Mango Kisses (15 page)

‘Two serves of fish nuggets, please, plus chips,’ said Tiffany. ‘And two bottles of sparkling water.’

‘You having lunch with Miles?’ Xanthi waved her tongs at Tiffany. She chortled with glee and attacked the fryer with the chip basket. ‘If I have daughter I say, ‘here’s the handsome man for you, go get him.’ She threw her head back and roared with laughter. ‘But I only have sons all grown up, so I help you get him, eh?’

‘No, I’m not having lunch with Miles. My girlfriend is here,’ said Tiffany desperately as Marianne pushed through the plastic strips.

‘I’ve ordered fish. It’s the best I’ve ever tasted, just like a mouthful of the sea. You won’t believe how good it is.’ Would Marianne notice she was gushing? Had Marianne overheard that last comment? Xanthi had such a penetrating voice. She could be the town crier, all she needed was the bell.

‘And we’ll have chips, please,’ Marianne called to the loudmouth in the pink apron who looked over her shoulder and said, ‘You want more? I already make for two.’

‘No, what you’re doing is fine,’ Tiffany said quickly.

‘You’re eating fried potatoes as well?’ Marianne opened her eyes wide in exaggerated horror. ‘I haven’t seen a fried food item pass your lips since we were teenagers.’

‘You don’t know everything about me,’ snapped Tiffany and then modified the harshness by adding lamely, ‘Anyway I’m on holidays. And I run on the beach every morning.’

‘Just kidding.’ Marianne grinned and slipped her arm around Tiffany’s shoulder, squeezing gently. She wandered across to the ice-cream freezer and peered in. ‘And you’re looking great on it. I’m having one of these after our fish. What a fabulous beach. And isn’t Miles a stud! To think you thought he was a doddery old fart. What a hoot. Bet you were surprised.’

‘Two fish, two chips, two water,’ said Xanthi dumping their paper wrapped lunches on the Formica counter. ‘Fourteen dollar twenty.’

‘Thanks, Xanthi,’ said Tiffany and prayed she wouldn’t start up again about wives for Miles or start telling Marianne about the breakfast they’d shared.

Instead Xanthi said, ‘I hear Miles is going to be a rich man. A millionaire.’

‘Who told you that?’ demanded Tiffany. Surely not Miles?

Xanthi shrugged and pulled her mouth down. She wiped a cloth over the bench and sniffed. ‘Why else would he hire a hotshot money-maker from the city?’

Marianne aborted her examination of the ice-cream freezer to join Tiffany, eyes gleaming. ‘Is Miles a millionaire?’

‘I can’t discuss my client’s confidential affairs,’ exclaimed Tiffany. ‘If Miles wants to discuss them with the town that’s another matter but I’m not spreading rumours. I haven’t completed my work yet so any speculation is just that — speculation.’

Marianne insisted on paying the stony faced, head shaking, Greek muttering Xanthi and walked across the road with Tiffany to eat at the nearest picnic table in the shade.

Tiffany said, ‘She’s putting a curse on me, I can tell.’

‘She’ll get over it. You’ve just given her something else to gossip about. “Why is that city woman so cagey about Miles? What dark secrets does he have? What dark secrets does she have?” Come on Tiff, you know my mother and my aunties. It’s all part of being a nosey Greek lady.’ Marianne laughed. ‘This is fabulous.’ She kicked off her sandals and stretched her legs out. ‘So, how’s it going? Must be a treat working here and for that yummy Miles. What’s he like?’

‘He’s all right.’ Tiffany took a bite of fish so she couldn’t say more and give herself away completely.

‘But what’s the story? Is he married, gay, spoken for?’

‘None of those as far as I know. He’s a client, Marianne,’ she said crossly.

‘But only a part-time client and he sounded to me like he was willing to take advantage of the other part, the non-client part.’ Marianne squeezed lemon on her fish.

‘That’s ridiculous. A client is a client.’

‘Not in my line of work. Buttering up the clients is part of the job description.’

‘Yes, well. I’m a bit more selective.’

‘Selective? What are you implying?’

‘Nothing. I’m sorry.’

