Authors: Elisabeth Rose
‘Oh. Hello, yes.’ He hoped his was also a surprised but pleased voice, accompanied by a smile for good measure.
It seemed to work because she stopped next to him. ‘I’m just on my way out to find dinner. This place doesn’t have a restaurant.’ She said it with a certain degree of disgusted disbelief. ‘The person at the desk seemed a bit...’
‘Was it Fleur?’ asked Miles.
‘A woman?’
‘Yes, I mean, sometimes Fleur is there.’ Not Fleur obviously. Not yet anyway.
‘Oh, no, it was a man. I asked about a restaurant and he said...’ Her voice faltered. It was too dark to see her expression properly because the light from the motel was at her back. Was she upset?
‘What did he say?’
‘He said he didn’t have a clue and he couldn’t care less.’
‘Don’t take it personally. Kevin has periods of depression.’
‘I see. Perhaps he should get treatment for it. Or at least choose a different profession.’ She was annoyed, not upset. ‘It’s no wonder I’m the only one there. When I booked he sounded as though he didn’t give a damn.’
‘We’re used to him. He’s harmless.’
‘So far. What’s the Chinese like?’
‘It’s okay but the takeaway next to my shop has the best fish in the world.’
‘Thanks. I’ll go there.’
‘I’ll walk with you.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘No worries. I wasn’t doing anything that won’t keep.’
She glanced at him. ‘All right.’
‘Do you run every morning?’ he asked as they began to stroll back the way he’d hurried.
‘Either that or go to the gym. Do you swim every morning?’
‘Yep. All year round.’ She considered that answer for a few paces. ‘Have you lived here long?’
‘About seven or eight years. We used to come for holidays when I was a kid and I always thought how cool it would be to live here. Now I do.’
‘That was your ambition?’
She looked at him sideways and even though it was too dark to see much more than the glint of her teeth and hair in the moonlight he knew she was smiling, laughing at him and trying hard not to guffaw at such a feeble goal in life.
‘I wouldn’t call it an ambition,’ he said stiffly. ‘It’s a great place to live.’
‘Mmm,’ she said, ‘I’m sure it is. Do you do much business? With the highway further inland, I mean.’
‘We do all right. Summer is the best time. Birrigai is chock-a-block then.’ Now he sounded defensive and she’d be smirking to herself at his small-town bravado.
‘Do they all stay at the motel?’ The incredulous tone and the sarcasm in that remark hit him like a blow to the head.
‘Look if you don’t like it, there’s always the pub or the camping ground, or you can just plain leave and go somewhere else,’ he retorted, suddenly sick of the way she made Birrigai seem less than perfect without actually saying anything detrimental at all.
‘I didn’t say I wanted to leave. The rooms are clean. It’s convenient. It’s fine.’ She didn’t sound fussed one way or the other.
They walked in silence and reached the first pool of light from a streetlamp. Miles stopped outside Xanthi’s takeaway. She had four or five customers inside and a few more in board shorts and singlets standing around with beers in their hands waiting on the footpath. He nodded to two surfers he recognised.
‘G’day mate,’ they said and eyed the girl appreciatively. She ignored them and said to Miles, ‘Are you eating too?’
He shook his head, still hurt by her tone and supercilious attitude, disappointed that what he had expected from her had proven true. ‘No, I’m going somewhere else, meeting someone. Ask Xanthi what’s best today. She’ll look after you. See you on the beach in the morning.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, and pushed through the coloured plastic strips hanging in the doorway, a fly deterrent.
Miles headed for the pub to give Fiorella his decision.
Tiffany carried her paper-wrapped dinner across the road to the picnic tables overlooking the ocean. The night air was warm and alive with the sounds of insects chirping to the steady roar of surf down on the sandy beach. White foam from the breakers glinted in the moonlight; the wet sand reflected a silver path leading directly to the expanding orb of the moon.
Three encounters and each time he addled her brain. This morning on the beach she could barely greet him through the spontaneous rush of desire. She could barely dare look at his broad, tanned chest, muscular shoulders and glistening wet skin for fear of becoming fixated. Her fantasy man had emerged from the sea. She’d forced her shaky legs to keep going, to focus on the distant rocks and run.
