Sweatpants at Tiffanie's

by Pernille Hughes

  Mike considered it. He got up, neatly tackling the stone off her, before chipping it back to her.

  ‘I see what you mean. Unless he left it for some other kid to have a refuge.’

  ‘I don’t know who it would be, Mikey. Blackie never attached himself to anyone like he did with you. You were special to him. I thought your leaving had broken his heart too; that he’d vowed never to make that mistake again. Us both losing you felt like some kind of bond.’

  Mike ducked his head and stayed quiet for a while.

  ‘There were times,’ he said, quietly, ‘when I thought he’d really wanted shot of me; that I wasn’t all that and he was happy to pass me on. Those were the low points, and then I’d get so bloody angry, I’d tell myself I’d show him, I was going to rub it in his face what he’d lost and I’d train until I nearly passed out. If he lied to get me to concentrate on the boxing, then he played me perfectly.’

  ‘He knew you were going to be good, Mikey. That’s why he pushed you to go.’ That’s why he had to get you away from me.

  ‘You believe that?’

  The truth might be horrible, but it was still the truth. ‘I do. Completely.’

  ‘And you accept that?’

  ‘Well, the teenage-me thinks it sucks, but looking at what you’ve accomplished, how can I say he was wrong? He and Nanna took a risk, at huge personal cost, and it paid off for you.’ She reckoned if he’d been alive Blackie would be pushing him to take the LA job. Nanna would too, had she had all her faculties. Tiff thought about their kiss. What if she was at risk of becoming a millstone for him again, standing in his way, threatening to sink him?

  ‘The words in his will make more sense now,’ Mike said. Tiff saw his nose twitch and his eyes were watery. She took his hand and squeezed it.

  He reeled her in towards him.

  ‘No wonder you were so pissy with me, Angel,’ he said with a small smile. Likewise, Tiff understood why he’d got off on winding her up, too. ‘It’s a good job Blackie’s dead, as I would’ve lamped him.’ His off-the-cuff remark made her laugh. The image of Blackie in his wizened form and Mike slugging it out in the ring was pretty comical.

  ‘You’d have had to beat me to it,’ she added looking up into his eyes. The smile they shared was bittersweet, but the misgivings were gone. Everything was different now. The kiss had been amazing, but in hindsight confusing; it was lust overriding sense. But now, knowing he hadn’t meant to hurt her, it felt all the sweeter for not being a betrayal of her teen self. He carefully tucked a breeze-wafting lock of hair behind her ear, a gesture so tender it made her melt. Now they could address what happened that morning. His eyes dropped to her lips, as his face drew slowly closer to hers. She took a low breath and—

  The ringtone from his pocket made them both jump. Mike didn’t budge for the first couple of rings, watching her until Tiff stepped back. Seeing the moment between them was over, he dug out the phone.

  She didn’t want to eavesdrop, but she saw the colour drain from his face before she could move away.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ he said, ending the call. ‘It’s Nanna, Tiff. She’s gone.’ He looked so stricken, she wanted to fling her arms around him, but there wasn’t time for that.

  ‘We’ll find her, Mikey,’ Tiff said, moving for the car door. ‘Let’s start at the gym, in case she heads there again.’

  But Mike wasn’t following her. ‘No, Tiff. She’s gone. She died.’

  Chapter 27

  ‘How’s your boxer?’ Shelby asked, setting a second cup of tea in front of Tiff. Breakfast at Viv’s was beginning to become a therapy venue. So the yellow floral wallpaper was decidedly old fashioned, with the cooking done right behind the chipped counter, but Tiff found its familiarity and aromas deeply comforting.

  ‘He’s not my boxer,’ Tiff replied, but asked herself why she couldn’t stop thinking about him. One lunchtime had tipped ten years of hurt on its head. One conversation had shown her how she felt about herself was unwarranted. And one kiss had her heart healing again.

  Thinking about Gavin no longer left her feeling broken. She missed him but she didn’t feel at a loss now. Initially she’d felt untethered, adrift without him anchoring her. While she was certainly still floating, homeless and alone, it didn’t scare her. She’d find a home eventually and obviously she was still kissable. And what a kiss it had been…

  ‘He’s gone to ground,’ Tiff conceded. Frustratingly, communication in the last week had been minimal.

