Authors: Elisabeth Rose
‘What are you doing for lunch?’ Nathan asked Tiffany.
‘The takeaway. Xanthi does very good fish and chips,’ she replied.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Not at all.’
Boris was a write-off. Not worth thinking about any more. He was the local beach bum, had nothing to offer beyond a sexy body. Men like Boris never fancied girls like her and that was immutable. Allowing him entry into her heart was inviting heartache — one-sided, secret heart-ache. Stupid, unnecessary and avoidable.
Nathan called, ‘We’re off to the takeaway. Anyone like to join us?’
‘Not me, thanks,’ Boris said. ‘Got things to do at home.’
His gaze passed over her like a shadow, flitting by in a second, touching her briefly, darkening her world with his indifference.
Good.
He wouldn’t be there smiling at her with those lips she knew were capable of great tenderness. He wouldn’t look at her with those eyes that caused her insides to melt away and her knees to shake; instead he looked at her without care or intention or probably even awareness. He wouldn’t be there taunting her with that sexy swagger and that casual but oh-so-devastating distance. If she could survive this afternoon then she’d never lay eyes on him again.
Thunder rumbled ominously after lunch. Somewhere out to sea a storm had been brewing and now, ready for action, raced headlong for land. Gigantic clouds loomed on the horizon, piling up thick and dark. They hadn’t yet reached the coast, but by the time two o’clock rolled around the blue skies to the north east had completely disappeared under a billowing grey mass.
The heat outside was oppressive but Fiorella had a portable air conditioner running on full when the group, perspiring, hot and sticky, reconvened. Boris hadn’t returned.
Fiorella said, ‘We put everything we’ve learnt today into our final session. We really let ourselves go — within the bounds of decency.’ She paused for the laughs to subside. ‘I want you to use lips, tongues, breathing, sighing, moaning, the works. Let your partner know by your touch that he or she is getting it right. Start gently, explore, learn about yourself, learn about your partner. Listen, feel, give, relax, breathe and above all enjoy.’
Fiorella picked up the first name. The door opened and Boris sidled in. He stayed where he was, leaning against the wall by the door watching the draw. Tiffany realised she was holding her breath and let it go as quietly as possible. She wiped her palms surreptitiously on the leg of her cotton pants, keeping her eyes fixed on Fiorella.
‘Nathan and Rosemary.’
She didn’t dare look at Boris. Would he be disappointed?
‘Domenic and Josie.’ Perfect.
‘Wanda and Boris. That leaves Andrew with Marianne.’
‘Our first time,’ said Andrew. Tiffany smiled and rearranged her pillow to accommodate Andrew’s sleeping bag.
She couldn’t look at Boris and Wanda, even though they were right in the next nest chatting quietly as they made themselves comfortable on the tartan blanket and Wanda’s quilt.
‘If you prefer you can lie down,’ suggested Fiorella. ‘Whatever suits you best. Remember —start slow.’
Tiffany stayed sitting. Andrew began running his lips over her cheek. Nothing. She returned the kiss gently. Nothing. Andrew continued slowly, moving towards her mouth, nibbling gently, she smiled, breathed and murmured.
‘Mmm.’ Textbook kisses. Andrew had learned well.
‘Aaaah,’ he sighed. She parted her lips slightly and allowed him to explore further.
‘Mmmmm,’ she said, eyes closed, concentrating.
It started to rain. One-by-one big drops plopped onto the corrugated iron roof. A gigantic crack of thunder right overhead startled a shriek from Rosemary. Andrew jerked away in surprise. Tiffany straightened her blouse and ran a hand over her hair to tidy the disarray. Her lips felt puffy and her mouth must be all red. She knew her eyes were glazed. But everyone had the same puffy, glazed look, as far as she could tell in the dim light.
She shivered. The temperature had dropped dramatically. Wind suddenly howled around the roof. Trees in the garden thrashed violently.
‘I have to leave,’ said Andrew. ‘I haven’t secured my tent against a storm.’ He was already rolling up his sleeping bag. ‘I’m sorry Marianne. Thanks. It was a great experience. Bye, everyone,’ he called and fled with Fiorella hurrying after him.
Tiffany began folding her quilt. No point staying now, she’d learned everything she was going to learn from this course, the main lesson being that all the expert kissing techniques are negated if the wrong person is doing the kissing.