And then she’d stumbled upon him again. The second time she had a chance to prepare because he hadn’t heard her enter the shop. She’d been cool, polite, controlled, as was he, but he was clearly uninterested in her except as a customer. What was such a man doing in a place like Birrigai? Raising a family probably, although he gave no indication and wasn’t wearing a ring.
He seemed satisfied to spend the rest of his life selling sunhats and swim goggles. How boring was that? He looked, superficially, as if he had more going for him. He wasn’t an idiot, his eyes had a certain sharp intelligence despite his laidback attitude. He was reading a book on Zen Buddhism of all things. She had only the dimmest idea what that was all about.
She’d left the shop with a nonchalant façade, inwardly kicking herself for not asking about his book, about Birrigai, his name! Anything to start up a conversation. The sad truth was she couldn’t. She never had been able to talk easily with men like him, the rugged, outdoorsy types she found so attractive and so intimidating. They tied her tongue in knots.
Then, out of the darkness had come a third opportunity, wasted again. She’d walked beside him for ten minutes and all she could do was insult his home-town. She’d listened to herself in horror as more and more catty comments flew from her lips, incapable of preventing them. He hadn’t been interested enough to ask her name. And she didn’t dare ask his.
Marianne would know all about him by now and vice versa. Marianne had no hang-ups, no inhibitions and virtually no shame. Marianne had been astounded Tiffany would head north by herself on holiday. ‘Go to a resort, for heaven’s sake. Put it off for a couple of months and I’ll come with you.’
‘It’s only half a holiday. I have to see a client,’ she’d explained. ‘Erik implied it would help my chances at the partnership.’
Marianne rolled her eyes. ‘I wish you’d do something impetuous for once. Something spontaneous and wild. Unrelated to work. How can they ask you to work on your holiday, anyway?’
‘If I want the partnership I have to be willing to put in extra time.’
‘It’s not worth it. We could have such a great time at a resort. On an island. Imagine the hot guys!’
‘I don’t like resorts. I prefer quiet beaches.’
‘Maybe I’ll come up for a few days. It’s not far.’
‘I’ll be working.’
She loved her oldest friend but if Marianne were here the surf shop guy would automatically head for her. They always did.
Tiffany unwrapped her parcel of hot fish. He had a very attractive mouth despite the stubbly chin. She could imagine kissing those lips, if he shaved. It was probably just as well she wouldn’t get the chance. Those sporty, casual, laidback blokes with their lazy smiles and self-confident swagger never went for girls like her. And until she’d done the kissing lessons she’d do more harm than good if she had the chance.
Tiffany inspected the piece of battered fish and wrinkled her nose as her fingers came away greasy. The fish smelled good though. The chatty, plump, proprietor with the strong Greek accent had guaranteed it freshly caught. She sounded just like Marianne’s mother and myriad aunties. Tiffany squeezed lemon juice from the two quarters provided, before taking a tentative bite.
The sea came alive in her mouth. It was absolutely and deliciously the best fish she’d ever tasted. The batter, far from being heavy and grease laden, was melt-in-the-mouth-light. When she licked the last of the flavour from her fingers not only had she polished off a piece of calorie soaked deep-fried fish but also a serving of chips which she’d had no intention of more than sampling. A dietary disaster. Add an extra five kilometres to her run tomorrow.
Tiffany screwed up the paper wrappings and tossed the ball into the nearby bin. She walked across tough, springy grass to the edge of the sand. The tide had run the waterline closer so the strip of beach was narrower than this morning. She slipped off her sandals and stepped on to the still warm sand, soft and squeaky beneath her feet.
Swim tomorrow. Bring a book and lie on a towel, spend the day at the beach. She could buy lunch from the takeaway, fruit and fresh juice from the hippy shop next door to offset the fat overdose. She’d already shopped there for her breakfast melon and yoghurt.
‘Peace,’ the gaunt faced, bearded man had said, and she felt slick and citified in her trendy running gear. He’d practise yoga and meditate. Relaxation techniques were part of the kissing course. Was he the instructor? Or was it his other worldly looking partner in her tie-dyed caftan and silver jewellery? His lips were almost invisible through the greying hair flourishing over the lower half of his face. How do you kiss someone whose lips are invisible? Maybe she’d find out on Sunday.
