by C F White
“Mark?”
Mark swivelled in his seat, his knees tucked up to his chest. It seemed both his chair and computer were set to make his morning rather laborious.
“Mr Steinberg.” And now his boss would no doubt be adding to the torment. “Good morning,” he said, regardless of all the evidence to the contrary.
Mr Steinberg, CEO and owner of the accounting firm Mark worked at, raised his grey eyebrows. Relatively short and stout, with a completely bald head and a little pug nose that held black round-rimmed glasses, Mr Steinberg made up for his lack of height by his volume control. Mark noted the usual three pens stuck in his top lapel pocket, a red, a blue and a green. Mark had yet to discover what the green could be required for. Blue was used for the boss’s signature and red for correcting Mark’s work. The monthly stationery order from Staples always had a box of red biros waiting in the online cart.
“I see you are having problems there.” Mr Steinberg nodded at Mark’s computer screen.
Mark held a hand over the speaker part of the phone. “Yes. Have we had a password reset recently? IT making us all think this small accountancy firm in the idyllic town of Marsby is going to be hacked into by the CIA so we need to change our password every three bloody minutes?”
“No, Mark.” Mr Steinberg leaned over Mark and clicked a button on his keyboard. “You had it on Caps Lock.”
“Ah. Well, thank you.” Mark twisted around in his seat. “I do hope the cyber bods aren’t offended by my shouting this morning then.” He chuckled, because one must laugh at one’s own joke to ensure the intended audience are fully aware that it was meant to be funny.
“No problem.” Mr Steinberg’s reply was delivered in his standard stoicism, him clearly not catching on to Mark’s verbal memo. “And when you’ve finished that call, I need to have a chat with you in my office, asap.”
“Right-o.” Mark nodded, then waggled the phone. “I’ll just get rid of this bit of annoyance and be right with you.”
Mr Steinberg’s tiny round face raged a glorious shade of crimson-red. “I hope that’s not a client!”
“Oh, no, no this is just a friend. Well, I say friend. It’s a rather loose term at the moment. I’m still contemplating whether I need any more acquaintances in my life. I mean, I am rather tied up with my social commitments of doing the laundry and watching re-runs of CSI which weren’t even that good the first time around.”
“Mark?” Mr Steinberg interrupted.
“Mmm?”
“Come see me when you’re finished here.”
“Absolutely!” Mark replied, more chipper than the moment warranted and sighed as his boss stomped off into his private office. The door slammed, followed by the zapping shut of the window blinds. Slumping in his chair, Mark brought the phone mouthpiece back to his lips. “When your boss says ‘come see me’ that’s a bad sign, right? I mean, if it was about work he would say ‘I need to talk through the latest minutes of that meeting’ or some equally informative way to help you prepare for what you were going in for.”
“I don’t know, Mark,” Macy replied. “I’ve only ever worked for myself.”
“Lucky you. I’m not sure I’d make a good employer for myself. I’d keep giving me the day off.”
Macy laughed and Mark smiled at the feminine tone ringing down the telephone. Macy was possibly the only one in Mark’s life who seemed to accept him for who he was. From the moment they’d met back when Macy was opening the tea shop and begging for customers, Mark had made it his mission to try every flavour of tea to help her out. She’d fallen into Mark’s life as though she’d always been there. She laughed at his jokes—or more accurately laughed at him—plied him full of his daily tea fix and was as quirky as he was. She tended to favour oddly matched clothes and her shoes were always some ridiculous monstrosity pattern of some kind. She had frizzy red hair, often decorated with bows and ribbons that clashed with her shoes. She was a delight. How she could be related to the Australian Adonis was, to put quite frankly, a mind fuck.
“So, anyway, where are you and why did you not forewarn me of your absence from the shop and being replaced by my wet dream?” Another cup of tea sloshed down in front of Mark and he closed his eyes at the untimely intrusion and to avoid Yvonne’s third eyeful coming his way.
“Milk was off.” Yvonne stomped away to the reception area.
