Sweatpants at Tiffanie's

by Pernille Hughes

  ‘Bloody hell! Calm down,’ Mike shouted.

  ‘What are you doing here?!’

  ‘What are you doing in your PJs?’

  ‘I asked you first,’ she insisted, crossly. She was wound up enough tonight.

  ‘I was waiting for you.’

  ‘The door’s locked downstairs,’ she stated. Unless he’d become Houdini, how’d he got in?

  ‘I unlocked it to get in, I thought it best to lock it behind me,’ he explained mystified, ‘Who knows who might wander in.’

  She gave him an arch look, that said Precisely.

  ‘Oh.’ He got it and scowled at her. ‘I knocked.’ He dug her phone out of his pocket. ‘You forgot your phone at the home and there was something I needed to say, but you weren’t in here and you’d said you were going to test the showers and I figured I shouldn’t, you know…,’ the tips of his ears turned darker as he squirmed, which made her lips want to pull upwards, but she resisted. ‘So I figured I’d wait here until you came out and I tried the sofa for old time’s sake, but Jesus that bastard is lumpy and my back’s dodgy – and the desk chair was fine, and you took ages, and I must have dozed off.’

  She was trying very hard now not to smile, because run-on sentences were not his thing, but even pulling her mouth in like a cat’s bottom didn’t hide her amusement. He gave her another cross look. ‘There was no need to scream the house down. You spooked the crap out of me.’

  ‘I thought you were dead!’ she defended herself. ‘That’s where I found Blackie,’ she pointed out. Mike’s back didn’t appear troubled when springing out of the chair. Nor was the balding velour sofa beyond his comfort levels after all. He visibly shuddered. The international champion fighter suddenly looked more like a scrawny teen.

  ‘So, now you’ve succeeded in scaring me, what was it you wanted to say?’

  He took a breath, before being distracted again.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘Pardon?’ She wasn’t sure what he meant.

  He pivoted his index finger up and down at her. ‘The PJ’s? You can’t still be holding vigils for Blackie.’ His eyebrow was arched in expectation of a good answer.

  She pressed her lips together trying to concoct something sufficient, and came up with zilch.

  He waited patiently. She’d forgotten he did that. He’d learnt it from Nanna Bea, who had the same dogmatic patient streak when it came to young Mikey explaining his misdemeanours. She’d found it amusing back then to watch him squirm. Now, on the receiving end, not so much.

  ‘It’s comfy working in them at night.’ She waved her hand vaguely at the desk, wishing it was piled higher with papers. ‘Normally, there’s no-one here,’ she added pointedly, ‘so I can wear what I like.’

  ‘And that’s how you travel home?’ he asked sceptically.

  ‘Mmhh,’ she nodded.

  ‘In bed-socks?’

  ‘No, obviously not in bed-socks. Don’t be ridiculous. They’re just for here.’ She wasn’t sure she was convincing him of anything.

  ‘Tiff, is there any chance you are, in fact, living here?’

  There, he’d come right out and said it. Why did he have to do that? Now he’d put her in a tough position. Either she’d have to admit everything to him, or tell him an outright lie. How rude was that? Her face flushed from a mix of indignation and shame.

  ‘This is a gym, Mikey. Not a house,’ she said, stiffly.

  ‘I know that, and I’m sure the council knows that, but I’m worried you don’t.’

  ‘Oh my god, you aren’t going to dob me in, are you?’ she blurted out, shocked. Too late she realised she’d blown it; her outburst was a confession. Shoulders sagging she sat on the edge of the desk.

  ‘It’s just a temporary measure. My stuff’s in the storeroom upstairs. I’m between places, that’s all.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ He seemed genuinely concerned.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Who willingly lives in a cupboard?’ Her following laugh was more manic than the nonchalant she’d intended.

  ‘The same stuff I fell over in the entrance that night?’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she snarked, ‘but then invites don’t seem to be important to you, do they?’ He ignored it.

  ‘That was weeks ago, Tiff. Weeks.’

  ‘So? I’ve been busy.’

  He gave her a long hard stare, which she attempted to avoid, fiddling with the top desk drawer.

  ‘What’s the deal?’ Mike prompted.

