by Danni Fall
Mark Means Tested
Published by Danni Fall
© Danni Fall
The right of Danni Fall to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved, worldwide. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover art © Madi Fernandez
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 1
Summer 2000
Mark
"You can't get high off fence paint," Spotty Bloke says.
Mark cups the railing outside Peter Pan's theme park, nose to the metal. "Not with that attitude you can't."
"You'll get it on your face."
"Moss green's my colour. Unlike this hi vis, this really washes out my porcelain skin."
The probation officer looks their way. "Are you two finished?"
"Almost," Mark says. "Sorry for the delay, I'm a perfectionist."
"No chatting, then."
Mark has a final, futile attempt at huffing the near dry paint. His head snaps up when he hears music, stomach quivering with surprise.
"Can you hear that?" he asks Spotty.
Spotty looks concerned for his sanity. "Hear what?"
"That music playing?"
"Coming from the arcade over there? Yeah, so? Get back to painting, I'm not getting a bollocking from probation because you're off your nut."
Mark forces himself to paint but stops again when he hears the familiar bassline.
"D'you know it?" he asks.
"Know what?"
"The song, can you tell what song it is?"
Spotty cranes to listen. "Not sure. Sounds like some Britpop shite."
Mark drops his paintbrush in an empty paint can and jogs to the kerb.
"Where're you going?" Spotty hisses. "Finish this off, then we can all fucking go!"
"Sorry, need a shit, back in a minute," Mark babbles as he crosses the road.
He ignores the cars pipping and dashes inside the arcade. The amusements' tinny jingles rattle around his head as he strains to hear the familiar beat. Weaving around penny pushers and one armed bandits, he finds a wall-mounted speaker in one corner. Simon sings Mark's lyrics, crackly but clear. He sits in a driving game machine and grips at his hair as he tries to keep from laughing like a maniac.
An arcade worker hovers nearby so Mark shoots him a smile.
"You alright?" the man asks.
"That's my band on the radio," he says.
The man stares at Mark's hi vis. "Right."
"First time I've heard one of our songs out in the wild. What d'you think? It's called Ready When You Are."
"You can only sit on the rides if you've paid to play."
"Fair enough." Mark pretends to pat his pockets. "Left my cash in my other jacket. I better be pissing off, eh?"
He doesn't wait for an answer before scurrying outside. He lingers by the entrance of the arcade and leans against a grabber machine until Simon has finished singing. Even when it's over, his heart keeps thudding hard.
Across the road, Mark sees Spotty finishing up their motley crew's paint job. Instead of re-joining them, he ducks into the next arcade. He ignores the europop blaring from the sound system and keeps his eyes peeled for loose change left in prize chutes or dropped on the busy carpet. After scrabbling together shrapnel and assorted plasticy prizes, he runs outside and makes a beeline for the nearest phonebox.
Simon quickly answers. "Who's this?"
"Pamela Anderson," Mark says.
"Aren't you supposed to be giving back to the community?"
"I am, so let's keep this brief."
"It's your last day, don't get done on your last day. Where are you even calling from?"
"I said brief, not berating."
"Get explaining."
"I heard Ready When You Are on the radio," Mark says. "I've been half mast ever since."
"I'm hanging up."
"Calm down, I'm only joshing. Meet me at The Cornucopia to celebrate."
"When d'you finish?"
"Five at the latest. All this physical labour's got me thirsty so you better be waiting with a pint."
"I'll be ready when you are," Simon quips. The line goes dead and Mark grins wide enough to hurt before realising himself and tearing across the street.
The probation officer walks over, ready to berate him, but Mark slaps a shell-shocked look on his face.
"Never buy whelks from that stall over yonder," he says. "Nearly didn't make it in time, if you catch my drift."
The officer's mouth thins and Spotty edges further away. Mark can't keep from grinning as he counts down to five o'clock in his head.
***
As agreed, Simon is sat in the back of the pub with two pints when Mark arrives. Simon pushes one towards the free barstool as he approaches.
"How did it sound?" Simon asks, unable to suppress a smile.
Mark takes a grateful swig. "Sounded amazing, I'm still erect."
Simon's smile instantly disappears. "You're officially done with your community service?"
"Done and dusted."
"Did you learn anything?"
"Aside from how to paint railings and pick up litter, y'mean?"
"Yeah, like right from wrong, how to apologise, how to pay for things instead of steal them, stuff like that."
Mark pretends to consider. "You know what, I took a good, hard look at myself and learned some contrition." Simon looks confused at the word. "I felt bad for upsetting your nan, and you, so here."
He ferrets in his pocket of shitty arcade prizes and pulls out a keyring of a cartoon girl in bell bottoms and sunglasses sporting the words Hippy Chick. Simon makes no effort to take it so Mark gives it a jangle.
"Por voo. By way of apology."
"It's pointless tat."
