Love and Tea Bags Page 4

  Bugger it. Like I had a chance anyway.

  He stroked his hair away from his forehead, trying to settle it into some sort of side brush-over. It, like everything else in his life, rebelled against anything he offered and slid back to fall around his face. So he gave up and worked on his clothes. He’d changed to a black shirt. Less visible nipples. But he’d sprayed deodorant before slipping it on and despite its branding claiming it wouldn’t leave white marks or even a trace of those hideous yellow stains, it, of course, did. So Mark licked his fingers and wiped them down the side of his shirt to rub the flecks of white away. Funny how it was his armpits where the deodorant was sprayed yet no white marks were found there. No they were down at the front of his shirt where they couldn’t be hidden underneath his sodding pits.

  The white stuff just wouldn’t shift through spittle alone. It never did, so Mark pondered as to why he tried to do it that way every single time. He huffed and trudged out of his bedroom across the landing to the bathroom. He did a quick check to ensure his loft hatch was still there, in case by some miracle it had been sealed shut, fixing both the leak and the need to sort out the mess left behind. It hadn’t.

  His bathroom, another bone of contention in his life. As he’d inherited the house from his grandparents, the place had been in quite some disarray, this room being the worst. It had been completely decked out in woodchip from floor to ceiling. Mark had gained splinters in places he would rather not divulge. So, on a rather impetuous whim one weekend, he had ripped the whole thing out, thinking he’d just need to add a bit of linoleum flooring, a few tiles over the sink and some paint around the rest. Done. But this was Mark. When was anything going to be such a smooth operation?

  On ripping through the woodchip, he had soon realised why Grampy had chosen it to cover up the unlikely mess underneath. Who decides to paint a bathroom deep purple anyway? It had taken four large tubs of brilliant white paint to cover up the violaceous colouring, which had ended up looking decidedly a little off-grey. In the end, Mark had dug deep into his already shrunken pockets to pay someone to tile the whole bloody thing over, along with putting up plasterboard to hide the rest. Another hack job that meant every time Mark wandered into the bathroom to use the facilities—which should be a delightful sanctuary to the end of one’s tiresome day—he found himself with a relenting urge to just blow the whole thing up.

  Dabbing his grey flannel under the warm tap, he then wiped it along the white lines down his shirt and threw it into the sink with a slap. He looked back up to his reflection in the mirror, only to notice a few more lines. He picked up the flannel once more and wiped the other side. At this rate, he might as well just step into the shower and drench the whole thing off. Of course, he’d have to use more deodorant after that. Perhaps that was what the company did to ensure he bought more of their product?

  The knock from the door rattled the mirror against the wall. He hadn’t bothered to secure the thing properly—just one task too many in the bathroom of horrors—and so slapped a palm onto it to prevent the inevitable seven years bad luck. Spinning on his heel, he stalked out of the bathroom.

  And forgot he was wearing the fluffy Christmas socks he’d received as a present from Macy last year and thus slipped on the second to last step, tumbling down on his arse.

  “Bugger!”

  “Mark? You okay, mate?” The Aussie accent was unmistakable.

  “Yep, yes!” Mark crawled up and opened the front door.

  Mark’d had no doubt that Bradley Summers was an attractive man. All muscles and smiles, with tan skin that bore no white lines anywhere. Well, Mark wasn’t sure about everywhere, and he’d happily go find some, but the skin that he currently laid his eyes on showed no tan lines of T-shirt, socks, glasses or anything else that Mark would most certainly get if the sun decided to tan his skin instead of burning it red like it usually did.

  Bradley’s skin stretched youthfully over his tight physique and his blond-streaked hair floated in the gentle breeze, the way Mark imagined it would look when the man was surfing.

  The pair of Bermuda-style shorts dangled two white strings from the elastic waistband and Mark fixated on them as they drifted to and fro in the light evening breeze. Mark’s jaw dropped and he managed to guide his gaze upwards, as would be the norm when greeting guests to his home rather than focusing on their groin area. He then couldn’t help but notice that the salmon-pink T-shirt Bradley wore could do with being a couple of sizes bigger on the fellow. Surely that material prevents his lungs from expanding?

  “G’day.” Bradley smiled.

  Mark swooned, but shook himself out with a reminder he was a grown man. “Hello.” Why do I sound so bloody formal? “Do come in.” He really shouldn’t let the man hang about on his doorstep. The neighbours would no doubt cop an eyeful and be over demanding to know how much Mark’s new workman charged for anything that they didn’t need doing in their houses.

  “Thanks, mate.” Brad stepped his pink Havaianas into Mark’s antique house.

  Mark became preoccupied by the feet in a pair of thongs, the like of which Mark’s hadn’t donned since the nineties. Bradley’s feet were delightful—only a scattering of blondish hair over each wide and flat toe that spread out in perfect alignment with each other, with cut-down nails that looked as if the man enjoyed a pedicure or two. Bradley could be a foot model. The only modelling Mark’s feet would be appropriate for were of a remake of The Hobbit or those adverts about nail fungal infection. The before shots.

  Mark closed the door behind him and Bradley shot him a wide smile, flashing those white teeth. Could this man be any more perfect? It almost made Mark want to slap him. He wouldn’t though. Not only was that frightfully rude to do to a guest in his home, especially one that was coming to help fix his leaky roof, but also because Mark wasn’t a very good hitter. So, instead, he gestured Bradley through the hallway and toward the back kitchen.

  “How do you take your tea?” Mark clapped his hands together a little too overzealously after clicking the kettle on to boil.