  ‘I told you, I’m between homes.’

  ‘You’re moving house?’ Why wouldn’t he let this go already?

  ‘Sort of. Not quite.’ She gave up. ‘I split up with my partner and I moved out.’

  It felt grown-up to refer to Gav as her partner. It made a distinction between what she and Mike had had. Ten years justified that, surely? Theirs had been puppy love, whereas what she and Gav had had was a grown-up relationship with bills, negotiations and compromises. Mainly her compromises.

  ‘And the storeroom option?’ he pushed, not remotely moved by the partner reference, ‘As opposed to, say, a new flat, a hotel, your parents’ or a friend’s place?’ There was some of that she definitely wasn’t going into.

  ‘Well, that was timing. Blackie died, so there was his funeral to sort and there were no flats I liked, my parents aren’t an option and Shelby’s place is minuscule, so I stashed things here over that weekend and then Blackie left me the place on the Monday and since then everything’s been manic. Like I said, I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Why aren’t your olds an option?’ he asked, surprised. Tiff cast her mind back to the swanky town house she’d once lived in, with high steps to the door and shiny black railings, on the best street in Kingsley. Mike had visited many times and it would have been the obvious place to go – had they still owned it. And had she and her mother been on speaking terms. And had her dad not recently got out of prison and thankfully had the good grace to stay well away from Tiff, who held him totally responsible for ruining their lives and wished him and his mistress all the best of misery together.

  ‘They downsized,’ she said, tightly. Well, a prison cell and a tiny flat filled with empty brandy bottles and bilious vitriol definitely fitted that description.

  ‘Right,’ he nodded. ‘And you’re living on … Pot Noodles.’ He lifted an empty pot from the desk bin. ‘The food of champions.’

  Dammit. She always hid the pots in the kitchen bin. Typical she’d slipped this once…

  ‘Who says that’s mine?’ she asked, tartly.

  ‘Angel,’ he said with a short laugh and a Who do you think you’re fooling? look, ‘if there was ever a sign you were unhappy, it was the licked-clean pot of a chicken Pot Noodle.’

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ she insisted.

  ‘Some things never change.’ He might have had a point on the Pot Noodles, but she got the impression he was referring to her.

  ‘I’ve changed plenty, thank you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Definitely,’ she said, insulted. Nobody wanted to hear they were the same at twenty-six as they were at sixteen. Other than weight, of course and pertness of boobs. She’d garnered years of experience and wisdom since they’d known each other. Years.

  ‘And you always retreated to your PJs when you needed comfort.’

  ‘It’s night time. I was going to bed.’

  ‘I bet you a tenner if you hadn’t been “testing the showers”,’ he did that air-quoting thing which made her nostrils flare, ‘you’d have changed as soon as you walked back in.’ She crossed her arms defensively.

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re basing your memories on, Michael. You make it sound like I lived in PJs while we were together. I don’t remember things being bad during that time.’ He’d left just before her life had completely turned to poo, so what would he know?

  ‘Strange,’ he mused, ‘I recall a girl who bristled when her parents spoke to each other, knowing things
had gone pear-shaped between them, though she tried to cover it. Some guys thought she was ice cold and prideful. Not me though. I knew the girl who relaxed when others weren’t looking, who was tempted to lick the plate after Nanna’s brown stew, and who liked to curl up under her duvet – in her PJs – hiding from it all.’

  Tiff moved to set the kettle boiling. She recognised the scenes he was describing. He was being diplomatic too, not mentioning the tears he’d witnessed. However, in her mind, all that had faded into insignificance when her dad had been arrested. When everything came crashing down – when the town had turned against them – everything that had gone before had become a past chapter. Living in PJs out of school hours had become the norm and the Pot Noodles had been a staple when her mother had retreated to her bed with her brandy.

  Contrite, she handed him his tea, which he sipped gratefully, pulling away to look at it and then sipping again.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten everything then.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Dash of milk, two sugars,’ he said. ‘You remembered how I take my tea.’ He had the grace not to look smug about it.

  ‘I’d have thought your athletic regime wouldn’t allow two sugars in tea,’ she said, glossing over the fact she’d automatically made his tea correctly, after ten years. She just had a thing for numbers, that was all. Nanna Bea had three sugars, Mike two. Numbers were her thing. There was nothing more to it.

