Mango Kisses (5 page)

A pale face peered back at her from the mirror, hair resembling a haystack, eyes half closed with dark pouches hanging down, lips, rubbery and unkissable. The skin was like uncooked bread dough with a faint red criss-cross pattern on one cheek from the crumpled sheet. She tottered to the shower. Her brain hurt; the dull and persistent pain hovered like thunder clouds on the horizon.

Tiffany fled her stuffy room half an hour later in search of tea, lots of hot tea. On with the dark glasses. Two pairs would be better, to shield her eyes from the sudden onslaught of searing sunlight.

She trod carefully onto the road. Each step jarred those gathering clouds in her head.

There was no sign of anyone else in the motel this morning. The other car had gone, Reception was empty. Just as well. Facing Kevin and how to address him was something she needed to think about with a clearer brain. She’d have to take her cue from him. He may prefer to keep his two personas completely separate, which suited her. On the other hand, he might be so embarrassed that as Kevin he would treat her even more rudely than before.

Today was much hotter. The sun beat her over the head. By the time she reached the shade of the tall gums lining the way to town her burst of energy had faded and the headache crashed in with the full force of a summer storm. She had to buy a hat with a wide brim, her ears were singeing already. Tea and aspirin first, though, then a lie down in the shade. Would it look bad to collapse under one of those pines on the beachfront for the whole day?

Xanthi served tea and coffee. The hippies had fruit. That’s all she could subject her stomach to at the moment. Xanthi had two small tables out on the footpath, both unused. Tiffany pushed through the fly screen, ordered her tea and a glass of water then went outside to wait in the cool of the overhanging shopfront.

People were swimming and sunbaking on the beach. That’s what she’d planned to do but it was too hot, and the way she felt right now she’d dehydrate so quickly she’d look like a raisin by evening. And no-one would want to kiss her tomorrow. She needed to be in top form.

An uncomfortable fluttering started in her belly. Hunger? Nerves? She leaned back against the seat and breathed deeply. The headache throbbed deep and hard behind her eyes. Would she get her money back if she cancelled on the day before the course? Doubtful. The distant horizon undulated gently with the swell of the sea. What was she thinking? She’d be fine by tomorrow. She’d be fine in a couple of hours. Less probably. Was this a case of cold feet or rather, cold lips?

Xanthi bustled out with the drinks, interrupting her thoughts before she could examine them too closely.

‘Thank you,’ Tiffany meant to say but the words didn’t emerge as recognisable sound. She took a sip of water and tried again. ‘Thank you.’

This time they were audible, just.

Xanthi stuck her hands on her generous hips and studied Tiffany, the buttons on her pink cotton dress straining dangerously over melon-like breasts. Tiffany envisaged a life of blindness caused by flying, white plastic shrapnel if the forces proved overwhelming.

‘You’re sick. What’s the matter?’ Her pudgy face screwed up in matronly concern.

‘A headache,’ murmured Tiffany.

‘You look terrible. You need to eat! I get you some food.’

‘No, tha…’ Tiffany began but it was too late. Xanthi had disappeared in a swirl of clicking plastic flyscreen.

‘There’s no point arguing with her,’ said a laconic voice. The surf shop guy came into view from next door, carrying a gigantic mug, the sort bistros served soup in. ‘Xanthi looks after people whether they want it or not.’

He peered down at her curiously. Conscious of the increasing scrutiny Tiffany picked up a sachet of sugar and tore it open. Fine white grains flew everywhere but her cup. Her hands were shaking like someone with the DT’s.

‘Are you all right?’ He may have been smiling, laughing at her, if she’d looked.

‘Headache,’ she muttered keeping her head lowered. She attempted to sweep the mess she’d made into the palm of one hand but most of the sugar went on to her bare thigh and the hem of her shorts. She gave up and brushed it off. Her hand was sticky now — sugar and perspiration equals glue.

‘Too bad,’ he said. ‘Need anything for it?’

‘I have some aspirin.’

Tiffany picked up another sachet of sugar and this time with great concentration and willpower steadied her hands enough to sugar her tea. She stirred it vigorously. He was still there watching her. She glanced up and met the hazel eyes full-on.

