“There, that should do it,” he said as he reread the handwritten note. “Can you send this Royal Mail with Recorded Delivery Service and have a copy made for me?”
“Yes, sir, I happen to have a copier right under here.” The teenaged young man was a diligent public servant, even if he didn’t look the part. He was dressed appropriately, but unfortunately, his purple Mohawk haircut brought out the maroon tones of his acne-pocked face. “Here you go,” he said, and presented the copy of the letter to James. “Is this good enough for your needs?”
James examined the duplicate made on the little nine-inch long by two-inch wide scanner. “Hmm, I guess size really doesn’t matter.” He glanced up, and they both grinned at the sexual innuendo, “At least in printers,” he added.
“Ahem.”
James turned around and saw it was a woman—her age hard to determine under her exotic, cat-like make up—who had cleared her throat.
“Lad, isn’t it almost time for you to close?” Technically, it was a question, but by her tone, she was actually telling him what to do.
Lad: that must be his name. James looked at the nametag: ‘Vladimir Chekov.’ A fine Irish name, he thought and smiled. He resisted the urge to make the smart aleck remark, but his grin remained. “Would you make sure this gets sent to this address? Here,” James turned the copied letter around on the little square foot area of counter space. He scribbled ‘certified original copy’ and signed, dated, and printed out his full name and title. “This is to go to my club at this address,” he scribbled the address on the back of the document. “The original goes to the Clerk of the Parliaments.”
“Got it! Oh, here—I accidentally made two copies. Would you like this one, too? No charge,” Lad added lightly.
“Tell you what,” James took it, and signed and dated it, too. “You keep this,” he pulled out a £10 note and held it up to him, “and this, and I’ll take this.” He took one of Vladimir’s business cards. “I’d appreciate it if you kept it in a safe place. If both the original and first copy are compromised, I’ll give you a call. Sometimes it’s wise to have two insurance policies,” he said and winked.
“Sounds like a plan,” said the female with the feline makeup, as she plucked the money out of James’s hand. “Ready?” she asked Lad.
“Ready.” He nodded to James and folded up the extra document. “Have a nice holiday, Lord James,” his voice lowered, “or whatever.”
“Thanks, and I hope you have a good evening, Lad,” James lowered his tone, mimicking the youth’s, “or whatever.”
Ӂ
James felt out of place in the youth-oriented store. This boutique was for the younger generation was his first thought. His second thought was that that was who he was, or should be. Either way, he liked the idea of supporting the smaller shops. Chill out, dude! You’re going to America. Think like an American, dress like an American, sleep like an American. Sleep like an American?
He shook his head and started pawing the odd-looking goods in the oversized bin. “What are these?” he asked the young nerdy clerk.
“Oh, those’re buckwheat pillows. They conform to your neck and head. They’re really quite comfy. We also have them filled with rice or beans. If you don’t like ‘em, you can always rip ‘em open, throw the bits and pieces into a pot of boiling water, and eat ‘em,” he added with a smile.
“They’re especially comfortable on airplanes,” commented a woman behind him.
James turned around to see who had spoken and gasped. “Uh, yes. It is difficult to get comfortable on those long flights,” he said, quickly composing himself. The female salesperson who spoke looked just like Dani Madigan, although she didn’t sound a thing like her. This was eerie: it seemed like Ms. Madigan was everywhere around him today. “Thanks, I’ll take one,” he told her.
“Buckwheat, beans, or rice, sir?” the Dani-looking clerk asked.
“Um, rice will be fine,” he replied, giving her what he hoped she saw as a smile, not the grimace of insecurity.
‘And maybe some chicken broth for a foot soak,’ he felt like adding. These extemporaneous puns never popped into his head before. Weird. Is this what happened when he didn’t have any stress in his life—or maybe now he had more? Hmm, let me see. No wife, no stock portfolio, no household, no personal obligations to satisfy, no hobnobbing, nor wheels to grease. Yes, he definitely had less stress, not more.