She stood up clutching her blanket and pillow. The other couples had resumed their practice session. Boris and Wanda were lip-locked, moaning at her feet on the tartan blanket.
Thunder rumbled and grumbled again but the intense violence had moved on. The wind eased. If Fiorella had a spare umbrella she could walk to the motel.
‘Goodbye everyone,’ she said. A few voices called, ‘See you, Marianne,’ but Boris’s wasn’t one of them. Tiffany clamped her lips together firmly and walked out.
She met Fiorella in the reception area.
‘Please stay, Tiffany,’ she said.
‘No, thanks. It’s been...interesting. Could I borrow an umbrella, please? I’ll return it tomorrow.’
Fiorella darted into a side room. She returned with a large blue and white striped umbrella and big plastic carry bag for the nesting materials.
Tiffany stepped out into the rain-washed garden. The brief storm had passed leaving in its wake a steady downpour, overflowing gutters and puddles metres wide. She walked down the centre of the road. Houses with lush green gardens nestled on either side. The moist air was heavy with the scent of eucalyptus. She reached the deserted sea front and turned left for the motel, passing the last of the shops, all closed this late on a Sunday.
The sun was already breaking through the storm clouds on the horizon. The rain eased to a light sprinkle. Her feet were wet but that didn’t matter. She’d have a hot shower then drive the thirty kilometres to Kandala for dinner.
A flock of seagulls wheeled and soared over the pounding grey waves. Tiffany stopped to watch as they circled overhead and came to rest on the wet sand.
‘Marianne!’ A man’s voice. Distant.
Marianne? Did he mean her? She turned in surprise, more at the call than the name, jerked from her seagull dream by earthbound reality. Boris was hurrying towards her. Running. He had no umbrella and no coat. His clothes were wet, shirt plastered to his chest, jeans darker at the ankles. Hair fell damply across his brow.
‘Marianne,’ he said as he reached her, panting and staring into her eyes with an expression she’d never seen there before. Anxiety. Tiffany stood transfixed.
‘I...’ He stopped. ‘I wanted to...’
He stepped nearer, ducking under the rim of the umbrella so they were both enclosed. Tiffany smelled his hot, damp maleness. His eyes held hers. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could barely draw breath.
‘I wanted...’ He placed a tentative hand on her cheek and stroked a strand of hair from her face with the other, lightly, tenderly. ‘...to say goodbye.’
Water dripped from his hair and landed on his cheek. He leaned forward. Rain drops hung from wet eyelashes, perfect miniature universes of shining silver. His lips met hers gently as a snowflake. Tiffany sighed. A lifetime of longing, desire and fantasy swirled into that one tiny sound. The umbrella slipped from her fingers and swayed sideways, landing with a dull clunk on the road. Her plastic bag dropped to their feet. Nothing registered except the touch of his lips on hers, the magical tingling and the absolute rightness of his kiss.
He didn’t press deeper, didn’t ask for more. He kissed her with the reverence and tenderness of love.
Her world stood still.
He drew away.
Her eyes which had closed to savour this treasure, fluttered open. Rain spattered their faces. He picked up the umbrella and held it over their heads.
‘Thank you,’ he said softly.
‘You’re welcome,’ she replied.
‘Goodbye, Marianne.’
He grinned suddenly and turned abruptly to stride away down The Esplanade. The gulls rose in a screeching wave of white and grey.
‘My name’s Tiffany,’ she called. But he mustn’t have heard her over the crying birds and the crashing waves because he didn’t turn around.
Tiffany lay in bed listening to the rain dripping mournfully from the eaves and gurgling down the gutter. What had he meant by that? Anything? Nothing? Everything?
The end. He’d meant it as a farewell. He kissed her goodbye and that was that. He hadn’t even looked back to wave. He was part of her Birrigai adventure and it was over now. Her holiday affair had gone the way of all such non-events; it was stupid to think it meant more. It was a cursory and superficial attraction of opposites in a situation of heightened physical awareness brought on by kissing lessons. What could anyone expect after a day spent occupied that way?
Tomorrow she’d leave for Surfer’s Paradise. First though, was the nuisance of having to find Miles Frobisher. When she’d rung to make contact last week he hadn’t answered the phone so she left a message saying she’d be there on Monday. Should have asked Fiorella about him, she’d know everyone. She’d have to take back the umbrella. On her way out of town would do.
