by C F White
“In comparison to yours, I find it hard to believe.” Mark pointed his fork across the table.
“This?” Bradley flexed his biceps. “This is what society says we should look like. This is what happens when you try too hard to please people.”
“Is that what you do? Try too hard?”
Bradley shrugged.
Mark pondered the meaning of that while clearing the contents on his plate. He leaned back and rubbed his stuffed stomach. As much as he’d said he would be piling in as much food as he could, he couldn’t eat another bite. So he downed his tea, instead. Then had to pick a piece of leaf stuck to his lips.
He stared into the cup. “Huh.”
“Something interesting in there?”
“It’s loose tea.” Mark shook his head. “So there’s leaves left at the bottom. I’ll need a new cup for the next one.” He glanced around, hoping to get the server’s attention.
“So there is something interesting in that mug.” Bradley’s whole demeanour erupted, like a child who had just been told Santa had been. It was rather infectious. Bradley waved his hand. “Pass it over.”
“Excuse me?”
“The cup. I’ll read your leaves for you.”
Mark handed over the mug with a dubious smile. “You can do that?”
“Told you, my gran can. She taught me the basics.” Bradley twirled the cup in his hand, held it by the handle, then peered into the porcelain. A look of wonderment flashed over his features. “What question do you want answered?”
Mark rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. I mean, what is it that tea leaves can actually answer? Is it like the eight ball that constantly tells me no? Pretty sure it’s broken. Actually, wait, I would seriously appreciate the lottery numbers if that’s a possibility?”
Bradley narrowed his eyes. “No, Mark. This is serious. But you need to want an answer to something in your life, or your fortune. Otherwise this is meaningless.”
The deflation of Bradley’s shoulders caused an instant pang of guilt. Bradley was serious. Deadly serious. And Mark found himself serious too. He sat straighter, leaning forward for a better view into his cup. Not that he had any clue what he’d be looking for, although if a few numbers were spelled out in leaves he’d most definitely take note.
“What do you ask it?” Better to palm off the question on Bradley, because right then the only quandary on Mark’s lips was whether he would be getting a second cup of tea or not.
“I’ve asked the leaves a lot of things in the past. Depending on where I am. In life.”
“Like?”
“Am I doing the right thing by leaving Australia? Will I find fortune in stripping? Who will I fall in love with?” Bradley shrugged. “Y’know, stupid stuff.”
Mark widened his eyes, intrigued. About all of it. Not just the last question. Honest. “And what have the answers been?”
Bradley paused his wistful gazing into the mug and peered across to Mark, unreadable. “Yes. For a while. An older man.”
“Ah.” Mark’s throat was dry and he desperately wanted another cup of tea to at least have something to mask the surprise he knew would be spreading across his face. “And you believe it all?”
“She’s mostly right, my gran. She’s been doing this for years. Predicted all sorts of stuff for the family.”
“Like what?”
“That my sister would marry a man who works with his hands. Her husband’s a gardener. That my dad would lose his job at the bank, but find a better one more suited to him. He now works on Bondi, bootcamp trainer for the new mums. And she read my mum’s leaves the day I was born, told her I was gay.”
“Wow. How did your mum take it?”
“With two sugars.” Bradley smiled, returning his attention to Mark’s cup.
“Ha ha.” Mark leaned back, folding his arms. “Has she ever been wrong?”
Bradley flicked his gaze back to Mark. “No. Well, jury’s still out on my last reading. I thought she was wrong…” He shrugged and stared back into the mug.
Those leaves must have been writing War and Peace with how Bradley was focusing on them.
“And your last reading, she said what exactly?” Careful, Mark, it might look like you want to believe this stuff.
“She said I’d find love with an older man.” Bradley did not look up from the mug.
Mark widened his eyes, his voice caught in his throat.
“But, well, that didn’t work out.” Bradley mumbled, narrowing his eyes as he spun the cup this way and that.
“Oh.” Mark willed for something more to say. “Why not?” Because he’s not in love with you, you pillock! Do you really want him to spell that out to you?