What he needed now was to buy clothes—laid-back, comfortable togs—and something to carry them in. He had been dressed as a middle-aged businessman since his mid-teens. Keeping up with business suits that fit him had been a challenge. He was called ‘shrimp’ and ‘midget’ while in middle school. “Don’t worry, you’ll reach your height eventually,” Grandpa had told him. “Work on what’s in here,” he said, tapping him on the left temple, “before you get carried away with life and women, your head in the clouds up here,” indicating a tallish six feet height.
And he was right. Grandpa was always right. He listened to Grandpa and studied hard. He was a whiz with math, and economics just seemed so logical. Statistics: why was that supposed to be a hard course? The bump from middle school straight to university was awkward because of his youth and short stature, but it turned out to be a blessing. He spent his time on studies and breezed through university in three years. By his last year, he was secure in his grades and had garnered the attention of four of the top securities and stock agencies in the United Kingdom.
Grandpa pulled a few strings and got him a position at a prominent financial firm, working the phones in the back office. His deep voice fooled the business partner who hired him. Although he had been granted the position on the merit of his grades, telephonic presence, and composure, Otis, the senior partner, had balked and tried to take back the job offer when he met James face to face. James wasn’t sure, but he could just about swear that Otis paled when Grandpa pulled him aside and spoke with him in private. Blackmail or a verbal arm twist; either way, he was glad Grandpa had gone to bat for him.
The money and position, along with the seat in the House of Lords at the age of majority, had turned his life around. It could have gotten out of hand, but he had told Grandpa that he would spend at least one evening a week at the club. Grandpa told him, “Keep yourself grounded, and don’t believe everything that’s said about you. You’re still a steed whether they call you a jackass or a magical Pegasus. Come to pasture with the rest of the old stallions. They’ll help you keep life in perspective.”
The company was good, and the advice even better, but he was still young, flawed, and frisky. He didn’t want to ask for their counsel when it came to women and, in retrospect, he should have. His mentors would have warned him against taking the advice of an unschooled woman, especially when she was urging him to cash in his investment portfolio. He was fortunate to discover her deception before it was too late and was able to save the family fortune before it wound up in her Swiss bank account.
She was furious when he responded to her ploy by cutting off her access to their joint bank accounts. He put her on a monthly allowance and, even though it was a generous one, she still whined that it wasn’t enough. So, since she couldn’t get her hands on his stocks or monies while married, she went another route and trumped up an outlandish reason for a divorce.
“He’s a flaming faggot,” she declared to the tabloids. “If it doesn’t have a beard, he can’t get it up.” She was merciless. He was almost disassociated from his club when the story first came out. His only saving grace was that she had taken one step beyond propriety and declared that all members of The Club were gay. After that bloated accusation, The Club members—his fellow political and business associates and their friends—realized that the stories she was spreading were bogus. The good old boys pulled some strings, and the tabloid tales stopped like a boot on a football.
The media stories may have stopped, but the stares and double-takes didn’t. His face was well-known now, and in a negative way. Yes, a l
ong holiday to America or ‘wherever’ would not be questioned and would be most welcomed.
Ӂ
“Are these supposed to be this way?” he asked the prickle-faced sales associate.
“Too right! You get air-conditioned and are supporting the poor boys and girls on Camperdown Street at the same time. You see, they custom rip, tear, and stain these, special like. They’re well dapper, these are. You get to have the latest in fashion and give the lads and girls gainful employment at the same time.” The clerk with the metal studs and clips peppering his face and ears puffed out his chest. “Me little brother did these hisself. See, he signed them right here with his mark.” He pointed to a modified happy face with a tongue sticking out, a la Hot Licks by The Rolling Stones. Not very original, James thought.
“See, it’s almost a self-portrait,” the clerk added. “Oh, wait; someone took out the pin. Here,” he said, and took a safety pin off of his lip ring, “now this looks just like Snake Bones. Weel, his real name is Pierce, but he gets a bit put off when you call ‘im that. Mum was the one that give ‘im that moniker. He had three piercings before he was able to walk, she said. The social workers threatened to take her off the dole if she didn’t stop punching holes in ‘im, but the name stuck. He still has only the three holes. He never did want any more, but he do have quite a few tats, he do.”