Tiffany grabbed a bottle of water and took a long drink. If there was one sure way to fire up Marianne’s suspicions, she was doing it.

Marianne shoved chips into her mouth and chewed staring out at the ocean.

After several minutes, she said in a subdued voice, ‘I’m getting the distinct impression you’re not pleased to see me.’

Tiffany said nothing. She drank more water and considered her reply. She always knew where she was with Marianne despite her insatiable desire for men. And to be fair, Marianne never wittingly moved in on Tiffany’s boyfriends, probably because she thought they were too cerebral and dull.

She wasn’t pleased to see her now though and the reason was plain. For the first time in her life she’d had a shot at a man without Marianne around to hog the attention, not that her shot had hit the bullseye, — far from it. So far from it, it was embarrassing. Maybe she needed Marianne after all.

And Marianne would always be her friend. Miles would only be her client for a few more days. She’d never see him again after this week and he probably wouldn’t give a damn judging by the way he was eyeing the delights Marianne had to offer. She knew Marianne wasn’t seriously interested in him. Birrigai held no attractions for Marianne on a longer than two or three day basis.

So.

‘The motel manager, Kevin, is a cross-dresser.’ She glanced sideways to see the reaction. ‘Called Fleur.’

The red lips stretched slowly into a broad grin. One delicately arched eyebrow raised itself.

‘Really?’

‘We got together the other night to discuss make-up. It was actually lots of fun. Fleur tangos really well.’

‘I know, I know and they have such fabulous clothes.’ Marianne sat up straight. ‘I’ve been to a few clubs with Jules and Raoul and their friends.’

‘Are they cross-dressers?’

‘Raoul’s friends are. One of them performs as Marilyn Monroe,
Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend
— it’s a hoot. As far as I know Jules doesn’t indulge, I can’t imagine him swapping Armani for a frock but hey, whatever floats your boat.’

‘Absolutely. How long are you staying? I promised to go out with Fleur. Like to come?’ Silly question.

They spent the afternoon lazing on the beach, eating ice creams, chatting idly and rubbing sun cream on each other. Tiffany swam, Marianne didn’t. Marianne loosened the top of her new bikini and sunbathed topless. Tiffany didn’t.

‘We should go to the pub trivia night tomorrow, Tiff. Xanthi had a flyer in her shop,’ she said lazily, face down on her towel. ‘Between us we’d know heaps of stuff. We could win a slab of beer.’

Tiffany sighed. Marianne had taken to this small town holiday business like a retired couple with a weekender. She’d already met Miles, what if she met Fiorella? Should have known this little venture was doomed. What did they say about secrets? They come back and bite you on the bum when you least expect it? It was only a matter of time.

‘I’ll go to the pub for dinner tonight if you’ve got a date,’ Marianne murmured.

‘It’s not a date. I’m giving them advice. They want to expand their shop into a restaurant and we’re looking at the finances.’

Marianne rolled over, nude from bikini pants up. ‘Another place to eat couldn’t hurt — bit trendier than the takeaway. Just imagine what an infusion of big money could do. Birrigai needs a resort complex, exclusive and very expensive. A country-club style place with a golf course and tennis courts.’

Tiffany sat up and gazed around the quiet beach. Granted, it wasn’t quite high season but there really weren’t many people here — thirty at most — and that was counting the two young families with babies and toddlers.

This place was a well-kept secret and it worked a subtle magic, slowing down one’s blood or something, reducing the heart rate, relaxing the mind. Maybe that was the word she was fumbling for. Maybe this serene feeling was relaxation. It seeped in and surreptitiously infused the body. Either that or she was slowly succumbing to sunstroke, like her mother’s younger brother, Uncle Artie, who as a child, according to her mother, had been left too long in his sandpit in the sun without a hat and had never been the same since. Uncle Artie never got upset about anything and smiled constantly. Even at Grandma’s funeral.

‘You seem to have made yourself at home,’ said Marianne with her eyes closed. ‘Everyone knows you.’

‘I’d hardly say everyone,’ exclaimed Tiffany, pleased all the same.

‘Xanthi does. She’s got you paired off with Miles already.’

‘Who says?’ Surely Marianne had been too late to hear that conversation.