Bradley sighed, clonking the cup onto the table cloth. “Remember the guy I told you about? The one who got me into stripping? The one whose roof I was fixing?”
Mark nodded. Ah.
“We were together a while.”
“I see.” Mark was now grateful for no fluid to add to his curdling stomach and wished he hadn’t consumed as much breakfast as he had because it was in danger of being regurgitated.
“I really thought he was the one my gran had predicted. The whole scenario, the roof, the stripping, the older man. But it just didn’t feel right.”
“In what respect?”
“In that I was just his arm candy. Used me to flaunt around and took control of my food, my schedule. Signed me up for gigs and took a percentage. But when it came to anything meaningful, it just wasn’t there. I tried. I did. I thought my gran was right. I thought he was my forever man and I just needed to get past the superficial beginning before the love came. It didn’t. For either of us. He thought I was stupid for my beliefs, and I thought he was a controlling bastard. So I asked my gran if I should leave Australia, and him. She said yes. Told me to go see Macy. Now I’m here.”
Bradley’s wringing hands brought forth an unexpected sympathy within Mark. He knew how the man felt. More than Bradley could ever know. And I thought we had nothing in common. Before he could stop himself, Mark reached across the table and placed a hand over Bradley’s cradled ones.
“It sounds like he didn’t know what was in front of him.”
Bradley held his gaze. “Yeah. Maybe.” He sucked in a breath. “So you wanna know what’s in yours?”
Mark slipped his hand from Bradley’s and fell back in his chair. “Um. I’m not sure.”
“You don’t believe in this anyway.” Bradley folded his arms and glanced out of the window at the cars passing beyond it.
“Try me.” Now Mark was intrigued. Whether it was all a load of mumbo jumbo or not, the fact that Bradley shone while talking about it made Mark want to know more.
“You’re going travelling. Far away.”
“Really?” Mark leaned forward and peered into the mug. “Where an earth does it suggest that?”
Bradley picked it up and pointed toward a splodge of black leaves curdled together close to the handle. “There. It’s the Earth.”
“Is it?”
“Sure. See the circle formed, then the little parts in between? Indicates that world. And as it’s by the handle, it’s going to happen pretty soon.”
“Oh.” Mark was a little taken aback. He wasn’t sure why. He’d had reading tea leaves down as reliable as those fortune cookies the Chinese restaurants gave away by the bulk load—generic nonsense that could relate to anything. But Bradley seemed so sure. So confident. And now a little pissed off. “I always wanted to go travelling. Made plans for it and everything.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Various reasons. Mummy, Pa, money, fear…” George. Mark heaved in a breath.
“Well, looks like you now got a chance.”
“Huh.” Interesting. At least Mark was now certain that reading tea leaves was absolute bollocks. Mark couldn’t go anywhere. Not with his house, his lack of funds, his ties to Marsby. “I will most definitely be requiring the lottery numbers for that to happen, so let me j
ust check—”
As he reached over to grab the mug, his elbow bashed on the salt pot and it clanged onto the table, the screw top falling off and spilling a mountain of white grains onto the surface.
“Far out, Mark! That’s bad luck. Quick!” Bradley rolled back his chair. “Toss it over your shoulder. Now!”
The fear in Bradley’s face caused outright panic in Mark and he immediately gathered up as much of the salt as he could, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. Without bothering to look, he threw it over his left shoulder. Trouble was, it wasn’t the devil waiting there waiting to reap in its blinding qualities, it was the choir-boy-type kid from the next table. The sprog wailed and screamed as he attempted to wipe the grains from his tufts of blond hair.
“Bugger!” Mark leapt from his seat and bounced over to the child, swiping his hands through the boy’s hair. “I am so sorry!”
The parents said nothing as they grabbed their son’s hand and dragged him crying from the restaurant. Mark turned to Bradley.
“I think I might believe that cup now. I should most probably leave the country.”