She’d checked before going to bed and the address Erik had given her was number nine The Esplanade. She assumed it was a house but earlier she noticed that the real estate office two doors from the surf shop was number thirteen.
Was the surf shop number nine? If it was, she’d be forced to see Boris. She’d be cool and professional in her dealings with him.
Don’t even think about fruit.
Miles Frobisher was a pain already and she hadn’t met him yet. Perhaps she could pretend to Erik she hadn’t found him or he’d died, but lying wasn’t in her nature. A few questions, a quick interview and she’d leave with a clear conscience.
Tiffany ran the next morning, early. The sand was wet from the rain; the air smelled fresh and clear in the sparkling new sunlight. A few clouds wisped about the sky as if reluctant to depart but the day would be hot again.
Boris wasn’t swimming yet. Not that she looked. He could be out beyond the breakers. A head would be hard to see in the expanse of troughs and swells and the foam capped waves. Or perhaps he’d slept in.
After her run, she showered, ate fruit and yoghurt and drank teabag tea in her room then set off to walk into town in search of Miles Frobisher. Kevin was in reception frowning at the newspaper.
‘Hello.’
Two pink spots appeared in his cheeks but he managed a smile of sorts. ‘Morning,’ he muttered.
‘Do you know Miles Frobisher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘Surf shop usually.’
‘Oh. Really?’ She was right about the number.
‘He owns it,’ said Kevin.
‘I see.’ She must have missed him the time she’d been in. ‘By the way I picked up that lipstick, the pink one.’
Tiffany dived into her handbag and pulled out the small white paper bag she’d been carrying about since Saturday afternoon. She looked up as she found it but the look on his face made her hand freeze in mid-air. Her mind went into overdrive.
‘Perhaps you’d give it to Fleur for me,’ she suggested. ‘If you see her. Tell her I think it will go really well with the white dress, the cotton and lace one.’
Kevin grudgingly extended his hand. ‘I think she might be in tonight,’ he grunted.
‘We could get together again if she likes. If I’m still here.’
‘You booked the room for tonight,’ he admonished sharply and scowled.
‘I know. Although, I might leave today after all.’
Good grief!
Maybe Kevin would lock her in. ‘It depends. I have some business to attend to but I’m not sure how long it will take.’
‘Checkout’s at ten if you’re leaving, otherwise you pay for another night whether you stay or not.’
‘I understand. I’m going right now to find Mr Frobisher. It’s only nine.’
‘Hmmph.’ Kevin turned his back on her.
Tiffany set off. She had to face Boris whether she liked it or not. But this was business. She’d put on a slim fitting grey skirt, black pumps and a pale blue and white pinstripe blouse. She carried her briefcase.
He wasn’t there. Instead a thin faced older man dropped a bundle of surfing magazines on the counter in a heap and said, ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’
Surely this wasn’t Miles Frobisher? The pile slipped and slid and magazines spilled to the floor. He looked her up and down, warily, it seemed to Tiffany.
‘Good morning. Are you Mr Frobisher?’ Tiffany scooped up the magazines and placed them neatly and safely to one side.
‘No.’
‘Is Boris here? I think that’s his real name. It might not be.’
A look of alarm flitted across his ravaged features and then a cagey expression replaced it.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘Tiffany Holland. I’d like to speak to him.’
‘Okay,’ he said hesitantly after a furtive glance around the shop.
‘He does work here, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ His eyes fixed on the briefcase, which she’d rested on the counter. By his expression it might have had a bomb in it.
‘I really only want some information so perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for Miles Frobisher, do you know him?’
A vastly relieved smile spread across the man’s face. ‘Sure do. He’s not here.’
‘I know,’ said Tiffany patiently. ‘Where can I find him?’
‘Probably at home.’ He frowned with the effort of sustained thought.
‘Where is that?’
‘Or at the beach.’
‘He swims?’ asked Tiffany in surprise.
‘Sure does.’
‘Is he well enough?’
The face was a cartoon depiction of horror now. ‘What’s wrong with him? Has he had an accident? Is he sick? Oh man! Is Miles okay? He had the flu last week but I thought he was better.’
Tiffany held her hand up, palm facing away, as if to ward off the verbal onslaught. ‘As far as I know he’s fine. I’m sorry. I don’t know him. I’ve never met him. I just thought he might be frail, being elderly.’