Tiffany breathed deeply and swung her sandals as she strolled. Birrigai certainly had its share of eccentrics. The Seacrest was the weirdest motel she’d ever stayed in, or more accurately, had the weirdest manager. His manner on the phone when she booked had been peculiar enough, as if he resented a customer wanting to stay. But that’s as far as she’d thought and she’d forgotten about it until she was greeted by the man in person when she arrived.
Her first astonished impression had been that Birrigai hosted its own version of the motel in ‘Psycho’ and that Kevin Firth, as the name plate at reception announced, was Birrigai’s very own Norman Bates except he had wispy brown hair, a slight stoop and pale, watery blue eyes. He looked like a middle-aged rabbit rather than a psychopath. Visualising kissing those thin dry lips required far more imagination than she possessed.
‘You booked?’ he’d asked, his incredulous scoffing tone accompanied by a suspicious stare.
‘Yes. Tiffany Holland. Two nights,’ she’d said firmly. ‘I rang at least a fortnight ago and I spoke to you.’
He disappeared through a door marked ‘Office’. She heard cursing and muttering but when he reappeared he tossed a key on the counter and said, ‘Room Five. No visitors, no cooking in your room. Checkout ten on Sunday.’
‘I’d like to stay an extra night, please,’ she said. ‘Maybe even two.’
He’d glared at her with narrowed eyes.
‘Is that all right?’ She had to bite her lip to keep from smiling at the horrified look on his face. A guest who wanted to stay longer? What a shock!
‘Maybe.’ He turned away.
‘When will you know?’
‘Check with me tomorrow.’
Kevin Firth, she calculated, preferred intimidating his guests by his attitude to make up for his physique.
Talking of physique, the surf shop guy’s broad, tanned chest and flat stomach flashed before her eyes. He’d seemed worried that she was upset about Kevin and then huffily annoyed by her questions, but really she’d asked quite seriously. Who would stay at a motel with a manager who went out of his way to put customers off?
A wave rushed in nearly catching her in its frothy tentacles. She skipped sideways and laughed. All things considered Birrigai had been a good idea. Regardless of how the meeting her boss had set up went, or the kissing class, she would have time to think.
Joining Erik’s firm of accountants, Songstrom and Associates, had been a stepping stone to one of the bigger outfits. She needed experience and didn’t want to spend years at the bottom of the heap constantly proving herself worthy to the higher echelons of suits. If she managed to score the junior partnership she’d be committed to the firm. Did she want that or did she want to continue as she’d originally intended and aim for a position with one of the ‘big six’? Dad would say, ‘Onward and upward. Aim for the stars. Don’t sell yourself short’.
In terms of furthering her career she should move on soon. She’d gained in experience and had a good client list to take with her. If she was to leave, the time was approaching.
Tiffany dodged another wave then judged she was far enough along the beach to cut through the bush and reach the road near the motel. There was a path that ran up from the beach through the trees and behind the units but she couldn’t see well enough to find where it started. She remembered a stand of tall eucalypts close to the motel, and these stood out now blacker and higher against the surrounding darkness.
She slipped her sandals on and walked into the scrubby bush in the direction of the road, keeping the water and the moon behind her.
She scraped her leg painfully on something sharp and tripped on a fallen branch. Then she almost fell as the ground dropped suddenly in a dip. Something rustled nearby and wings flapped above her head. She paused to get her bearings, breathing hard.
Wind stirred the leaves and branches, disturbing noises, crackling and scraping, surrounded her. Then the sharp crack of a twig snapping as something trod on it. Much blacker in here, couldn’t see anything. Stupid, stupid idea. She should have walked back along the beach and followed the road. Easier and safer. What if she got lost? What if she trod on something deadly poisonous? What if she got bitten and lay here alone in the pitch black dying an agonising death?
She stared around, eyes widening in their sockets, eyelids straining as she desperately tried to identify some landmark. The sound of the sea was fainter, deadened by the trees, night sounds, and the wind. Was the water behind her? She closed her eyes and concentrated, turning her head slowly until she was certain of the direction then opened her eyes and forged ahead, fiercely quashing the rising panic. A low branch whipped her cheek and she gasped in shock at the sudden pain.
The motel sign should be visible soon. She was certain she was almost level with it. Couldn’t be far. She pushed on with her hands raised to protect her face and suddenly her foot landed on gravel. The way was clear and brighter and a second step propelled her onto the tarred road thirty metres from her goal.