  Mike had held it together as they drove from the hills but only until he reached Nanna’s room. Then he was consumed with grief for the woman who’d raised him, and all Tiff could do was hold him as they waited for the undertaker to come.

  After that he’d retreated into himself and she’d let him, because support was all she had to offer and if privacy was what he needed, then that was an easy thing to grant him. While she busied herself at the gym, she sent him texts which all went unanswered save for one to say the funeral would be the day before the club opened. The distance between them though felt a million miles from where they’d been up in the hills.

  Meanwhile, Tiff had her own issues. She still had no trainer and given there was no way she’d bug Mike about making calls, she cobbled together an ad for The Ring. The police hadn’t got any leads on the arsonist, but the calls at least had been blocked, making it easier for Tiff to lock that worry away. The club kept her busy, but that was mainly her stressing, as Jess had things covered. In light of Ron’s defection, Tiff wound herself up looking for ways to offer some form of sparring space, or perhaps start the fitness classes early upstairs. Hence, Shelby’s bringing her to her senses over breakfast at Viv’s.

  ‘Seriously babes, let’s think clearly about this. You’re doing the refurb to entice new clients in. Female clients. Do you really want their first impression to be builder’s bums and swearing? They get that at home. You’re looking to offer them a haven.’

  ‘But he’ll have the jump on me,’ Tiff groaned, despondently working her way through her grilled mushroom fry-up. Shelby was face deep in the Full Workman. Tiff couldn’t forget Ron’s smug face as he’d left. Natalie estimated half of the adult members would stick with Ron. Tiff knew the rest, and their kids, might follow once they’d had a review or missed their mates.

  ‘Babes, he’s already got the jump on you,’ Shelby said, matter-of-factly. ‘And so what? He’s only got a boxing club – in a cold industrial unit. You’re going to have a boxing club and classes, and a bar. Once women start pouring in at yours, he won’t be able to compete. Can’t see him trumping up classes on a concrete floor. And then he’ll have to pander to the scabs who defected with him. They’re the “grass is greener” types anyway; they wouldn’t recognise loyalty if it spanked them. They won’t feel an ounce of shame coming back either.

  ‘Key fact about blokes:’ Shelby carried on, ‘they like their efforts acknowledged. In their jobs, in bed – if they aren’t praised for their hard work, they get sulky and dejected. Some guys I’ve met expect fanfares for the most basic efforts. Honestly, this one guy, he expected applause for going dow—’

  ‘Shelb,’ Tiff interrupted, indicating the room with her knife, ‘family show.’ Shelby looked around. Viv’s was full of kids.

  ‘Your boxers will be the same,’ she recommenced, assuming Tiff perceived the main thrust of her example. ‘If they can come out after a session, showered and buff, to work their tight T-shirts and buns around a bar to even a grain of appreciation, they’ll be happier than Ron’s pack who’ll just go home.’

  God, she hoped Shelby was right. In terms of specialist advice, Shelby did know men – if not in quality, then at least in quantity.

  ‘How about Mike?’ Shelby pitched in with what felt like a change of subject, as opposed to digging for gossip.

  ‘How about Mike what?’ Having promised to keep Shelby informed, Tiff had overlooked mentioning The Kiss in the emotion of Nanna’s death. Given the current radio silence, sh
e was reluctant to put it up for dissection now.

  ‘Still not asking him to be your coach?’

  ‘We did this already, Shelbs. It’s totally beneath him plus he’s been offered a diamond-deal to front a sports show. In Los Angeles. Which he was born to do. Who’d turn that down? Moreover, who’d ask him to? Not me.’

  ‘Ha! So you have been in touch with him and not told me.’

  ‘Of course I’ve been in touch, Shelby – his nan just died. I knew her when we were kids. Funeral’s next Friday.’

  ‘Can’t hurt to ask him.’

  ‘Sure. Mike, how d’you fancy coaching seven-year-olds who can barely shift the punch-bag in the drizzle of Kingsley, for a measly wage OR would you rather an exciting life hob-nobbing with famouses in the sunshine of California, for megabucks? Hmm,’ mused Tiff, fingertip to chin, eyeballs to ceiling, ‘dunno which I’d choose.’

  ‘No need to be sarky,’ Shelby said, more unimpressed than offended.