"It reminded me of you."
"I'm not a hippy chick."
"Y'sure?" Mark looks at the keyring. "Definitely a family resemblance, you've got the same stupid haircut."
"My hair's not that long. Stop waggling it at me." Simon bats Mark's hand away and finishes his pint. "Buy us another round if you're really sorry."
"One play on local radio and you've turned into a right diva, Sharp."
"Less talk, more fetch, yeah?"
They smirk at one another before Mark heads to the bar. On his return, Simon gives him a pointed look.
"So. Record deal."
"Can't I rest my weary feet for five minutes before you're on at me about that?"
"I thought you were the one with all the Masterplans?" Simon asks. "You're slacking off, old man."
"Fuck off, I'm only just thirty two. I can't help getting tired, speed only gets you so far. I'm shuttling back and forth between band m
eetings and recording sessions and gigs and community service and all day orgies and meetings with my creative consultant."
Simon huffs a sardonic laugh.
"Summat you wanna say?" Mark asks.
They share a knowing look then go back to their drinks.
When Simon has drained his, he looks expectantly at Mark. "Another round?"
"I'm not made of money, Si. Feel free to get it yourself."
"Then we should sign with a major."
"We should sign with a major so you can buy another round? That's your argument in favour, is it?"
"That, and I can finally get my Audi," Simon says.
"You and that bloody Audi."
"What? My dad's mate is already doing me a massive favour by holding off selling it. He's giving me first refusal but he can't wait forever, he needs the cash."
"That and a couple pints of Stella is why we should hand creative control of Deff to a major, is it?"
"Not all creative control… just a lot." Simon bristles when Mark laughs. "It's not like you'd be any happier signing an album deal with an indie, is it? They wouldn't promote us like a major can, there's no way they'd pay even half as well. It's fair that a major asks for more of a say in what we do if they're gonna give us a massive fucking cheque."
"The massive fucking cheque gets split four ways, remember?" Mark says. "Five ways, actually, Will'll take a slice too."
"We're still talking about enough money for an Audi."
"I thought your dad was a Ford man?"
"Stop trying to distract me," Simon says. "Will and Zoe haven't worked their arses off, getting us on the radio and in front of labels, for Deff to sign with some piddly indie outfit."
"In case it escaped your notice, we're currently signed to a piddly indie outfit."
"Only for two singles, only as a stepping stone."
"Don't go telling Solitaire that's what you make of them, Joel and his rag tag crew might get offended."
Simon shrugs. "It's just business, innit? We're in demand. If they want to keep us around, they need to put their hand in their pocket."
"It's all about the art for you, isn't it? Art for art's sake, definitely not art for Audi's sake."
"Will thinks Ready will chart. The majors'll start circling after that."
Mark regrets how much he's drunk and how it adds to his nausea. "He's not just saying that to be nice?"
"Yeah, like him and Zo make a point of being nice."
"You still might wanna cool your jets, none of the majors have made anything resembling an offer."
"Maybe not but they're sniffing around," Simon insists.
"If you mention bloody Maiden Records again-"
"Maiden Records are interested! Maiden Records!"
"They're not as cool as you think they are."
"Back in the eighties, they signed loads of synth pop acts, some of the best ones."
"I'm aware," Mark says. "This is the umpteenth time you've told me."
"They put all the lead singers on this open top bus and drove around London, playing their music, it was cool."
"Simon, if you're that desperate to go on a bus, I'll pay for your fare."
"But you're not as against the idea of signing with DMA or Victrola, are you? You never go off like this about DMA," Simon presses. "Are you seriously still hung up about Maiden cause we messed up in front of their scout in Luton?"
"It plays on my mind," Mark agrees drily.
"So what? We signed with a label since then, our single's about to chart."
"Maybe."
"Definitely." Mark cocks a daring eyebrow and Simon concedes. "At like number 81 or something. Either way, stuff's moved on and Maiden are interested."
"They're not gonna sign some band that scraped into the top 100. Not unless this next single is an earworm and a half, they're not. You need a number one with a bullet for Maiden to seriously entertain signing anyone who's not a nice, shiny, manufactured, cookie cutter-"
"Muck and Brass's not going to number one, it's not that good," Simon says.
"Lemme guess, you're saying that because I'm the one who wrote it."
"Not all of it, but most of it."
"Feel free to write something better."
"This is turning into a band meeting," Simon mutters. "The Oes should be here for this."
"We're already scheduled to have one tomorrow. Not sure I could stand the excitement of having two in two days."
"I'm not saying we should have one now, one a week is plenty."
"Then park your daydreaming about synth pop party buses, if you can bear to, and let's get back to celebrating Essex FM playing our tune," Mark says.
"Go fetch some beers then."
"It's your round sunshine, unless you're willing to wait while I go try my luck in the arcades again."
"Fine," Simon scowls.