“Tats? Oh, tattoos. Uh, yes, I’d be glad to help the Camperdown Street entrepreneurs,” James said, and held up the trousers up to his waist to check the fit. “I’ll just try them on and wear them out, if you don’t mind.”
James came out of the modified phone booth dressing room wearing the custom ripped and stained jeans. Everyone had scoffed at him when he bought all the old British Telecom phone booths. He made a killing on reselling them all over the United Kingdom and the USA. He got more money for selling them used than they garnered new. He patted the phone booth door. “Thanks for paying for the trip, the mill, and the new lease on life,” he said softly. He stopped and looked at the clerk who was oblivious to his presence. He clenched his jaws and pulled back a grin. He didn’t know whether he’d been talking out loud to himself or was speaking so softly that he hadn’t been heard.
Pierce’s brother turned to him and asked, “How about some shirts to go with ‘em? We have ‘em from bland and conservative, to wild and torn, to just slightly modified for the folks who aren’t quite ready to take the starch out of their shorts.”
“Are these more from the Camperdown Street crew?” James asked, holding up a pale blue Oxford pre-washed shirt with rolled up cuffs.
“The shirts are from Carnaby Street. The ladies say that a businessman with his sleeves pushed up is ‘bout as sexy as they come—with the clothes on, that it is.”
James rifled through a few Polos and Oxfords, and even found a genuine Levi snap-up shirt. He checked the neck sizes and told his personal dresser, “Here, I’ll take the lot of them. Do you have any cargo trousers that are less holey?”
“Genuine Levi 501’s, prewashed, worn, and then washed again for that American look. Is that where yer goin’?”
“Is this what I’d wear if it were?”
“You’d look just like a Yank on the ranch in these…or on the road.”
James had seen the look of recognition in the clerk’s eye early on. He probably would have been helpful regardless, but the lad knew he was helping the notorious ‘gay’ Lord James Melbourne, the man who broke the heart of Clotilde, the darling of the jet set.
“Thanks, this will be all. No, wait, I’ll take those sunglasses, too. Gets bright on the beaches, you know.” James hadn’t told him where he was going. If he believed that he was going to the Bahamas, well, that was fine. A little misdirection every now and then kept the tabloids on their toes.
James left with his old three-piece suit and his other ‘new’ clothes in an oversized shopping bag, heading right to the leather store. He felt odd in worn out jeans and high-shine Florsheims, but his stop at the shoe store would have to wait a few minutes. He needed a carry-on bag for the trip.
“State-of-the-art valise with tuck-away handle, combination or thumbprint lock—or both—your choice,” the sales rep tugged at the bottom of the leather satchel, “and hidden compartment. It’s guaranteed to fit under an airplane seat so you don’t have to check it as luggage.”
James turned the bag over and saw the inflated price. He looked up at the clerk with an ‘are you sure about this price?’ look in his eyes, then back at the tag. The older salesman stuttered, “Oh, if you’re a subject of the Crown, then there’s a 25% discount.”
James looked back up again without saying a word. The old man blushed and stammered, “Of course, that includes your initials engraved in two places—while you wait. I can do more than just initials if you would like, my lord…er…sir.”
James winced slightly at his title. He was still recognized, even in his casual costume—that is, attire. “Here, just put J.I.M. on this blank, and how about if you stamp inside the hidden compartment, too? It won’t show through on the bottom, will it?”
“Oh, no, sir, I’ll make sure it’s discreet. So, you want J dot I dot M dot, correct?”
“Yes,” James said, then changed his mind. “No, on second thought, leave out the dots.”
His mother had had a sense of humor, according to Grandpa. James didn’t like his middle name, Ignatius, but Immaculata or Innocencia would have been far worse. Isaac wouldn’t have been too bad, but all he ever used was the initial, so it didn’t make a difference. He disliked being called Jim—too rural—but he might loosen up and change his attitude in America. The name James sounded fine for an Earl or a Duke—or a butler, he recalled, thinking of ‘the other James.’ Well, whichever name felt more comfortable, that’s the one he’d wear.