* * * *
There didn’t seem much point in hanging around after that, so they emerged out from the hotel and onto the streets of Shoreditch ready to tackle the journey home. Mark felt every step of the walk of shame. Bradley, however, appeared as natural as ever as he glided among the Sunday-morning tourists, and street sweepers clearing away the remnants of a typical Saturday night in the smoke. So confident with his easy long strides and whistling while he walked, Bradley would be a ray of sunshine on any dreary day. Mark would miss his joviality when he left.
The thought caused an uncomfortable knot to clog in Mark’s chest.
They boarded the ridiculously busy Central Line among those all heading out for a spot of Sunday shopping, or traipsing home from an extended Saturday night shopping, and rode the tube to Stratford. As the train screeched into the station, an announcement declared that all trains to Canterbury would be cancelled after the one about to depart from Platform five.
Bradley grabbed Mark’s arm and yanked him through the turnstiles, sprinting onto the platform.
“You desperate to get back?” Mark called out through harried breaths.
Mark hadn’t run for anything, including a bus, or train, for a good few years. He often looked upon those energetic beach joggers who trundled past his house with varying degrees of pity. But right now proved that although he was a slender man, he wasn’t exactly fit.
“Come on, Mark!” Bradley hopped, skipped and jumped.
The whistle for the last train shrilled out around the platform and Bradley, up ahead, swung effortlessly into the last carriage. Mark gasped. That was the first-class carriage!
Mark hadn’t ever broken the rules to anything before. He was a bit of a stickler for them, even the really stupid ones, like staying left on the escalator even when it was empty. It just felt more comfortable to know he was doing as expected.
His heart hammered as he approached the closing doors of the first-class carriage, and it wasn’t just because his body wasn’t used to such a rigorous early morning exercise regime. It was the fear that he was considering breaking the cardinal train rule.
Bradley crammed his bulk between the doors, holding them open, and ushered Mark in. Mark froze. What would his mother say? It would be worse than when she’d found the DVLA letter when he’d been snapped going thirty-five mph down Dover high road. She’d never let him live that one down, either. He’d been forever referred to as a reckless driver after that, and responsible for all roadside deaths.
Bradley practically tore Mark’s arm from its socket as he yanked him onto the train. He stepped back as the doors slid shut but Mark, in his hesitancy, got caught in the gap. With shoulders squashed up to his neck, Mark closed his eyes in the horror of hearing the screeching alarm. He was stuck. In first bloody class. Where he didn’t have a ticket for.
Grabbing Mark’s hands, Bradley tugged him forward. His shoulders were finally released and he toppled, falling splat against Bradley’s chest.
“If you wanted a hug,” Bradley said, wrapping his arms around Mark. “You could have just asked.”
Mark stepped away and checked the seated area of the carriage just as the train shunted out of the station. All seats were occupied by people. First-class sort of people. It was obvious from the broadsheet newspapers sprawled on laps, as well as the sneering glances sent his and Bradley’s way.
“We are in first class.” Mark gritted his teeth.
Bradley shrugged.
“I don’t know what it’s like in Australia, but here it’s rather frowned upon to be in first class when you have a ticket for standard. We are looking at a two hundred pound fine!”
Bradley gasped, slapping a hand to his chest. “You British.” He tutted. “Class system everywhere. Chill, Mark. It’s Sunday. No one cares on Sunday.”
Mark looked deep into those blue eyes, the swimming green emulating the bits in Bradley’s morning juice earlier. His orange juice, that was. He didn’t know about his other morning juice. He’d yet to see that. Wasn’t going to be seeing that. Yet. Not yet. As in he wouldn’t be seeing it. Not that he won’t yet be seeing it. Mark sighed and wished he could buy his mind a gag.
He cocked his head. Maybe Bradley would be into gagging?
“Tickets, please!”
Oh, bugger.
Chapter Thirteen
Mummy, Dearest
“Mark, Mark, Mark.”
Mark twisted at the oncoming tutting. “There is only one of me, isn’t there?” he asked Bradley out of one side of his mouth.
