by C F White
Table of Contents
Books by C F White
Title Page
Legal Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademark Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Read more from C F White
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About the Author
Pride Publishing books by C F White
Responsible Adult
Misdemeanor
Hard Time
Reformed
St. Cross
Won’t Feel a Thing
Pink Rock
LOVE & TEA BAGS
C F WHITE
Love & Tea Bags
ISBN # 978-1-78651-795-1
©Copyright C F White 2019
Cover Art by Erin Dameron-Hill ©Copyright July 2019
Interior text design by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
Pride Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Pride Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Pride Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2019 by Pride Publishing, United Kingdom.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorised copies.
Pride Publishing is an imprint of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”.
Book one in the Pink Rock series
Fate can be written in a tea bag too.
Mark Johnson is hitting his forties and is stuck in a rut.
He’s had the same boring office job for ten years, with no motivation or inclination to change it. The same crumbling house for ten years, with no cash or know-how to fix it. And the same Facebook status for five years—it’s complicated. It isn’t. He’s single. He just doesn’t want to correct it. That would be admitting defeat.
The day a tea bag splats onto his face whilst he’s draining the dregs of his morning cuppa at Macy’s Tea Shoppe is the one that makes him question each of his current life choices…the tea bag and that the shop is currently being run by one rather friendly, rather hunky, but rather young Australian named Bradley Summers.
Tea has never tasted so good.
Dedication
To Joe.
Who has unfortunately got to grow old with me.
Trademark Acknowledgements
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Amazon: Amazon.com, Inc.
Attitude Magazine: Stream Publishing Limited
Barbie: Mattel, Inc.
Barbour: J. Barbour & Sons Ltd.
Bentley: Volkswagen AG
Bishop’s Finger: Shepherd Neame Ltd
Blue Peter: CBBC HD
Boots: Boots UK Ltd
Born to be Bad: Kim Fowley, Sandy West, Michael “Micki” Steele
Byker Grove: BBC One
Colgate: Colgate-Palmolive Company
Costa Coffee: Whitbread plc
Countdown: ITV Studios Ltd
CSI: Anthony E. Zuiker
Day of the Triffids: John Wyndham
Doctors: BBC Birmingham
Dukes of Hazzard: Warner Bros. Television
Excel: Microsoft Corporation
Facebook: Facebook, Inc
Friends: Warner Bros. Television
Gay Bar: Tyler Spencer
Getting’ Jiggy wit It: Samuel Barnes, Bernard Edwards, Joe Robinson, Nile Rodgers, Will Smith
GoggleBox: Channel 4
Google: Google, Inc
H. M. British Tea Colour Chart: Brew Haha! Productions
Harley: Harley-Davidson, Inc.
Havaianas: Alpargatas S.A.I.C.
Hello: Lionel Richie
Hellyers: Hellyers Road Distillery
Holding Out for a Hero: Jim Steinman, Dean Pitchford
Home and Away: Seven Network
Hot in Herre: Cornell Haynes, Jr., Pharrell Williams, Chad Hugo, Charles L. Brown
Hotmail: Microsoft Corporation
HSBC: HSBC Holdings plc
I’m Sexy and I Know It: Stefan Kendal, Gordy David, Jamahl Listenbee, Erin Beck, George M. Robertson, Kenneth Oliver
It’s Raining Men: Paul Jabara, Paul Shaffer
Les Misérables: Victor Hugo
Love, Simon: Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation
M&S: Marks and Spencer plc
Miss Piggy: The Walt Disney Company
Neighbours: Seven Network
Red Bull: Red Bull GmbH
Rothmans: Rothmans, Benson & Hedges Inc.
Snapchat: Snap, Inc.
Snow White: The Brothers Grimm
Specsavers: Specsavers Optical Group Ltd
Staples: Staples, Inc.
Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: CBS Television Distribution
Star Trek: The Next Generation: CBS Television Distribution
Stomp: Steve McNicholas and Luke Cresswell
Superman: Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
SurveyMonkey: Ryan Finley, Chris Finley
Tannoy: Tannoy Ltd
The Full Monty: Fox Searchlight Pictures Inc.
The Guardian: Scott Trust Limited
The Hobbit: J.R.R. Tolkien
The Matrix: Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc.
There’s Something About Mary: Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation
Thermos: Thermos L.L.C.
Top Trumps: Winning Moves USA
Tour De France: Amaury Sport Organisation
Twinings: Associated British Foods plc
Twitter: Twitter, Inc.
Uber: Uber Technologies Inc.
Visa: Visa Inc.
