, frothing wine and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Fleur’s future as a star.’

‘To Fleur’s future,’ echoed Marianne loudly, and Tiffany not so loudly, but she smiled and clinked her glass with the others.

‘Seriously Fleur, why are you in Birrigai and not in the city?’ asked Marianne.

‘I was just telling Tiffany I wanted to sing opera but my parents had other ideas.’