Miranda's Mount

by Phillipa Ashley

  ‘’Bye then,’ said Ronnie. She kissed Miranda on the cheek and then whispered, ‘Wish me luck.’ Neem had barely touched Ronnie but the air crackled with a connection between her best friend and this giant of a man.

  ‘Enjoy,’ she said and truly meant it. In a moment, Ronnie would leave and she would be left in a crowded garden, surrounded by people and Theo and Jago. She squashed down a shiver. She suddenly felt as alone as she ever had done and didn’t know why.

  ‘You too,’ replied Ronnie with a theatrical wink.

  Miranda cringed inwardly then Ronnie was gone, with Neem’s huge arm around her waist. Miranda wondered how Ronnie’s bed would bear the weight.

  As soon as they’d gone, Theo turned to her. ‘So, now that we’re finally on our own, I wanted to ask you something. You don’t have to say yes, not if you’re busy, but I was wondering if you might … that is … oh, shit!’ The pager clipped to his belt buzzed. ‘We’ve got a shout. I have to go but I was going to say –’

  A piercing whistle rang out by the gate. A woman waved frantically at Theo and he shouted back, ‘Coming!’ He turned to Miranda. ‘I’ll phone you. Tomorrow.’

  ‘Take care,’ called Miranda.

  She had been sure Theo had been going to ask her out and she hadn’t known what to say in reply. There was bitter edge to his comments about Jago, yet, on the surface, he seemed a genuinely sweet guy. She didn’t know why she was even hesitating. God knows it was time she met someone nice and you couldn’t get much nicer than Theo. The rest of the village thought he was a sweetheart, unlike someone else … someone walking over to her table right now.

  Jago was not nice or sweet. In fact, he was a feckless, over-privileged bastard who had so far managed to be a disappointment on every level. Yet at the sight of him heading for her like a heat-seeking missile, Miranda needed scraping off the flagstones of the Pilchard’s beer garden.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jago wore ripped jeans, knackered flip-flops and a faded T-shirt. He looked like a mythical god who’d fallen to Earth naked and had to raid a recycling skip.

  Maybe, she thought, it was imprinted in the genetic code passed down from her mother. Some people got frizzy ginger hair or wonky teeth. She’d been handed a predisposition to fall for a gorgeous, useless object like Jago. Perhaps she could get some aversion therapy that would make her want nice, steady Theo, pillar of the community and serial hero.

  He put his pint down on her table and took a long slow drag on his ciggy before smirking. ‘Putting some pennies in Theo Martin’s collecting tin, were you?’

  ‘Just supporting a good cause.’

  Her throat tightened with anger and confusion. What had Theo done to upset Jago? Determined not to get dragged into a fight, she tried sarcasm. ‘You do know your mummy would kill you if she knew you were smoking.’

  Jago gave a sigh. ‘Well, if I’ve been such a bad boy, why don’t you put me over your knee and spank me?’

  A fire kindled beneath her cheeks. Was Jago drunk? He must be to say something like that to her and, worse, spanking Jago was a scenario she dare not even begin to contemplate in a public place. Too bad, the image was now etched on her brain, possibly forever. She hated him for saying it, but at the same time her whole body seemed to glow like a fire had been lit within her. She sought refuge in prissiness. ‘Your father died of a heart attack. You know your mother hates smoking.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry too much. I have many vices but a fag is only one of my occasional ones. But if it offends your delicate sensibilities, I’ll happily put it out.’

  ‘Don’t bother on my account.’

  ‘I don’t do anything on other people’s account, you should have realised that by now.’ He dropped the fag on the flagstones and stamped on it with his flip-flops. Miranda had hopeful visions of smouldering rubber and Jago hopping about shrieking, but it wasn’t to be. He was too cool for that and he had to be a little drunk, which might have accounted for the extra edge to his so-called humour.

  He nodded at her glass. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘I’ve already got one, thanks.’

  ‘Call that a drink? A quarter of a glass?’

  ‘There’s no point. I’m going back to the Mount in a minute.’

  ‘The tide’s coming in.’

  ‘I’ve still got time.’