  Tiff sagged. ‘Sorry. Given the responses to the ad, I’m almost considering it. They’re dire. But I just can’t do it, Shelb. He said he was staying here while Nanna was alive, and now she isn’t. He’s free to go. The answer’s obvious even without asking. Besides, he knows I’m coachless and he hasn’t offered.’

  ‘Have you called the press yet?’ Shelby asked, prompted by the rustling of the local newspaper at the adjacent table.

  ‘Yeah, so no, because no coach,’ Tiff hedged.

  Shelby tapped the man next to her, asked to borrow the paper, and found the relevant page. ‘Make the call,’ she insisted, offering Tiff her own phone and pointing to the number.

  ‘I will,’ Tiff said, pained. ‘In a bit. Back at the office.’

  ‘Wuss. Stop putting it off.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Tiff dug her heels in. ‘I’m crazy busy building the club and am, right now, having a rest. You said I needed “me” time. This is it. No press allowed.’

  Shelby wasn’t buying it. ‘I’ll do it.’ She started to dial.

  ‘No! I can do it,’ Tiff grumped. She’d spent years trying to escape the local limelight but memories were long in a small town. Courting publicity in the local rag appealed as much as sticking her face in a fire. She’d hated that paper since it ran daily reports on her dad’s trial.

  ‘Babes. Just do it. A pic in the paper is priceless. The studio looks amazing. Women will come running. If nothing else then for a nosy. Then it’s down to your instructors to keep them coming.’

  Pole-fitness Sammi and Leonie the Zumbist had both confirmed and Fliss had been discovered instructing a Pilates class. Neither Tiff nor Natalie were able to move sensibly the day after. Fliss was thorough and brisk, with an air of drill sergeant about her. If things worked out, Tiff was thinking of some bootcamp classes. There were people out there with a masochistic streak, who wanted to come away feeling like they’d been flogged. Vomiting-point was a positive goal. Nutters. Tiff thought of them as the ‘no-pain, no-gainers’, but their addictive streaks offered balance-sheet stability, so she wanted them.

  Shelby growled at her. Properly growled, like a dog. ‘Quit stalling. Make. The. Call!’

  Ten minutes and much sweating later, Tiff had a date with a photographer and a journalist the Sunday morning after Jess should finish. The story would be in the paper and on the internet the following day as they reopened. This was a watershed moment. It was all very well her spending the monies, making the plans – now she was committed to opening the doors, putting it all on the line and seeing whether Shelby’s stolen faith of ‘Build it and they shall come’ was justified. Alternatively, they might just stay away, watch her monumentally fail and laugh in her face. No pressure then.

  *

  ‘They’re here!!’ Natalie came screaming into the office.

  ‘What? Who?’ Tiff looked up from the accumulating pile of invoices.

  ‘The mats, balls and steps. They’re in reception, need a signature. Can I do it? Can I?’ Natalie was almost panting, then stopped short. ‘No, you should do it. It’s the first equipment, isn’t it? Ceremony and that.’

  Tiff laughed. ‘We’ll do it together. I’ll sign, in case there’s a problem – there should be Zumba rattles, stretch bands, free weights and the poles too – but you can open everything.’ Natalie bounced like it was Christmas.

  ‘The uniforms are in as well,’ Tiff said, as Natalie hurtled down the stairs. Tiff had stuck with keeping the gym closed. Standing in reception watching Jess’s men gut the changing room with vicious gusto, Tiff admitted Shelby was right. All the arriving boxes added to the mess. ‘Would you help me check and store them? You’ll get to model the first set.’

  Natalie grinned with pleasure. She was a different woman compared to the pasty shell-shocked mole who used to sit in the corner of the gym. This woman stood upright, smiled and was growing a decent batch of confidence.

  Together they spent the morning sorting the polo shirts, shorts, skorts, trackie bottoms and zip-necked fleece sweatshirts, making neat duck-egg blue and black stacks on the first-floor storeroom shelves. Then, like delirious teens, they raced to the locker room. Tiff never imagined getting excited about lycra. Shelby would be disgusted. Yet she was pulling on sports-tech fabric with glee. This fabric had magical properties, holding her podgy bits in, leaving no bulges or muffin tops to be pointed out. Tentatively looking in the mirror for the first time in weeks, Tiff was relieved to finally look the part of a gym manager.