  ‘It doesn’t,’ he said with a mischievous grin, ‘This is the best cuppa I’ve had for years.’

  He sat back, relishing it. ‘I’m looking forward to this part of retirement; eating what I like, drinking when I like.’

  ‘Planning it?’ It was strange talking about retirement. Tiff felt her own working life was only beginning. The bookkeeping had simply been earning a crust and apparently training for owning a gym.

  ‘What, aside from having an immediate nose-job?’

  Tiff didn’t say anything. Funnily, she’d got used to seeing his less-streamlined face. He tipped his head back at the thought of it all.

  ‘My head doesn’t want to stop boxing, but my body’s calling the shots,’ he said frankly. ‘I’ve got a duff knee and back. My hands are battered. I probably couldn’t spell concussion now, and I’ve taken fewer blows to the head than many. My average punch connect rate was 42% compared to the average 16% from my opponents.’ He ran his hand across his hair. Tiff noticed the muscles and sinews on his forearm. He wasn’t looking too damaged to her. ‘As you saw at the funeral, my untouchability is on the wane. The younger lads are faster on their feet and to the punch. They recover quicker too. Bastards.’

  ‘You’ve done well though,’ she said, sitting in Blackie’s chair. Her chair. The narrow gap between their knees however, made her self-conscious.

  ‘I have,’ he agreed ‘taking punches and doling them out offers a comfortable lifestyle if you’re any good at it.’ The chunk of gold ticking on his wrist, said he was very good at it. ‘I don’t know, Tiff,’ he said facing her again with a look of discomfit, ‘I don’t think my heart’s in it anymore. The spark’s gone.’

  ‘Because you’ve reached the top?’

  ‘Possibly. It’s like the fuel’s run out.’

  He didn’t seem nearly as cocky as he’d done at Blackie’s wake. This was the Mike she’d known, talking honestly as he had in the hours they’d spent lying on her teen bed discussing their lives.

  ‘But perhaps that’s okay, Mikey. You did it. You did it all. Maybe it’s okay to be done now. You know, Blackie always said you’d go the distance.’

  ‘Not to my face he didn’t,’ he said with a hint of bitterness. ‘I worked bloody hard for him and he barely managed a “well done”.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Tiff asked, shocked. ‘He doted on you, he trained you harder than anyone else, then or since. He was never quite as committed after you.’

  The awkward silence that ensued said they’d have to agree to disagree. Neither of them wanted to push this further.

  ‘So um, why was it you’re here? What was it you wanted to say?’ Tiff asked, conceding.

  Mike appeared to shake himself into the present.

  ‘Well there was the phone, but I also wanted to thank you, for helping Nanna.’

  ‘Seriously Mike? It’s Nanna. It was a pleasure.’

  Tiff looked at him. His face might have been older and battered, but there was that same simplicity and earnestness she’d known back then. And she recognised she didn’t look at that face with annoyance anymore.

  ‘Did you want to see the ring while you’re here?’ she asked.

  ‘Nah, it’s late. You’re going to bed,’ he said standing. ‘I’ll come another time.’ She waited for him to change his mind, but he didn’t.

  ‘I’ll walk you out.’

  ‘So why’d you split up?’ he asked as they set off.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and your partner. Why did it end?’ She looked back at him as she led the way, in case he was teasing her, but aside from saying ‘partner’ in a grandiose voice, he seemed genuinely intrigued. Nosy.

  She faced forward again to hide her embarrassment. ‘Well, after ten years, he decided our paths had come to a fork.’ It sounded better than His horse didn’t want to pull my cart, anymore. Thinking about Gavin gave her a twinge of sadness; nothing devastating, it just gave her pause.

  ‘A fork?’ She was willing to bet his eyebrow was rising.

  ‘A fork,’ she reiterated, swiftly. She wasn’t inclined to dredge over that conversation. It wasn’t any of his business either. ‘The End.’

  He took the hint. ‘And so here you are,’ he said.

  ‘Here I am.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to help you with the coach now, or you’ll never move out and I’ll be forever worried you’ll shriek at me when I come visiting.’ She noted he said when, not if.

