by C F White
Janice shoved him with the nearest junior stylist, wrapping him in the black cape to feel every bit the goth when juxtaposed against his pale skin, and not-too-elegantly dipped him back to the wash basin. He braced himself for the forthcoming questions of upcoming holiday, work achievements and the inevitable love life details. Pre-prepared answers on a postcard please, one that displayed the fetching seaside marina, perhaps? Luckily, nothing came. He started to enjoy the moment of silence.
Once in the styling booth, he accepted the cup of tea offered that he had no desire to drink, what with it looking like it had been made yesterday, Janice returned and ran her fingers through his hair, her grimace evident in the mirror reflection.
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Mark?” she asked, taking out her scissors.
Mark had to pause. Had his mother been moaning about Mark’s lack of sexual relations during her weekly visits here? Realising Janice was probably referring to his last visit to the salon, he shrugged. The answer would still be the same to either question.
“I suppose it has.” Too long.
“So I see. Do you want me to go a bit shorter this time?” She combed through the back of his hair that curled up every time she flattened it down. “Unless you’re trying to grow it long, of course?”
“No, not trying to grow it long.” Mark sighed. “Not trying to grow it at all, actually.”
Snippety scissors rushed through his hair and Mark shut his eyes, hoping he could just get a few moments of solitude.
“Your mother was in here yesterday.”
Great.
“Yes?”
“She said you’re now managing that little office of yours.”
How on earth would she know that? Oh, she wouldn’t. She was doing her usual “my son is doing soooo well” speech to save face that her darling boy wasn’t just flying by the seat of his pants.
“Just keeping an eye on things whilst the boss is away.”
“Oh.” Snip, snip, snip. “And she mentioned that you’re back on the dating scene. Y’know, after…”
Short back and sides were becoming more appealing by the second.
“I guess there aren’t many like you here, though?”
“I’m sorry?” Mark saw the lines on his forehead through the mirror.
“Bet it was easier in London. Bloody homosexuals on every street corner there. Here, you just get what you can, right?”
Mark hung his head, only for it to be scraped back up by pointy nails.
“Makes people wonder why you did come back.” She snipped away at his fringe. “Well, your mother wonders, anyhow. I told her, though, I told her that London isn’t for everyone and maybe you want a quiet life. Some people prefer that, don’t they? Boring job, boring life. Not everyone wants high-flying careers, travels to far-flung destinations and whatnot. No, best you just stay here.” She tapped his shoulder to really drum in the point. “Take care of your mother. ’Cause your dad won’t be around forever for her.”
Mark didn’t mention that his mother also wouldn’t be around forever, although he was beginning to think that that might not be the case after all.
“Indeed,” was all Mark found his mouth would mutter.
Janice rattled on more about her fabulous brood, most of whom had flown the nest and now either travelling the world, married with sprogs and one who had landed a coveted position in the Navy. Mark now knew why his mother had wanted to compete with all that. Must be hard for her to have to admit her son, who had been top of the class at one point and voted most likely to achieve, now took orders to file paperwork and had no love life of which to speak of. No life to speak of.
“Don’t leave it so long next time.” Janice tapped his shoulders and swerved off to the front desk. Not even her close friendship with his mother would allow for any mates-rates here, either.
After handing over the last of his month’s wages, Mark stepped out of the salon and breathed in the gust of air. Zeke leaned against the open doorway of his barbers, arms folded and gave Mark’s hair the once over.
“Bloody gorgeous.” He stepped back inside and slammed the door.
With no further musings, Mark ruffled a hand through his hair, twisted on his heel and slammed face first into a brick wall.
Okay, so it wasn’t quite a brick wall. But it felt just as solid. Trouble was, this one smelled much more desirable and Mark breathed in, the musky scent tickling his tongue.
“G’day.”
Mark forced himself to take a step backwards. “Bradley.” The name rolled off his tongue in a seductive whisper. He rectified that with a cough, one meant to be a clearing of his throat but that ended up catching on some stray piece of soggy bread from the awful sandwich and came out sounding like his grandmother after having smoked twenty Rothmans. “You know, I always thought ‘g’day’ was one of those stereotypical greetings we believe of you Aussie’s.”