While he waits, Mark reads Chris's latest texts asking about his day. He starts a reply but stuffs his phone away when Simon returns with a Stella and a glass of something tinged faintly green.
He eyes the drink suspiciously. "Is that vodka?"
"You think I got you that much vodka? They don't sell it by the pint."
"Depends how nicely you ask. Vodka tonic then?"
"It's a soda and lime," Simon says.
"God you're a cunt."
"Promise I'll buy you a beer if we sign with a major."
"Tempting, that, but I should be heading off."
"Can't stay out and celebrate?" Simon asks.
"We celebrate any harder and you'll have to take out a loan, Simon Skint."
"Har har. What're your plans then?"
"Got a meeting with my creative consultant," Mark says.
"How many meetings is that this week?"
"We need to finalise the album artwork."
"It takes this long to doodle something for a CD cover?"
Mark gives him a look. "It's more than that and you know it. It's the album artwork, music video treatment, the works. That stuff takes time."
"Just try and remember we're a band, yeah? Not an art gallery."
"Duly noted."
"And if you're late showing up to the meeting tomorrow, we'll go ahead without you."
"No you won't, you won't have a quorum."
"Then don't be late or I'll twat you."
Mark pretends to shiver. "Big threat from a big man."
"The more time you spend away from HQ, the more time I've got to write stuff without you. Maybe Maiden'll sign me as a solo artist."
Mark's smile sours. "You writing summat solo would be a first. Better get learning the alphabet."
"You wanna risk it? Be my guest."
He pretends to consider before snatching Simon's pint and licking the rim.
"Fucking hell!" Simon gripes.
"Sorry, don't know what came over me. You want it back?"
"Fuck off. Drink it and piss off to your boyf-"
"Ahahah! My what, sorry?"
Simon takes Mark's soda and lime and moodily drinks some. "Your creative consultant."
"Attaboy." Mark smacks his lips after he's finished the beer. "Just what I needed for the road. What time and where tomorrow?"
"One at Wimpy, the same as always."
"Of course. Order me a fish finger sandwich and a lemonade and I'll pay you back."
"Get there in good time and order it yourself."
"There's no time to argue, I'm already late." Mark blows him a kiss as he makes for the door. "Toodle loo. Don't go getting so drunk you accidentally buy a sports car, yeah?"
"And don't get so high you-"
He's outside before Simon has finished his warning. Once the door closes behind him, Mark whips out his phone and returns one of Chris's calls.
"Hey, sorry, lost track of time," he says, fishing the Bongo keys out of his pocket as he jogs towards the car. "Put some champers on ice, I'll be there in a jiffy."
Chapter 2
Simon
Simon stops eyeing t
he gaggle of girls across the road from Wimpy and checks the time again. "It's already quarter past. Mark's not coming."
"Has he text you to say he's not coming?" Zoe asks.
"No, but he's fifteen minutes late. I'm starving, can't we just go in and get lunch?"
"He might be delayed," Joe says.
"Then why hasn't he text? Why're we bothering waiting? He's always late these days. It's a bit rich when he used to go off about me going straight to gigs from the garage and I was never even late!"
"Let's give him ten more minutes, then make a start," Will says. "I have a call with Solitaire at two."
The gaggle of girls alternates between chatting and looking Simon's way. He pulls back his shoulders and flicks them a megawatt smile.
"We're not technically quorate without Mark," Joe points out.
"There's four of us, that's quorate," Simon says.
"Quorum isn't any four people," Zoe explains. "They need to be the four members of Deff."
"Has it been ten minutes yet? I'm properly hungry."
"It's barely been three."
"I'm gonna get some doughnuts to tide me over," Simon says.
He ignores the Oes' exasperated looks, crosses the road and buys a bag from the stand nearest the girls. While he's waiting, a blonde with great legs strides over.
"Are you-"
"Simon Sharp? Yeah, that's me. What can I do for you, darling?"
"That wasn't my question. I was gonna ask if you're that bloke who tried it on with Steph behind Amy's back."
Smile slipping, Simon takes the proffered bag of doughnuts. "That was... there was a misunderstanding."
"Oh yeah? That's not what I heard."
"Yeah, it's all water under the bridge now. I can make it up to you with a signed single, if you like. Or how about a backstage pass for our next gig?"
The blonde's eyes narrow. "Are you seriously flirting with me?"
Across the road, Zoe gives a loud, summoning whistle. "Simon! Here boy!"
"Better get going, catch you girls later, yeah?"
Simon legs it back over the road before they can answer. He looks around for a sign of Mark. "Is he still not here?"
"No, so let's get ordering." Zoe eyes the bag of doughnuts. "You'll ruin your appetite."
"I've got a different stomach for doughnuts and ice cream."
Heads turn as they walk inside. Simon makes sure to sit straighter in his chair as he gives the waitress his order.