  ‘Possibly, but I wouldn’t try crossing over on your own, now Ronnie’s gone. Who was that I saw her with?’

  ‘He’s called Neem and he’s from Christchurch, but he’s working as a jewellery designer. When he’s not playing rugby. With Theo,’ she added mischievously.

  ‘Theo doesn’t play rugby. He’s too busy with his little boat.’

  ‘He’s on a shout,’ said Miranda loyally.

  ‘Yes. He’s a hero. Unlike me.’

  So that was it. Jago was feeling guilty as well as being half-cut. Well, Miranda wasn’t going to absolve him. She drained her glass and shouldered her bag. ‘You know, I really didn’t expect to see you in here at all,’ she said.

  ‘You mean you didn’t expect I’d dare show my face in the circumstances?’

  ‘No, well, yes, that’s what I meant. Everyone must be wondering, asking you questions, wanting to know if you’re here to stay?’

  His mouth curved in a wry smile. ‘Actually, most of the people who’ve spoken to me tonight seem to want to sleep with me.’ Her skin fizzed. Did he mean her too? The arrogant egomaniac git. ‘Present company excepted, of course. I know you’d never dream of sleeping with the enemy,’ he added.

  ‘You’re not the enemy. Please don’t flatter yourself that I think so. You’re my employer and I work for you. I’m just trying to help you achieve your goals as effectively as I can.’

  He stared at her then shook his head. ‘If I’d known the Mount’s finances were being wasted on teaching my staff to talk management crap, I’d have come back years ago.’

  ‘Jago. Has anyone ever told you that you are the most annoying bastard that ever walked the Earth?’

  He smiled. ‘That’s better. I’ll fetch you a drink.’

  ‘Suit yourself but I’m leaving.’

  ‘Sit down, Miranda and don’t be so stupid.’

  His voice was sharp as he flipped a thumb towards the sea. She could see the waves lapping the cobbles at the Mount end of the causeway. She’d have to leave right now if she wanted to walk over. She knew the tides as well as the back of her hand – it was touch and go if she would make it without wading. Never mind, she’d risk it.

  He softened his tone. ‘Come on, Miss Whiplash. I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘I’ll be gone when you get back from the bar.’

  ‘Perhaps. But somehow, I don’t think you’re that predictable.’ It was catch-22. Damned if she walked off. Damned if she didn’t. ‘I’ll be back shortly,’ he said. ‘And we both know it’s already too late to walk away.’

  Her heart thumped, in anger and nervousness and pure desire. She put her bag back on the table and closed her eyes. Why couldn’t she leave? She’d been so determined to walk away, knowing that Jago was like a bottle of cheap champagne on special offer at the supermarket. You couldn’t help buying one, even though you knew it would end up tasting just as underwhelming and nasty as you’d expected.

  But he was right. As she waited, she realised she’d been kidding herself that she could see the Mount end of the causeway. It was already shimmering as the water closed over the cobbles and she might have had to wade the last stretch. She shivered a little, that would not have been a good idea; the currents swirling around the island could be fierce, no matter how good a swimmer you were. She’d have to persuade one of the rowing club or fishermen to lend her a boat or stay on the mainland in the pub or a B&B. She didn’t think Jago would have trouble finding a bed for the night.

  She thought of Ronnie and Neem, breaking the bedsprings in Ronnie’s cottage. That’s if Neem could even squeeze through the doorframe. She smiled at the thought of Ronnie
getting her jollies and felt a stab at the thought of Jago getting his. A stab of jealously and longing and lust.

  Jago returned to the table with a glass tumbler, steam rising from the surface in wispy tendrils. Miranda sniffed the air and smelled spices and rum.

  ‘Here, have some grog. You look cold, but, dare I say it, slightly less ready to kill me.’

  Miranda kept her eyes ahead. She would not look down at her dress. It really had grown chilly in the garden. She took the glass from him, muttered a ‘thanks’ and gulped down a glug of punch. ‘Oww!’

  ‘Here.’ Jago handed her his beer. ‘Cool your tongue on that.’

  She swilled her scorched mouth with cold beer.

  ‘Better?’ he asked.