War and Peace: Leo Tolstoy
Y.M.C.A.: Jacques Morali, Victor Willis
YouTube: YouTube, LLC
Chapter One
It Always Starts With Tea
The slurp was loud and rather obnoxious, especially when the man was sipping from one of Mark’s grandmother’s dainty china tea cups that Mark saved for special occasions. Since Mark hadn’t had any need for the guest china in quite some time, he’d let Grammy’s cardinal rule slide for the strapping work
man clambering up in his loft.
“Yup, I see the problem,” the workman yelled down the open hatch in Mark’s landing ceiling that led to the over-cluttered store of stuff that Mark hadn’t set foot in for…well, quite some time.
Mark wished he hadn’t offered the man a brew. He really hadn’t had the time to wait for the kettle to boil, for a start. But he’d been brought up well, and one must offer one’s tradesmen a cuppa in the hope they’ll knock a few quid off the call-out charge. He suspected he would have to delve deep into his already ravine-like pockets, so anything that could be considered mates-rates would really help at this point in his life. Mark wished he did have mates. Ones that were handy, anyway.
“Oh, yes?” Mark called back, his voice echoing through the square hole in his ceiling. He closed his eyes, for some reason, as if that would soften the blow of what was going to come out of the man’s mouth next.
“Gonna need coupla new roof tiles, mate. A lotta this stuff is gonna get ruined.”
“Bugger,” Mark muttered into his own mug of piping-hot tea. Well, it was rude not to join the man in a beverage.
“What was that?” The man’s round, if somewhat flushed, face appeared at the hole.
“Nothing, nothing.” Mark shook his head. He didn’t much fancy repeating himself. The man might take it seriously and give him a whack. Or, which would be much worse, not take the job of fixing Mark’s leaking roof. “Thank you.” He smiled.
Mark had been told, on occasion, that he had quite a nice smile. One that relaxed people. Mark, however, believed it to be far more useful to allow people to walk all over him. Or pass by him. Through him…
With a grunt, the workman set his steel-toe-capped boots on two metal rungs of the ladder, revealing the tip of his rounded behind popping out of the elastic waistband that appeared to be failing in its one basic function. Normally, on an average Saturday night, Mark wouldn’t have minded the view, as his internet history would evidence. But today was a Monday and the man didn’t look like he would appreciate Mark’s ogling. Not that Mark was ogling. He just had nowhere else to look. Honest.
On reaching the landing, the workman crashed back into Mark. Stumbling, Mark gripped his cup with both hands to prevent the utter travesty of spillage onto the carpet. Not only did he not have time to clear up any stains—not that any would show on the swirling patterns of the seventies-design stitch work—but he also hated to waste a cup of the good stuff.
The workman hefted up his jogging bottoms, his hands empty of the china tea cup he had been avidly slurping from up in the loft. And that meant Mark would now either have to venture up into the space he avoided like the seaside lido on a May bank holiday afternoon, or leave it up there to breed new life. He knew which he would rather.
“Right.” The man scratched his stubbled chin. “See, you’re gonna need a coupla new tiles. Tha’s what the leak is. The rain we been ’avin is comin’ in frou ta ’ole in ya roof. Travelling daan the walls and dripping aaat ya ceiling.”
“Good-oh.” Mark nodded, not letting on for a single second that he had no idea what the man had just said. “Uh, can you fix it?” He mentally crossed his fingers in the hope that he hadn’t just said that he could. Or couldn’t.
“Yeah, no sweat. I can do two tiles at a ton.”
“A what now?”
“A ton.”
“A ton of what? Tiles?”
“No. A hundred smackers.”
Mark blanked, shaking his head.
“Paand?”
“Oh, I see. Well, that’s not too bad then.” Mark smiled. And phewed. Mentally.
“But that won’t fix ya problem.”
“Oh dear.” Mark furrowed his brow, which he didn’t like to do all that often as the lines weren’t smoothing out after so much anymore.
“Dunno which bleedin’ cowboy did ya roof last, but they didn’t felt it.” The man tucked a tiny pencil behind his ear. Where he’d got the pencil from was Mark’s first question. Quickly followed by, do I really want to know?
“That cowboy would be my grandfather.” Mark attempted to add a hint of pride to his voice, but the vacant expression of the workman before him just made him slink into a guilty, wincing admission. “He built the house.”
“Ah. Right. ’Nover ’and-me-down was it?”
“Hand-me-down?” More deep-set wrinkles formed on Mark’s brow. He must remember to use that skincare range for men he’d got as a Secret Santa present at work last year, the one that claimed to defy even the deepest-set wrinkles. He had a hunch who’d been bold enough to buy that for him. Bloody Yvonne.
The man waved, indicating Mark’s attire. “The clothes.”