Mark was grateful for the second cup of tea, although it still bore resemblance to Skimmed Alive, but wished Yvonne wouldn’t creep up on him the way she did, especially when his mouth liked to brain dump. Which, granted, happened more often than Mark would prefer. He took a sip of the drink and grimaced at the over-milky taste, but this one wasn’t going to waste away in a pot of dried soil and green leaves emulating tarantula legs.
“Thought I’d give you a nice surprise,” Macy sniggered. “Couldn’t have you prepare for your first meeting with him now, could I? Where’s the fun in that?”
“You never even told me you had a cousin from Australia. And one that looks like Thor the God of Sex.”
“Thunder,” Macy corrected.
“Hmm?” Mark managed to log on to the computer system and wished he hadn’t when he scrolled through the list of demanding emails. “Oh, well, same thing in my case. Both loud, frightening and don’t come around too often.”
Macy laughed. “He’s quite a bit younger than me. Dad’s brother moved out to Sydney years ago, met his wife, had a kid. Brad. He’s always just been a kid to me so never worth mentioning. He turned up on the doorstep this weekend and offered to mind the shop so I could take Mum on this cruise thing. Our gran ran a tearoom for years in London, so I figured he’s got tea-making in his genes.”
“Hmm.” Mark didn’t bother to correct her and kept to the more pressing matter at hand. “So, by quite a bit younger, what are we talking here?”
“He’s in his twenties. Early twenties.”
“A baby then. Wonderful.” Mark tutted. As if the age made any difference to the fact that Bradley resembled a demi-god and he resembled a shaggy dog. A really skinny shaggy dog. “And one that no doubt likes to frequent nightclubs and drink copious amounts of alcohol and does twitterers and book faces and chats with a snap.”
Macy chuckled. “Actually he’s more into extreme sports, travelling and survival stuff.”
“I won’t tell you the first thing that popped into my head when you said extreme sports.” Mark winced though another sip of the horrid hot milk.
“Mark Johnson! That is my baby cousin!”
“Oh, give over. You hardly know the bloke. You can’t be getting all protective.” Mark clicked on an email that detailed the agenda for the afternoon’s team meeting and groaned at his name displayed next to several of the items that he had forgotten he was meant to prepare for.
“Okay, true,” Macy said. “And from what I’ve heard, he doesn’t need any protecting by me, anyway.”
“Oh yes? Why is that, my dear?” Mark clicked out of the email in an attempt to pretend he hadn’t seen it and, therefore, unable to perform said tasks within it. Tapping the little button that would highlight the message back up as if it hadn’t been read, he tugged over his daily mound of filing and paperwork. Flicking through that instead, he picked his mug back up and braced himself for further mouth torture. Seriously, how could someone make tea so terribly?
“He’s also a stripper.”
And for the second time that day, Mark had chosen the wrong moment to take a gulp of tea and proceeded to both spit out and snort in the liquid abomination at the same time.
“He’s a what?” Mark wiped his hand across his nose. How much tea was it actually possible to snort in a day. A cup? A pot? An urn? Which was probably not what he should have been concerned with just then, considering his paperwork was now tainted with a lovely shade of Skimmed Alive. “Bugger.”
“Thought that might have got your attention.”
“You, Macy Summers, are a nasty woman.”
“He’s ne
w in town. Doesn’t know anyone. Why don’t you go be his friend? Once you’ve got your mind out of the gutter, that is.”
“Macy, I’m not sure I’m the type of friend young Bradley would like.” Mark reached over his desk to hang a piece of the soaked paperwork along the radiator in the hope that the scolding metal that was always blasting hot during the summer and stone cold during the winter could help dry it off.
“He prefers Brad.”
“And there, see, we wouldn’t get on. Bradley is just so much more…decorous.” Mark waved his hand.
“I have no idea what that means. But you call him what you want. Just go be his friend. For me. Please?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Mark huffed. “I’ll pop by the café and say hi, but that’s it. Not promising a long-lasting friendship. We clearly have nothing in common.”