The contact scorched right through the residual fog. Her heart tried to bounce out of her chest. Tiffany gasped and looked out to sea quickly. The hand holding the spoon jerked, the cup tilted and swayed and sent a wave of steaming liquid across the table and dripping to the footpath.

‘Wooh,’ he cried leaping back so his bare legs weren’t scalded. ‘Hang on, I’ll get a cloth.’

Tiffany stood up helplessly. She wasn’t fit to be out in public. About a quarter of her brain was functioning. The man came back wielding a red checked dish cloth and mopped up the flood. He removed the cup and went back inside the café where she could hear the murmur of voices and a laugh from the woman.

‘I’d better go home,’ she said when he returned.

‘Home home or to the motel?’

‘Uh — the motel.’

‘Don’t leave because of that little accident,’ he said. ‘Sit down and relax. Xanthi’s bringing you something to eat.’

Tiffany sat down, mainly because she wasn’t capable of coming to another decision on her own. Her head felt as though some maniac was hacking it open with a chisel. She drank half the glass of water in one gulp. If he went away she could take a couple of aspirin but he insisted on standing there watching as though she were an exhibit at the zoo.

Xanthi appeared with coffee, a plate of fried eggs and bacon and two heavily buttered slices of white toast. Tiffany’s stomach heaved just looking at it. The smell of bacon wormed its way into her nasal cavity and lodged there doing its insidious work. She swallowed uneasily. She’d never liked bacon.

‘You eat that,’ ordered Xanthi.

‘I...’ Tiffany looked up but wasn’t game to do more than offer a feeble smile and say, ‘Thank you.’ Maybe a caffeine hit was what she needed.

Now Xanthi and the surf shop guy were both standing there watching. Feeding time at the zoo. She was saved by two young boys who pedalled up on their bikes. They hurled the bikes carelessly to the footpath and rushed into the café. Xanthi followed the pair with a cry, ‘What you doing throwing those bikes about?’

Tiffany stared at the mountain of food. She reached for her bag and extracted the aspirin packet, popped two pills in to her mouth and gulped down more water.

‘Headache still bad?’

She nodded and the movement increased the pounding. She placed a hand against her brow and pressed gently. ‘I slept with the window closed. I think I’m dehydrated.’

‘Not hungry?’ he asked. ‘Like me to eat it?’

Tiffany looked up sharply in surprise, then had to steady her head between both hands as a small groan escaped. She bit her lip.

The man slid the other chair closer and sat down. He leaned forward and said in the sort of confidential whisper spies used in the movies, ‘It’s just that if those eggs and bacon aren’t eaten Xanthi will bring something else until you do eat. Could take all day.’ He sat back and a smile danced across his lips.

Tiffany sat mesmerised by his mouth. Even through the agony of her headache she could see he had very kissable lips, apart from the stubble. He hadn’t shaved for days. Why not? Too lazy? Didn’t give a damn?

‘Are you growing a beard?’

He laughed. ‘No.’

Tiffany blinked. Had she asked that out loud? A hot prickly tide rose up her neck.

‘I just can’t be bothered shaving sometimes,’ he said. ‘What do you say?’

‘I don’t like beards,’ she blurted.

‘That’s interesting. I meant about this.’ He indicated the plate of eggs.

‘Eat it if you like,’ she said quickly, her face pulsing. They could use her as a warning beacon for shipping. ‘I planned on fruit from the other shop. Maybe yoghurt.’

He drew the plate across. ‘Like some toast?’ He cut a piece in two. Tiffany took one piece and nibbled at the corner with the least butter dripping from it. She put the rest on her saucer.

‘What did you get up to last night?’ He rammed a forkful of bacon into his mouth.

Tiffany watched him chew. but the thought of fried eggs made her look away and reach for the coffee. She held it in two hands sipping cautiously. Xanthi made wonderful coffee. She closed her eyes and breathed in the life-giving scent rising on the steam.

‘Secret?’ He scraped a piece of toast around in the egg yolk.

‘Pardon?’ Tiffany’s brain slowly registered that he’d asked a loaded question. ‘Last night? I met Fleur.’

‘Aaaah.’ He nodded and polished off the last piece of bacon. ‘Get on well?’