‘She does. She told me when I got our ice creams.’ Marianne smiled. ‘I love these towns. They thrive on gossip.’

‘I wonder what they’ll gossip about you,’ said Tiffany.

‘I’m a nice Greek girl,’ said Marianne primly. ‘I can do no wrong in her eyes because my mum comes from the same Greek island she does. And she’s got a son who needs a wife. He’s a fisherman with his own boat. What do you reckon?’

‘Flashing your boobs like that I bet he’ll love you.’

Chapter Eight

Miles propped up the bar and watched Marianne sway her hips across the floor as groups of drinkers parted before her like the Red Sea. Her olive tanned skin had a rosy glow from her afternoon spent in the sun and he knew for a fact the covered up bits would be glowing the same way. She spotted Miles and changed course to settle on a stool beside him. Bangles jangled as she flipped a hand under the curls on the back of her neck.

Jeff materialised instantly from the other end of the bar wearing an unusually large and obsequious grin.

‘Good evening. What can I get you?’

‘Vodka and lemon, thanks.’ Out came a dazzling smile. ‘Do you serve dinner?’

‘We sure do.’

‘Tiffany not with you?’ Miles asked, casually he hoped.

Marianne opened her purse and extracted a ten-dollar note ready for Jeff.

‘No. She’s gone out for dinner. I wasn’t invited.’ She left it hanging there.

Again! Who the hell was she having dinner with so cosily every other bloody night?

‘So I’ve come along here for dinner instead,’ said Marianne, clipping her purse shut. She grinned at him provocatively. ‘Care to join me?’

‘Sure.’

Why the hell not? Tiffany wasn’t the only one who could have dinner with a friend. And Marianne was good company. Not to mention the envy-generating factor she established. Every man in the place was turning green. Every woman in the place was turning purple.

Miles beckoned to Jeff who darted across faster then he’d ever moved in his life. Marianne, of course, would be used to men behaving that way. Interesting phenomenon when observed by a spectator. Miles wondered if
he
carried on like that in front of Tiffany. He suspected he did in his own way. But Marianne left him cold, sexually speaking. She was very friendly and he’d enjoy having a meal with her but, compared to her best friend — no contest.

She’d be a good source of information however, about her cool, intelligent and highly motivated, blonde buddy.

Over the course of the week Tiffany worked her way through the mishmash of papers and documents in the first pile of papers in the living room and began an assault on the larger box in the spare room. She refrained from giving any sort of interim report to Miles except for the initial information about the size of his new bank accounts.

That had stunned him so much so that he hadn’t mentioned it to her again. She’d left a note saying the forms had been posted and the bank should soon acknowledge them, but no discussion of his future actions nor whether he needed assistance or advice had ensued. Miles let her in each morning with studied politeness then left as fast as he could. As far as Tiffany could tell, he’d lost whatever interest he’d had in her.

So every morning she doggedly continued with her original brief.

What she found amazed her. Grant Davidson, it seemed, had amassed a vast share portfolio, all in solid, blue chip stocks. He owned several properties, blocks of apartments and shops, which appeared to run themselves through a complicated set-up of agents. When she phoned them they had been unaware of their client’s death. All his initial dealings had been done by mail and the agents were left to their own devices after that. Dividends, rents and profits went into other accounts she had unearthed as she went along. He had kept tabs on them though, according to one agent she spoke to, and was very sharp and knowledgeable about market forces — he just didn’t like socialising or spending unnecessarily. He also had all the agents contact him by mail sent to a post office box. This would need investigating and closing.

By Thursday Tiffany was confident that Miles could become a newly-hatched property tycoon. It was heady and exhilarating, this search, and if Miles didn’t often come home at lunchtime she would have stayed hours longer, totting up figures, studying statements and organising the papers into her own system. Grant had had one but the key to his eccentric method had died with him.

She couldn’t help but admire the way the man had amassed such a fortune. He had an uncanny eye for exactly the right moment to buy and sell and the areas in which the property boom was about to hit. His apartment block at Burleigh Heads, one of the most popular of the Queensland Gold Coast’s beach resorts, was worth a fortune all by itself.