“It is.”
“But yet you say it.”
“I play on it.” Bradley smiled. “When I know it’ll make people swoon.”
“Bradley—” Mark tried again to get out what he needed to say.
“Call me Brad, Mark.”
“Brad.” Mark paused at the ‘d’, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
Bradley smiled, blowing out an amused puff of air from his nostrils, and glanced away. It gave Mark a moment to study the man. Not for the tight-fitting lemon-coloured T-shirt clinging to his defined chest, nor for the pair of multicoloured board shorts as bright as Mark’s shirt, or for the row of beads clutching Bradley’s throat on a leather band and appearing to choke the poor fellow. Not even for the take-out coffee cup he held in his meaty hand, but for the lack of sparkle in his demeanour. Shit. Did I do that to him? One bike ride with Mark Johnson and everyone turns grey.
“You’ve had your hair cut,” Bradley broke the silence.
“Uh. Yes.” Mark avoided showing him exactly where. He hadn’t moved two inches from the outside of either salon.
“It looks good.”
Mark waited for the insult. It didn’t come. And Bradley shrugged.
“Less to grip hold of, but still enough to run fingers through.” Bradley’s spark returned for that delivery, but was soon replaced by the entering sombreness as he shuffled his flip-flops along the pavement.
“Bradley—”
“Mark—” They uttered each other’s names in unison.
Bradley laughed. “You go first.”
“No, no.” Mark shook his head, his hair not as wildly billowing but floating effortlessly along with the impact nonetheless. “We all know my problem with opening my mouth too much.”
Bradley arched one eyebrow with a sly smile. “Or not enough.” He smirked. “Sorry, mate, couldn’t resist. Poor taste.”
“Much like that drink you’re holding?” Mark nodded to the cup. “Thought you didn’t drink coffee.”
Bradley glanced down to the cup as if he hadn’t realised he had been holding it, then held it up and handed it over to Mark.
“Oh, right, no, this is for you. Tea, no sugar.” He lowered his head to peer up at Mark and fluttered his eyelashes. “’Cause you’re sweet enough. And just the right shade of caramel brown.”
“I’m just the right shade of caramel brown?”
Bradley bellowed out a laugh. “No, mate. The tea is.”
“You brought me tea?” Mark cautiously reached out to take the cup, feeling a lot like a junkie getting his sordid street corner fix.
“Well, yeah.” Bradley shrugged. “You didn’t come by the shop this morning, and I know how much you live for tea. Don’t know how you got through the morning without it.” He scraped his flip-flop against the stony gravel once more, shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “It’s sort of a peace offering. Was coming by your office to give it to you, when I saw you come out of there.”
Sipping the tea through the little plastic hole, Mark felt the invigorating rush run over him like an envelopin
g hot blanket. Needless to say, it was a rather decent cup of tea. Certainly the best one he’d had all day. And, remarkably, still hot.
“Thank you.” Mark held the cup in cheers. “Although, I’m glad you didn’t come by the office. There are a few staff members who have probably seen enough of you already.”
“Nah, they wouldn’t have been focusing on my face.”
Mark spluttered his tea, cursing that he couldn’t get through a beverage around Bradley without personal injury.
“Listen, Mark,” Bradley shuffled closer and swiped his fingers over the Mark’s clutching the cup. “I wanted to say sorry. About the kiss? I shouldn’t have done that yesterday.”
“Right.” Mark licked his lips, unsure what to reply next. And still unsure what Bradley’s, and his, reactions had been all about.
“I dunno, I just…spur of the moment. Your lips were there and your hair was all over the place.” He shrugged. “You looked…cute.”
Mark coughed again, choosing to keep his lips firmly on the hole of the cup.
“And, well, the stars said…” Bradley shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. And you’ve chopped all your hair off now, so—”
“So it was just my hair you wanted?”