‘Too well. She has a taste for red wine.’

He raised his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth pulled down. ‘I’m impressed. Fleur doesn’t really mix with the locals.’

‘She’s much friendlier than Kevin.’ Tiffany put the cup down. ‘And I’m not local. We had a real girls’ night.’

‘Really!’ He laughed and shook his head as he stood up. ‘Well, well, well. You and Fleur.’ He laughed again.

‘I’d better go and leave you in peace. Thanks for breakfast.’

‘You’re welcome,’ said Tiffany.

‘Before I go though...allow me.’ He took the paper napkin from the table and walked around to Tiffany’s side of the table. She sat transfixed as he gently wiped her forehead.

‘Sugar,’ he said and tossed the napkin onto the egg-smeared plate.

He sauntered along the footpath, yellow and white shirt flapping casually over baggy khaki linen shorts, then disappeared into the surf shop. Tiffany, still frozen in place, swivelled her head cautiously and looked down the street. No-one. No-one opposite. No-one watching her being publicly washed and vacuumed. She could pretend that hadn’t happened. Except it had.

She picked up her triangle of toast and took a bite. The fluid and aspirins were beginning to work. Xanthi came out and inspected the empty plate. Tiffany held up the piece of toast and smiled innocently. Xanthi beamed.

‘You’ll feel much better now.’

‘I do, thank you,’ agreed Tiffany.

Xanthi swooped on the used crockery and bustled into the café. Tiffany stretched out her legs. Not too bad a colour, a very milky tan but pale compared to the locals’ legs. Surf shop guy’s legs...Tiffany stopped herself short.

That man had washed her face like a child’s.

Tiffany drove inland to the larger centre of Kandala that afternoon. She needed a proper sunhat and some breakfast supplies, which the small Birrigai store didn’t stock. Tomorrow she’d eat in her room so as to mentally prepare for the kissing course. Plus at some stage last night she’d promised Fleur she’d find her a suitable shade of lipstick, something pinker and less garish to go with her more subdued frocks.

And after that humiliating embarrassment this morning she definitely didn’t want to run into surf shop guy. How could she ever look him in the face? She’d have a late lunch and poke about in the shops and craft galleries. Better have dinner there as well, to be on the safe side.

Chapter Three

‘Welcome, welcome Ms Holland,’ cried Fiorella O’Loughlin as soon as Tiffany set foot in the reception area of The Kissing College; it was really the front entrance foyer of a large weatherboard beach house. Ms O’Loughlin had deftly adapted it to her business needs by adding a desk and chair, framed diplomas hung on the wall beside photographs of satisfied clients lolling about on piles of cushions.

‘I see you’ve brought your nesting materials. Excellent. It’s important to feel comfortable and relaxed. Call me Fiorella.’

The face was the one from the website and the magazine. Fiorella had gained a few, no, a lot of kilos since those photos were taken. She wore the same warm smile, and the dress was the same too—a loose-fitting purple tent of Indian cotton. Big shiny hoop earrings dangled amidst a mass of black hair streaked with silver.

Tiffany smiled, gripping her pillow and quilt a little tighter. Relax? Her hands were so clammy they’d be leaving wet handprints on her nesting materials.

‘Now,’ said Fiorella. The hoops swung gently against her cheeks. ‘Would you like to choose another name? Some people prefer to use an alias; it makes them feel able to let go and enjoy themselves. It’s entirely up to you.’ She looked up abruptly and smiled.

An alias! What a good idea. But what? Tiffany stared blankly back at Fiorella’s expectant face.

‘I’m not sure. I would...but...Marianne,’ she blurted. ‘Call me Marianne.’

‘Lovely. Marianne, you are.’

Fiorella stood up and headed down a passage leading into the house. Tiffany followed. She’d be a Marianne for the day, see if it suited her better.

‘The Ladies,’ said Fiorella as they passed a door with a woman’s smiling face painted on it. The puckered lips were red and luscious. Just like the real Marianne’s.

Fiorella flung another door open and ushered her into a larger room in which a group of people were standing about eyeing each other with unease. Nesting materials lay at their feet. One man had a rolled up sleeping bag. What was he expecting to do in that? And with whom?