* * * *
Mark had to suck in a rather fierce breath before entering the tea shop for the second time that day. Work had dragged on, as it usually did, the only excitement being the meeting with Mr Steinberg had turned out to be regarding his boss’s upcoming business trip and how he wanted Mark to run the office during his absence. Mark rather looked forward to being the one to tell Yvonne off for her glum reception expression and considered sending her on tea-making training.
Peering through the window, Mark set eyes on Bradley. The man was chit-chatting away, flashing his perfectly perfect smile to a couple of ladies at the counter. He was wearing a shirt, much to Mark’s dismay and, quite probably, that of the ladies-who-didn’t-lunch who currently occupied Bradley’s personal space. The café was in quite some disarray, which meant there had been a steady influx of customers, and Mark hoped Bradley had improved his tea-making ability or Macy would be returning home to the real possibility of a new career.
He flattened out his shirt for no other reason than to delay his entry into the shop then pushed through the boundaries of reason and restraint by opening the blasted door. Bradley glanced up at the tinkling bell and his sickly-sweet smile increased.
“G’day, Mark.”
“Hello.” Mark closed the door behind him, the sign rattling on its metal chain. “Bradley.” It was the unexpected snap of jealousy that had uttered Bradley’s full name. Mark had wanted to ensure those young baby-bearers would know he had a history with their wanton sperm donor.
And there he went again, thinking about sperm. Perhaps it was a time-of-life thing? His sperm trying to nudge at him through his ball sac with their need to fertilise and fulfil their life destiny? Well, sorry, my young fellows, there will be no egg fertilising of any sort for you little nippers. And you’ve had thirty-odd years to come to terms with the fact that your meals out come sans dessert.
“Would you like a tea?” Bradley held up a yellow teapot.
“Is it bagless?” Mark approached the counter and smiled at the two girls, who returned theirs cautiously and trotted off to sit at one of the window tables and sip on the blood of a virgin. Okay, so it’s probably tea, but one shouldn’t presume.
“It is indeed.” Bradley grinned, his blue eyes sparkling. “Took me a coupla goes but I got there in the end. Had to call on me gran, though. Just for checks.”
“Well, then I feel I must certainly try the fruits of your, and her, labour,” Mark replied a little too huskily and it sounded a lot like he was trying to flirt. So he added, “Super.” Which would certainly go some way to rectifying any possible mistake that Mark was a man with the gift of the gab. Has anyone actually uttered the word super since the release of the first Superman movie? Which was in 1978, just around the time Mark was born into the world and some misalignment of the stars meant he would forever suffer the fact.
“Okay, mate.” Bradley reached behind him with those gloriously beefy arms of his to grab a cup. “Go take a seat and I’ll bring it over.”
Mark bundled off to find the table the farthest away from the two girls who eyed him suspiciously. They must know who he was. Marsby was a very small town and his mother and father were well-known around the place. Plus Mark was the token minority. That blasted speech and my sordid past will never leave me.
“Here you go.” Bradley slipped a cup and saucer onto the table in front of Mark. He hadn’t added any milk and handed down a mini jug for Mark to add to his tea himself, which was absolutely the right thing to do. One mustn’t assume people want milk in their tea. Mark smiled and nodded, adding the splash of milk into the cup.
“I didn’t bring any sugar as I know you’re sweet enough.”
Mark smiled again, because it was all he had in his arsenal. Bradley stood over him and chewed his lip as Mark stirred the contents with the additional tea spoon and took a sip. “Perfect,” he purred.
“You said that last time.” Bradley waggled an accusing his finger.
“Ha. Yes, I did. I’m afraid I’m terribly British that way. I don’t like to cause offence.”
“Right, so does that mean this one is just as shit as the first?”
“Oh no, not at all. This one is perfect. The last perhaps needed a bit of work.”
Bradley leaned forward to look Mark in the eye. “Now how do I ever believe a word you say?”
Mark smiled. “I guess you shouldn’t ever trust me.”
“Not with that smile, no.” Bradley winked. He jogged back behind the counter, leaving Mark to ponder the actual meaning behind what the man had just said.