“Well, no.” Bradley exhaled sharply. “Like I say, you were there. And you had that look about you.”
“What look is that, may I ask? Helplessly squashed to death by a rusty bike?”
Bradley laughed. “Pretty much.”
Mark raised both eyebrows, having still not mastered just the one arch.
“Look, okay, I have a confession to make.” Bradley licked his lips. “Two, actually.”
“Oh, yes?” Mark tried to appear nonchalant but his breaking and elevating voice put a stop to that.
“Macy,” Bradley said. “She, uh, she told me about you.”
“I see.” Mark wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was in focus or not. Perhaps an eye test would be tomorrow’s lunch time endeavour.
“Yeah,” Bradley continued. “She talked a lot about you. Said we might get on. Told me to try, y’know, get you out a bit. Said you’d been alone for a while.”
Mark flickered his eyes closed. “Oh, God,” he muttered into the cup. “I’m a pity companion.”
“No, no!” Bradley rushed out. “Honestly, I had no idea what you’d be like and said I’d give it a go for her. But, seriously, mate, I don’t tolerate that many people for long. Especially if it’s not going how I was told it would. Why I move around so much. So I figured I’d just come fix your roof and be done. But, I don’t know.” Bradley ruffled his blond tassels. “It was like how my gran said it would be. The bike, the cliff. And you make me laugh.” He smiled. “Mostly I’m laughing at you, but, whatever, you’re funny.”
“I’m not sure if that warrants a thank you or not.”
“I’m sorry I took it too far. I get you’re not interested. My gran must’ve got it wrong.” Bradley dipped his head. “Maybe she’s getting too old.” Straightening out, he pasted on his engaging smile. “Let’s just start over. I’d like to be your friend, while I’m in town.” He held out his hand.
Mark took the cup away from his lips, sighed then shook Bradley’s hand, the softness of his fingertips indenting into Mark’s skin.
“I’d like that too,” Mark finally said. “And I’m sorry, I don’t normally go storming off like that when someone kisses me.” He cocked his head. “Not that it happens too often, mind. I’m just not in the market for—”
Bradley signalled him to stop. “I got it, I got it. Duly noted.” He cut him off, which perhaps was a good thing as Mark wasn’t sure what he was in the market for. “One more thing, I got you in on Saturday.”
“Saturday?”
“Yeah.” Bradley smiled. “The stripping gig. You said you’d like to come see? So I cleared it with the boss. You can come. I’m choreographing the team dance, my choice and that, so be nice for some support.”
“Ah.” Mark wished he wasn’t so terribly British at this point as one can never say no to a person’s face.
“See you Saturday, Mark.” Bradley winked, twisted on his flip-flops and bounded up the High Street. He glanced back over his shoulder before crossing the road. “Love the shirt. It’s like a summer meadow just threw up—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
Mark shuddered at the thought that he now had to fit bloody clothes shopping into his already busy weekly schedule.
Chapter Eight
Chin Wag
Thursday and Friday flew by. It was as if they were in some kind of hurry to just get on with things. Unlike Mark. He rather hoped for the usual slog to the end of the working week so he could rid himself of the butterflies vomiting in his stomach. Nothing particularly noteworthy happened and Mark was feeling a false sense of security. Senses of security were always false in his life. And it came on Saturday morning when rooting around in his wardrobe for something that could pass as going-out clothes. With a slam of the door, he came to the realisation he had to call in reinforcements.
“Marky, Marky, Marky. I have soooo missed your sweet serenade.”
Mark shut his eyes as he clutched his mobile phone in his hand. Calling Damian always managed to bring out the exasperation. Still, the guy was a fashionista and constantly complained about Mark’s attire, often buying him floral shirts in mockery, so Mark had no choice if he wanted to show up at a London night haunt looking less like an antique, or carpet, or wallpaper for that matter.
“I missed you at my last show,” Damian rattled on and Mark could hear the pout. “No bother. I was a hoot. And, might I add, absolutely stole the show.” Damian was into Am-Dram. Although the way he went on about it, anyone would think he was treading the boards in the West End and not at the pop-up stage in the community centre.