  She swallowed the beer and blew on the punch as the alcoholic steam fill her nostrils. ‘Mmm.’

  ‘Good. I’d hate you to have a burnt tongue on my account.’

  Miranda ignored him and pretended to take an interest in a woman across the garden who seemed to have just noticed Jago’s presence. Dressed in some kind of Roman toga with her hair piled on her head, she smiled coquettishly at Jago and mouthed a ‘Hello, darling.’ Jago lifted a hand to her, twitched his lips in a half-smile then turned back to Miranda. The toga woman glared at Miranda as if she was something nasty stuck to the sole of her gladiator sandal.

  ‘Is Toga Girl one of your fan club?’ Miranda asked, immediately hating herself for sounding as if she cared.

  He raised an eyebrow. Bastard. He knew she was jealous. He knew Toga Woman was jealous too. That made Miranda the same as her. Arghh.

  ‘Toga Girl, as you call her, is an old school friend on holiday down here but I’m liable to bump into someone who knows me anywhere. I can’t hide away even if my visit here is only going to be a short one.’

  ‘But by appearing in public,’ she began, rather pleased with her image of him moving among his people like a monarch, ‘you must be dodging questions about your plans all the time.’

  He sighed briefly. ‘I don’t like it but the pain will be of short duration.’ He frowned and hesitated then said quietly, ‘As short as I can possibly make it. I don’t want to make anyone suffer longer than they have to.’ He stared at his pint for a few seconds.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Miranda as the silence lengthened and Jago seemed to be searching for an answer in the bottom of the glass.

  ‘This place brings back too many memories, I suppose.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Now drink your grog.’

  She sensed she’d touched a nerve. There was something he didn’t want to talk about but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook. ‘Do you miss Australia? People say you were a surf instructor over there.’

  He laughed without any real amusement. ‘Is that what they call it?’

  ‘Ronnie did.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure she didn’t say I was a sponging parasite and a layabout?’

  Miranda considered lying then saw his eyes, drilling into her. ‘Those too.’

  ‘Both are probably accurate. I left uni and bummed around, picking grapes, working in bars. I ended up at Bells Beach learning to surf, then I got a job as an instructor.’

  But ten years, Miranda thought, ten years of bumming around and riding waves. Surely that couldn’t cover the whole of his absence from home.

  ‘And?’

  He smiled, bitter as acid. ‘And nothing.’

  Miranda couldn’t conceal her surprise at his sudden change of subject but she had reached the stage where it was hard to conceal her feelings at all. After the earlier drinks, the hot rum punch had tipped her over from ever so slightly defensive to ever so slightly pissed. Maybe it wasn’t the punch but being with Jago, talking to him and almost empathising with him. Whatever the cause, her inhibitions were melting fast. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘And nothing I want to talk about. Are there not things that have happened to you that you don’t want to rake over?’

  She stopped, glass to her lips. Her past? Running away from home. Putting herself through university. Working in the vacations in country house teashops, cleaning loos, as a gardener’s labourer. Anywhere quiet and isolated with a sense of history that she didn’t have. Then the Mount. ‘I suppose so,’ she said, refusing to reveal any detail, no matter how pissed she was.

  ‘And do you want to bare your soul to me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about your family?’

  ‘We’re estranged.’

  ‘Estranged? Now there’s a word.’

  ‘I don’t have any contact with them,’ she said. How much it hurt to admit even that much. She felt like he’d taken wire wool to a raw graze. Was that how he felt about her questions?

  ‘You never talk about them,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know I don’t?’

  ‘My mother says you’ve never been back to see them and you don’t mention them. She thought it was unusual but not her place to pry. I, on the other hand, have no manners.’

  ‘I’ve already worked that out, Jago.’

  He smiled. ‘So having established I’m a rude bastard, tell me about your family. What happened?’

  Should she tell him? That her father left before she was even born and that she hadn’t been part of her mum’s plans, period? And that, one day, her mother had done something that there was no coming back from. ‘I thought it was better if I just left.’ The glow from the rum punch had disappeared into the cool night air. She shivered. She’d already said more to Jago about her family than she ever had to anyone and she’d reached her limit. The combination of alcohol and his questions made her feel like crying. Why didn’t he leave her alone?