Mark had called Damian after they’d been thrown off the train at the first stop, unable to even board the lower-class carriages. But having belly-laughed down the phone for several hours, Damian had refused any rescue mission, claiming he couldn’t disturb his bedfellow. So after forking out the two hundred pounds each in ticket fines, neither Mark nor Bradley could afford a taxi home that would have cost about the same, meaning Mark had resorted to drastic measures. Now as his mother swaggered ever closer, Mark rather wished they’d walked it.
Grabbing Mark’s face with her freezing-cold bony fingers, his mother smacked him with several air kisses to each cheek.
“Mark.” She slapped his chest with the back of her hand, her heavy diamond-encrusted rings catching in his shirt buttons.
“I’m sure you like the name.” Mark removed her hand and thrust it back at her. “Having been the one to choose it for me, but really just the one use every so often is considered an acceptable amount.”
“Don’t be so obtuse, Mark.”
“Mother, I believe that’s the wrong use of the word.”
And for that Mark received another slap. His mother’s frown turned upside down and merged into a dashing smile as she laid eyes on Bradley behind him.
Mark couldn’t blame her. Bradley was rather a delightful morning view, and ever more so now he’d put his best ‘meet the mother’ act on. Mark shimmied to the side, to offer the formal introductions, until he realised he didn’t know how to actually do it. How to explain who Bradley was to him? The fact he stood there, Sunday morning, still in Saturday night get-up, with a man who was eighteen years his junior looked rather reprehensible to say the least. His mother would not be letting that pass. She never let anything pass. So he was desperately trying to rack his brain as to who Bradley could be that his mother wouldn’t bat her perfectly curled dark eyelashes at.
“Bradley this is my mother, Vera. Mother, this is Bradley.” Just leave it at that?
Vera stepped forward and held out the back of her limp hand. She was rather glamorous for her age. In her mid-sixties, she still had a full luscious mound of blonde hair. It used to be dark, like Mark’s, but early onset greying in her thirties had made her lighten with each dye job to the point she was now a full-on platinum Barbie doll.
“Charmed, I’m sure.”
Bradley
offered a beatific smile that made Mark want to throw up. Or, actually, kiss the man’s entire face off. When Bradley took his mother’s hand and planted a chaste kiss to the blue veins, his mother giggled, Mark wasn’t sure which one of them he was more disappointed in.
“He fixed my roof,” Mark blurted out with no forewarning.
“Is that a euphemism, darling?” Vera did not take her fluttering eyes from Bradley.
“No, Mother.”
“Oh, well, that is a shame. I was looking forward to some sordid tales to make up for this journey into the big smoke.” She finally tore her gaze from Bradley and onto Mark, her face falling into the usual disdainful expression it wore for him. “I mean, that is the only reason you ever venture here, isn’t it, darling?”
“I worked here last night. Mark came to…support me.” Bradley smiled. “And call me Brad.”
“Don’t you have ladders for that sort of thing? Mark is hardly a hands-on sort of man. Are you, Mark? I mean, look at those arms. They can barely hold up a finger, let alone a safety harness.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Sarcasm, the lowest form of wit but essential when dealing with Mummy dearest.
“I’m pretty sure Mark’s got a firm grip.” Bradley winked at Mark, then aimed his dashing smile at Vera. “Besides, fixing roofs is more my hobby.”
Mark inwardly grumbled.
“So where do you work, then?” Vera asked with a certain curiosity and a scrutinising look up and down Bradley’s attire.
“Macy’s Tea Shoppe,” Mark blurted out. “Which, speaking of, we really must get on back to Marsby. I’m sure Bradley has a multitude of things to sort out for the shop opening tomorrow, haven’t you, Bradley?”
“Sure thing,” Bradley replied with a knowing grin. “Although, Macy should be back tomorrow.”
“Should she?” Mark swallowed. Does that mean… What does that mean?
He didn’t have time to ask as his mother cut in. “Macy’s? That delightful little tea place on the seafront?”