“Apologies, I was otherwise engaged,” Mark lied.
“I doubt that very much. In both senses of the word. So, what can I do for you this fine Saturday morning, dahling.” He also managed to pronounce the silent ‘h’.
“Are you free for a spot of shopping?”
“Grocery?” The elevation in Damian’s reply helped Mark to envisage the grimace that would have accompanied it.
“Clothes.”
“Pick me up and take me to Canterbury. One hour. No later or I’ll buy it all myself and send you the bill.”
The click and whirr ensued, and Mark pinched the bridge of his nose. He most certainly needed tea to get through the next few hours of city shopping. So he took the mug along for the forty-minute drive to where Damian lived in Canterbury and after picking him up, toward the shopping precinct.
Mark had met Damian a few years back after his return to Marsby and when he had thought that he had needed to get on with some sort of social life. A brief spell of amateur dramatics later, where Mark’s acting wasn’t as hot as the free beverages served during rehearsals, Mark had knocked that idea firmly on the head. But he had met Damian and they’d become quite closely acquainted over the years. Sort of. They’d tried it once, possibly twice. But neither occasion had been as worthy of a standing ovation, a five-star review or a repeated run, much like any of Damian’s amateur productions. They’d stuck to just being friends. With mutual benefits—Mark got the occasional advice on fashion and Damian had the occasional audience at his reworkings of Shakespeare.
“What are we looking for, dahling?” Damian asked as they parked up in the multi-storey and headed straight into the one and only department store Mark was going to be allowing. Damian was professionally kitted out, black chinos hugging his slender frame, a tan shirt tucked in with just a few buttons undone at the top to reveal a few stray hairs poking out and a long trench coat that wafted as though he was in a re-enactment of the Matrix. Oh, and with tiny round dark glasses and slicked-back hair all adding to the dramatic ensemble. I would like the blue pill, please. Or whatever one it is that will take me back home.
“I don’t know, just something that won�
�t make me stick out like a sore thumb.”
“Marky, sweet-pea, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb whatever you wear,” Damian offered in his best solidarity voice. Which was none.
“Thank you, Damie.” Mark looked around. They’d entered the lingerie section, frilled brassieres and several types of knickers hanging on display in all their glory. Even Mark with his limited knowledge of garments knew he shouldn’t waste any time browsing this part.
“Oh, don’t be like that.” Damian linked his arm in with Mark’s and marched him through the point of no return toward the escalators. He breathed in excitedly on reaching the men’s department and even gave a brief triple clap of his hands whilst bouncing on his tippy-toes. Not for the clothes on the rails, but for the multitude of unclothed mannequins that for some reason gave Mark odd flashbacks of a certain email debacle. “You know what I mean. It’s not a gay strip club, is it?”
Mark shook his head, wishing he hadn’t filled Damian in on the drive over as to where he was actually going that evening and why he would need Damian’s advice.
“Hen parties and divorcees. Gurls.” Damian shuddered. “You will be the only male there not getting your kit off. You might as well dress your thumb up in a tutu and have it sing Y.M.C.A.”
“Wonderful.” Mark stuck his hands into his jacket pocket and his fingers curled around his mobile phone. “Perhaps I should just call this off? I have no idea why I’m going in the first place. Other than to prove I am some dreary old loner.”
“Oh, give over.” Damian slapped his arm. “You’ll be like the bleeding Pied Piper.”
“Sorry?”
“They’ll swarm around you. Women love gay men, sweetie.” Damian sniffed and rummaged along a rail of leather coats that Mark hoped wouldn’t be for him. “Just look completely out of place and scared shitless by the whole thing and they’ll flock to you like flies around a shit heap.” Damian grinned. “They’ll forget that you’ve probably sucked more cock than all the women in there put together.”
“Damo, stop. I beg of you,” Mark pleaded, roaming his gaze around the store in the hope no one had been in earshot. “Besides, that’s not strictly true for me, is it? You, on the other hand…”