Mark held out his arms, still clutching his mug of tea, and peered down at himself. Trusty grey corduroy trousers, wonderful and comfy, and rather warm considering the current climate, matched with a white button-down shirt. The vest underneath was simply due to the fact that his dark nipples tended to show through the thin material of cheap cotton. He’d discovered that tidbit of information back at secondary school when the popular boys used to poke his nipples through his school shirt, many twisting for added effect. And people say all-boy grammar schools are a safe haven from bullying.
Mark ran a hand through his thick dark hair, sliding it across his forehead in a floppy fringe, ignoring the jibe at his attire and moving on to the pressing transaction at hand. “So you were saying about the roof?”
“Yeah. Gonna need ta replace it.” The man sniffed, his chest rising with the inhale of breath, then shrugged. “Set ya back ’bout five grand.”
The fact that Mark had chosen the man’s pause to take a sip of tea probably summed up his entire existence. It had been, of course, the wrong decision. He spat the tea out, liquid escaping from his nose, and coughed, gasping to get air, rather than the delightful Twinings English Breakfast, into his lungs.
The workman slapped him on the back. Perhaps he thought that would help the situation. It didn’t. It only exacerbated it, knocking Mark off his feet and forcing him to grapple for the banister to prevent a rather tragic tumble down the stairs.
“Better out than in, I say.” The workman did say.
Mark blanked. If only the boys at his delightful modern secondary grammar had believed in that statement back when Mark had been in year ten and announcing to the world he was gay. Not that any of his peers had had any doubt before Mark had made his fabulous speech. But Mark presumed they would have preferred him to stay in on that day, considering many had received detention for the words of “encouragement” they had called out in a perfect display of teenage camaraderie.
“Well, I can do the tiles tomorra,” the man carried on, oblivious to Mark’s inner turmoil. “Fink about the rest of da roof, though. You don’t want it cavin’ in on ya.”
Mark nodded, although, right then the thought of paying out five thousand pounds that he didn’t have made him consider the alternative option.
“Righty-oh. Thank you very much for coming out on such short notice.” Mark ushered him down the stairs.
“No probs. Give me card your granddad, then.” The man handed over a bent business card, a mobile phone number scrawled on the back with black pen along with the words The Man With The Van Who Can. Mark pondered if there was anything that he couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?
“That would be rather futile. Grampy died quite some time ago.”
“Oh.” The man squinted, stepping out into the daylight and onto Mark’s porch. “So you chose this?”
“Chose what?” Mark desperately tried not to furrow his brow.
The man waved his hand, indicating, Mark presumed, the entire house’s internal decor.
“I like antiques.” Could seventies decor be considered antique? He supposed it could.
“You get antique wallpaper these days then?”
Bastard. “Oh, indeed.” Mark nodded. “Worth a fortune.”
Mark slammed the door shut and rested his back against the wall, glancing around
at the house he’d lived in coming along ten years now. It was falling apart and no redecoration had been done since probably the last time he’d been up in the loft. He sighed, slammed his mug down on the windowsill and decided now was the time for a decent cup of the good stuff.
Grabbing his black Barbour jacket from the coat hooks, he slipped his feet into the black loafers by the door then ventured out into the morning sun. And what a glorious day it was, perfect to be beside the seaside. And Mark was. He lived directly opposite the pebble beach of Marsby in the south east, a quaint little seaside town that homed more retirees than tourists. Not that Mark was retired. He could only wish for that, although he was leaning nearer to the end of his career than the start. Mid-career, perhaps? Christ, maybe I should think about actually having a career rather than simply a job that barely pays the bills?
Trying to forget that he had left a gaping hole in his roof—and now his ceiling having forgotten to shut the loft hatch—Mark rammed his hands into his jacket pockets and thanked whomever above for the abnormal radiant sun. And that was when the inevitable dark clouds glided overhead and droplets landed with splats on his cheeks. Such was Mark’s luck. So he trotted that bit faster along the pathway beside the beach and into the main High Street, stopping at the welcoming sign of Macy’s Ye Olde Style Tea Shoppe on the corner.
The bell above the door chimed as Mark hurried into his regular haunt. He’d been going there for quite a few years now, since his move back to his home town from the mean streets of London, and still hadn’t figured out why Macy added the extra p and e to the shop. He shook his hair out like a wet dog and nodded at the umbrellas Macy always offered to customers on such regular occurrences as torrential rain, a quick downpour, scattered showers and that really fine light rain that has one believing they aren’t getting wet until they get home and their clothes are sopping.
The shop was empty, which was rather odd. There was usually someone sipping on a decent cup of tea made from the loose leaves in a well-stewed pot. Macy made proper tea, using a strainer, and it tasted every bit of the aromatic leaves that it should. She was also a rather good baker and Mark was horrified that there were no buns, baps or any other derogatory term used for parts of the female anatomy displayed on the counter for Mark to scoff and instantly burn off the calories by breathing. He had a fast metabolism, which was both a dream and a curse.