  ‘It was a long time ago and very far away. You must know how it feels, after you left the Mount for Australia.’

  ‘To an extent, but I wouldn’t say I was “estranged” from my mother. Contrary to popular belief, we have kept in touch. Not that regularly, but enough for her to know I’ve been safe and well. She came over to Australia a few years ago, in fact when …’ He stopped and, to her horror, reached out and touched her hand. She couldn’t cope with his sympathy, she might cry. ‘Whatever happened must have been pretty bad for you to stay away for all these years and never go back …’ He hesitated.

  She felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes, the moisture on her lashes. His touch had made her question the past thirteen years, the past thirty even. She couldn’t face that now, not from him. ‘Don’t tell me I should try to contact my mother.’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Miranda.’

  ‘I know but …’ That’s what he was thinking, Miranda knew, or maybe, a small voice added, that’s what she’d wondered herself at times. She crushed the notion immediately, both in his mind and her own. ‘Nothing will have changed, even if I did try to go back. You won’t change how you feel about selling the Mount will you?’ she asked, rubbing her hand across her eyes, ashamed of her tears.

  ‘No. I won’t and I’m sorry for upsetting you. You’re probably right and I really should mind my own business. Here.’

  She caught her breath. He reached out and rubbed a thumb gently under each eye. ‘No clean white handkerchief like a gentleman should have,’ he said. ‘Only a grubby thumb.’

  ‘You’re making things worse,’ she said, trying to smile but feeling full to the very brim. One more gentle word, one more probe of the wounds, however tentative, and she would tip right over the edge. Be a bastard again, she wanted to say to him. Be an arrogant boy not a complex man she couldn’t fathom out and was finding difficult to hate in the way she needed to.

  Her relief when Jago changed the subject was like falling onto a giant bank of cotton wool, when you’d expected to crash onto rocks. ‘Now, referring to my earlier misdemeanours with the fags,’ he said, ‘if you’re not going to take up my willingness to be chastised, I could suggest another way of me doing penance. I heard that you’re looking for really bad people to put in the stocks.’

  This was good. Not only
the prospect of Jago going in the stocks but the levity and the banter after the emotional stuff she found impossible to deal with. Having escaped with her life, she now felt recklessly happy. Or was it the rum punch? ‘I like the sound of that,’ she said.

  ‘I knew you’d approve of people throwing rotten veg at me.’

  ‘Only wet sponges. I hope there won’t be any tomatoes. But I thought you’d never agree to take a turn in the stocks.’

  ‘I may be selling the place but I’m not devoid of a sense of humour.’ His eyes glinted wickedly. ‘I might even be persuaded into a costume for the Festival.’

  ‘What sort?’

  He laughed, at her not with her, but so gently that she tingled all over.

  ‘Spongebob Squarepants. What do you think? I thought of Blackbeard. A wicked pirate would be appropriate in the circumstances, wouldn’t it?’

  She shifted her bottom on the bench. ‘I really hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘What about you? Who are you going to be?’

  ‘I’ll probably just wear my uniform,’ she said, staying as far away as possible from her helpless virgin fantasy.

  ‘Over my dead body, you will.’ His bare knee brushed hers under the table as he leaned forwards. His dark eyes gleamed wickedly, inviting her in deeper. Miranda wanted him to pull her face against his and snog her, tongues, and all in full view of everyone in the pub. She wanted to hear the gasps of jealous outrage from the Toga Woman and the thuds as Jago’s fan club hit the flagstones. She wanted to be dragged off to one of the Pilchard’s creaky old bedrooms, clutch the iron bedstead until her knuckles whitened and scream as he thrust inside her.

  His voice, sexy and amused, slid into her consciousness. ‘More grog?’

  ‘Mm … yes, please.’

  As he disappeared into the bar, Miranda was confronted by the Mount looming ahead of her in the twilight, surrounded by a sea as silver grey and smooth as mercury. She might be physically on dry land, but she had a horrible feeling she was already way out of her depth with Jago.