After a moment, the two ladies finished their teas and waved cheery goodbyes. Bradley flashed them a pearly white smile back and told them to please come again. Bring their friends. Etcetera. If any girls were to go missing from school and/or places of employment in the next few weeks, Mark would place a bet on where they would be found. Wince. Touchy subject.
“So I spoke to Macy,” Mark called to him once he was certain that, this time, they were the only two in the shop.
“Yeah?” Bradley clanged down a handful of mugs onto the serving counter. “How’s she doing?”
“Good. Good. I think.” Mark furrowed his brow. “I actually didn’t ask her.”
“Oh, right.”
“She just mentioned about you being new in town and you might want someone to show you around.” Mark waved a hand. “Of course, I totally understand if you would prefer someone perhaps more your age to show you the delights of the very limited leisure services we have to offer such a young whippersnapper like yourself.”
Did I really just say the word whippersnapper? Can one actually die of embarrassment?
Bradley laughed. “No, no, mate, that would be awesome.” He smiled. “I’ve spent nights in rainforests and the outback, but here, England, I just don’t get.”
“What’s not to get? We drive on the left and govern on the right.”
“See.” Bradley waggled his finger. “My guess is that was a joke but I still have no idea.”
“No joke. All fact. And I would be more than happy to show you around.”
“Excellent.” Bradley flipped a tea towel over his broad shoulder. “When are you free?”
“The right question to ask is when am I not free.” Mark stood and fished out a five-pound note from his leather wallet. He showed it up to Bradley and rained it onto the table. “Thanks for the tea. Looks like I can report to Macy all is in good hands.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Although she’ll think there’s been no takings as I’m not touching that till.”
“Don’t blame you. I’ve left my number on the napkin. Just call if you need anything.”.
“Sure will. Oh, and Mark?”
Mark raised his eyebrows, the bell tinkling as he opened the shop door.
“If you want, I could come look at your roof? I’m no expert, but I’ve fitted a few tiles in my time and I won’t charge as much as the arse-crack dude. Just a tour of the town. Unless, that is, you were lying about not wanting to see any more of the man’s arse? I never can tell with the British sense of humour.”
Mark laughed. “No, I certainly wasn’t lying.
”
Bradley smiled. “Well, if you’re free then I can come by later this arvo, after I’ve shut this place. Take a look?”
Mark wondered if the stars were beginning to align back to their correct positions and the last thirty-nine years of bad luck was coming to an end. A hot, hunky Australian offering to fix his roof in exchange for a drink at the local? This was rather too good to be true. Which meant it would be and he wasn’t to get his little sperms’ hopes up that they might be gobbled down another man’s throat for a change rather than caught in the palm of his own hand.
Still, the thought of young Bradley scaling up his loft ladder—and the possibility of giving Mark another backside view to add to his spank bank—did seem to provide him with more satisfaction than just the pros of affordable home improvement.
Chapter Three
Leap Frog
Mirrors lie. Or at least Mark’s did. Throughout Mark’s childhood he’d been taught by Walt bloody Disney that mirrors told you what you wanted. Who’s the fairest of them all? Well, it certainly wasn’t Mark sodding Johnson. His thick mound of dark hair, no matter what he did with it, just collapsed in defeat around his head as if it had given up on life some time ago. He had shaved it all off once like some mass-murder horror movie, thinking the new hair would be tamer under the threat of another invasion. It hadn’t been. It had come back with a vengeance. Thicker, stronger, meaner. And it now grew out in all directions in a blatant disregard for style or fashion.
His reflection on the whole was something Mark tended to avoid. Mirrors reflected a skinny, ageing man with stubble that grew too quickly and wrinkles that lengthened and deepened with every glance. Once upon a time—like old Walt would say—he had considered himself a rather handsome fellow. He’d never had much trouble courting a man or two back in his teens and into his early twenties. But time, experience and life had gotten the better of him and he now stood in front of his full-length wardrobe mirror in the hope that it was actually his sixty-five-year-old father looking back at him. It wasn’t. Which was a rather bitter pill to swallow, considering he had the epitome of Adam incarnate coming to his house in a few minutes.