He completed the cash transaction and checked his Rolex for the time. It was a very fine timepiece, and maybe too flashy for travel, but with all the imitation ones on the market, it probably wouldn’t draw attention to his status. Hmm…boarding was in less than an hour.
Next, the shoe store. The clerk was sharp, knew his trade, and could tell James’s shoe size just by looking. Jok, a forty-something Brad Pitt look-alike, picked out a very comfortable cross trainer shoe for him to try on. It fit perfectly. He also talked him into a pair of Birkenstock sandals, and that’s when James’s stomach turned. The salesman stroked the bottom of his foot in what could have been—must have been—a suggestive manner. James looked him in the eye and saw that he was indeed being suggestive. “No, thanks,” James said, grimacing, “but I’ll take the sandals,” and changed up to a sincere smile.
The ‘phew’ look on the flirting clerk’s face was priceless. It was a good sales commission for him, even if he didn’t get lucky. At least, and probably most important, he wouldn’t get in trouble for making a pass. The man who had just walked in was evidently the big boss.
“Jok’s a great salesman,” James commented to the sweating, obese man with the manager nametag pinned askew on the pocket of his stained sports coat. “Brad, er, Jok got me set up with just the right size and style of shoes for my needs. Give the man a raise. Good help is hard to find.”
James looked back and saw the clerk’s pouty lips mouth the words, ‘thank you.’ Then Jok smiled and said aloud with sincerity, “Have a safe flight.”
James went into the men’s room and repacked his new old clothes and shoes into his new leather carry-on bag. He came out feeling empowered, as if he could tackle anyone, solve any problem, or win any hand of cards. His vision was clear and he was devoid of stress. As he headed to his departure gate, he saw a little kiosk that sold toiletries. He grabbed toothpaste and brush, floss, deodorant, comb, and shampoo. He started to grab the razor, then pulled his hand back. Nope, not in this new lifetime—at least, not for a while. I may change my mind after a couple of days, but I’ve always wondered what color my beard is. He ran his right hand across his chin. I guess I’ll find out now, won’t I?
The first-class passengers were being called to board when he reached his gate. He flashed his passport and smiled at the gate attendant, then followed the snaky portable hallway to the jet doorway. He had been given a window seat and was grateful. He wouldn’t be getting elbows to the head or shoulders when the other passengers boarded.
“Would you like a pillow, sir?”
He bolted at the voice. Dani Madigan? He looked up and saw a twenty-something flight attendant with bleached blond hair and too much Revlon. “Ah, yes, please.” He accepted the pillow and tried to calm down, but his heart still raced.
Dani Madigan. He had sent her an email several hours ago, but with all of his last minute posting and purchasing, he hadn’t checked his smartphone for any replies. The plane was still boarding so he could connect to the internet.
Voila—a reply!
He opened the email. ‘This is an automated reply. The mailbox of Dani Madigan is no longer being monitored.’ Oh, crap! He finished reading the rest of the auto-reply, even though he was sure it was just legalese jargon meant to protect the email server. ‘If you would like to contact the administrator of the Dani Madigan estate, please email…’
“She’s dead?” James whispered. “Oh, shit...” He quickly typed in and saved the address for Leah Madigan. ‘My condolences on the loss of your mother, or was she your sister? Sorry, I don’t know your relationship to Dani. I only met her once, last Halloween, but she was a very smart, charming, and compassionate woman. If I can be of any assistance, please let me know. Regards, Lord,’ he backspaced four times to delete the title then signed off, ‘James Melbourne.’ She probably had no idea who he was and wouldn’t care if he was titled or not, so to hell with the paranoia. Besides, her email address was in America. And Americans didn’t give a rip about anyone but themselves. Plain old James Melbourne was good enough for her—and for him, too.
Aye, I am a Fairy (The Fairies Saga Book 2) Page 4