  ‘I should have the locks changed so you can’t come visiting.’

  ‘That would go against Blackie’s offer of refuge.’

  Turning slightly, Tiff cocked her head at him.

  ‘What does a smart-arse world boxing champion need a refuge from, Mike?’

  ‘Then or now?’

  ‘I know about then,’ she replied, quietly. His dad’s belt scars on his back were probably still traceable. They wouldn’t have been hidden during his fights either. The entire boxing world must know.

  ‘Now …? I dunno. It seemed like a cathartic thing to do the first time. Make peace with the spirit, nab a moment of stillness.’

  ‘Do you not get much stillness at home?’ Reaching the front door, it was her turn to fix him with a look. He withstood it for a moment then surrendered with a sigh.

  ‘Verity’s pretty loud. She likes loud music, loud phone calls, she shouts. Even when she’s not there, the stillness is more a vacuum she’s created and will eventually fill again. It isn’t calm. My head, my brain, it needs the rest, you know?’ He looked somewhat ashamed about it, and Tiff suspected the boxing had taken more toll than he was admitting. ‘I was looking for calm.’

  ‘Warn me next time and I’ll try to be out,’ Tiff said. ‘It’s the least I can do if you’re making calls for me.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s see if I need it,’ Mike said, stretching. His T-shirt rode up just enough to flash Tiff a slither of firm skin. She gave herself a mental slap. Why was she looking at his body? ‘I don’t know how long she’ll put up with a former champion. Stars aren’t so interesting when they’re fading.’ He appeared resigned.

  ‘Is that really what you think? She’s only with you for the glory?’ Tiff was appalled, although having seen Verity, she wasn’t altogether surprised. She admonished herself – she shouldn’t judge.

  ‘Nothing’s as rosy as first-love, Tiff,’ he said with a wink, and turned for the door.

  ‘Have you reached a fork, then?’ she asked carefully. She didn’t want to be nosy – unlike some – but there might be comfort in others also experiencing life’s
bloody forks.

  ‘Let’s just say I’m due for the slip road and Verity wants more motorway mileage.’

  She took the hint and left it.

  ‘You know,’ he said turning back to her, almost causing a collision, ‘I’ve mentioned us being first-loves twice tonight, and you haven’t flinched.’ His eyes shuttled between hers.

  ‘Why would I flinch?’ she asked. ‘To deny it? I can’t – you were. Flinch because I found it uncomfortable? I didn’t. Not really. It was an important part of my life.’ Until you buggered off, she thought but she kept quiet. Now didn’t seem to be the moment.

  Then he leaned in and kissed her chastely on the cheek.

  ‘’Night, Tiff. It’s been good to talk.’

  She didn’t move from the spot as he left the building such was her confusion. Everything about this evening had been friendly. There was no two ways about it, Tiff had to admit, disturbed by having had him so close and having been enveloped by the cedar scent of his aftershave; they were friends again. She remembered the feeling – the delicious comfort of it – regardless of how long it had been lost. And yet, framing it, was the conflicting knowledge he’d hurt her so very badly once, and she didn’t know how to reconcile the two.

  Chapter 20

  Tiff meticulously described her Ron’s-guts-as-bunting plan to Shelby; it was more considered and embellished now. Pitching up first thing on her best friend’s doorstep, Tiff was disappointed when Shelby maintained murder would currently be self-defeating; a police investigation would delay the refurb. Instead they’d come to the excruciating conclusion, that feigning ignorance was the smartest plan.

  ‘How am I going to manage that? I want to punch his face in.’ Flailing defeated on Shelby’s bed, Tiff gave the pillow a thump in lieu of Ron’s head.

  ‘I know, babes,’ Shelby soothed, paging through her hangers for a salon tunic. ‘I feel the same whenever Lorraine walks into the salon. But you can’t. If you confront him now, there’ll be a big blow out and you’ll end up suspending him for breach of contract.’

  ‘No contract, remember?’

  ‘Right, so you’ll have to ask him to leave, on the basis he’s stealing your customers. Then what’ll you have?’ It was muffled as she pulled the tunic over her head.