  Things were moving fast. Natalie had turned out to be a techie queen, revamping the once single-page gym website, setting up an additional Facebook page along with a blossoming Instagram account to track and share all the new developments. Her Twitter game was strong too. With the instructors confirming, Tiff and Natalie had also gone old-school, stapling posters all over the town from surgeries to nurseries, schools to bus stops. They’d left flyers at the station, the library and Shelby’s salon. You couldn’t move through Kingsley without seeing duck-egg blue rectangles.

  Arson attempts aside and overlooking the lack of coach which now had her in a constant bum-clenching sweat, everything was coming together. The refurb was on the home straight. She’d spent all the money Blackie had left her and she’d resigned her other bookkeeping jobs. She was committed up to the hilt, but she felt okay (save for the coach thing – Lalala, can’t hear you, can’t hear you…). Considering it all, Tiff felt totally capable. She didn’t need Gavin to tell her she could do it.

  No amount of lycra-delirium could completely anaesthetise the aching muscles Tiff was now used to having daily. Natalie hadn’t stopped her regime of trialling new disciplines – Kick-boxing, Tiff? – but in the last week Tiff had snuck into a couple of Sammi’s pole classes. Something about it was a siren’s call to her, topping up her confidence, in spite of it hurting like holy hell the next day and the constant bruising on her legs making them look like they were covered in camouflage. She’d added poles to the equipment order immediately after Sammi’s taster class, almost singing the credit card details to Martin in her excitement.

  Sticking to jobs she could stay sitting for, she called Colin to check on the large equipment delivery, but it rang out. The rest of the day was spent balancing the various budgets and accounting. She felt better with the numbers in place. Sure, the spending looked scary, but she tried to view it as purely numbers, not cash out of the bank. God bless Denial.

  It also distracted her from the fact she’d heard little from Mike. She’d finally received some short responses to her texts; Yes, he was bearing up, the funeral details were sorted, no, he didn’t really want to talk about it. But that was it.

  Tiff began to ponder whether this was him dealing with the grief, or deliberately keeping her at arm’s length. Despite now knowing the truth of what happened all those years ago, Tiff couldn’t help reminding herself it wouldn’t be the first time he’d got close to her, before disappearing out of her life. Last time he was pushed towards reaching his potential and carving a career, thi
s time he was being offered a stellar new one on a plate. What was more, his two weeks to accept the LA offer must almost be up.

  Chapter 28

  By the final Thursday morning of the refurb, Tiff was walking normally again and not swearing when pulling on a top. Her body was getting accustomed to this exercise malarkey. Feeling brave, she’d dared to ditch her habitual safe trackies for a pair of skorts, which, bruises aside, had her feeling positively girly.

  She tried calling Colin again first thing, to no avail. He was impossible to pin down apparently. But they’d agreed the kit would be delivered by Saturday, so she was expecting it anytime now.

  ‘That’s it, Tiff. Job done,’ Jess popped her head around the door. ‘The lads are taking the last of the kit out to the van.’ Jess had kept the guys slaving – even when they got leery fixing the poles in place – No, there’ll be no demos in part payment.

  ‘Amazing. Thank you.’ Tiff had been down to admire the ground floor four times already; ‘chuffed’ didn’t cover it. The new Tiffanie’s sign had been screwed to the front of the building and inside the new reception desk sat primed for business. Looking at it, Tiff remembered Mike pointing out that this, the refurb, was the plan which fired her up, not keeping the status quo. He’d been exactly right. Change had been the way to go and an exciting one at that.

  Mike though, was a sore point. She’d attempted to call him on the pretence of re-checking the funeral details, but hung up again feeling pathetic. His not calling her after The Kiss, kept her from seeing it through. He was mourning, of course, but he’d said he’d phone when he dropped her off, and hadn’t. Perhaps he’d patched things up with Verity. Maybe, on consideration, he’d decided The Kiss was a mistake.

  Thinking of Mike raised a wardrobe issue. On inspection, she’d only one outfit choice suitable for the funeral which wasn’t a bundle of creases from living in her suitcase. It would be strange wearing it again. It was the knitted dress she’d worn for Gavin the night they split. Simple, plain, black. Sophisticated not showy. Holding the dress a worry hit her. Racing into the changing room for its long mirror, she dragged off her polo-shirt, dropped her skorts and slipped the dress over her head. Two months ago it had shown her curves, now it had lost its cling factor.