  “No, thanks, mate. Don’t really drink tea.”

  That completely unnecessary sucker-punch to Mark’s gut knocked the wind firmly from his sails and he couldn’t even prevent the gurning from spreading across his face. How Macy could have believed these two would ever get along really was turning out to be quite some quandary.

  “You’re not one of those…” Mark trailed off, unable to form the words. “Coffee drinkers, are you?” His throat hacked out the most offensive c-word in his vocabulary along with a sizeable amount of phlegm.

  Bradley chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest and perched his hip on the kitchen counter. “No. Don’t really do hot drinks at all.”

  “Really?” Mark’s voice elevated. “Well, that is… Quite something. Why on earth not?”

  “Don’t see the point in hot drinks.” Bradley shrugged. “Drinks are supposed to refresh you, not make you sweat.”

  “Ha. Yes. I see.” Mark really didn’t.

  The kettle clicked off, boiled. Mark still planned to partake in a hot beverage regardless of this new information regarding his guest’s abhorrence to such things. ‘Don’t change for anyone,’ his mother had often said to him. Whilst changing her name, her domicile, her friendship group and her love of cats all so she could marry his father.

  “So, what is it you do drink, say of a morning time?” Mark winced, realising what he’d said could be misconstrued somewhat. Hovering the kettle over his cup, he peered back to Bradley. “Not that I expect you to be here in the morning. I mean, that would be absurd.” He waved the kettle around to accentuate his point, unsure how it did exactly. “I’m sure you don’t take that long and, well…”

  Mark ran fingers along his now perspiring forehead, unsure if it came from the steam billowing up from the kettle or him digging himself a massive hole. “Not, of course, that I imply that you give a rush job… Do a rush job. Provide a rush job.” Mark shut his eyes and sighed. �
��I mean, I have no idea how long or short your jobs tend to be.”

  He blew out some air from his pursed lips and caught the leer of amusement from Bradley. “Work! Your work. Obviously. Not that I consider myself your work. Ha! That would be something. Or rather nothing, as most would say.” He paused, urgently praying to someone, anyone, that the threatening roof were to just cave in on him and Bradley at that very moment. “Perhaps that isn’t something I should say and just leave it to the others, eh?”

  “OJ.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Mark furrowed his brow.

  “Orange juice.” Bradley stood straighter, his flip-flops slapping against the hard flooring. “What I drink in the morning? Freshly squeezed is best but as long as it’s cool, wet and juicy, I’m game.”

  The tea bag on Mark’s spoon splatted onto the floor rather than into the intended swing bin. Mark was stunned and did nothing but imagine what else Mr Australia might like cool, wet and juicy as of an a.m. He could help with two of those, of course. Cool was something he unfortunately lacked. Perhaps I could put it in the fridge for a bit?

  Bradley nodded down to the floor. “Didn’t think you did the tea bagging thing?”

  Mark raised an eyebrow. “We all need to do a little tea bagging on occasion.” Mark widened his eyes, mischief within them, and took a sip of the tea. He grimaced—no milk—and stuck his tongue out in disgust. No doubt ruining the delivery of the double entendre he had been brave enough to utter in the first place.

  Bradley chuckled and handed Mark a bottle of milk from the fridge.

  “Well.” Mark poured in the milk. “I’m afraid I don’t have orange juice. Closest thing here is a bit of blackcurrant squash left over from when I had some children here. Which was rather a long time ago, so the stuff is probably off, to be honest. No idea how long concentrated fruit juices last? Still looks purple. If that is the colour it is meant to be, of course? But there”—Mark slurped another gulp of the tea—“it’s all yours if you want some refreshment.”

  “Tempting. But water is fine, thanks, mate.”

  “Water? Seems rather plain. I had you down as a more adventurous kind of fellow.” Mark didn’t know why he’d added the jazz-hand kind of wave. But he had. He filled a glass of water and handed it over.

  Bradley gulped down a fair amount, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Small droplets of water smeared the man’s fair hair on his forearms. Mark had a sudden urge to lick it off. To be honest, it wasn’t a sudden urge. He had been imagining running his tongue over tan Australian skin for quite some time now. About twelve hours, to be exact.

  “Well.” Bradley plonked the glass down on the counter surface. “I’d ask for a Hellyers and Red Bull but I’m just about to climb up on your roof, so I guess that can wait till after.”

  “Ha, yes, wise.”

  “So I’ll just go take a look.” Bradley clapped his hands together and pointed past Mark to the back door. “Can I get out through there?”

  Mark twisted around. “You can. But the leak is from up in the loft. Which is upstairs.”

  Bradley smiled, all teeth and gums. The man could make dental adverts at the same time as his feet ads and put an end to the stripping gigs. No, I did not just start thinking about Bradley stripping. I. Did. Not.

  “But the leak is due to missing tiles, right?” Bradley scooted past him to get to the back door. “Which you can only replace on the outside of the roof.”

  “Ah.” Mark plonked his cup down on the side and followed Bradley out to the back garden.

  Bradley hurried halfway up the garden, which was mainly a small patio of crazy paving complete with a metal patio set consisting of two chairs and a round table. The rest was mowed to lawn, accentuated by a few of the plant pots his mother dropped around from time to time. Bradley faced the house, one hand on his hip, the other shielding his eyes from the setting sun, to glance up at the roof.

  “Right-o. I’ll just nip up there and take a closer look.”

  “Nip up there?” Mark said with a hesitant shock. “I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t have a ladder.”

  “No worries, mate.” Bradley’s flip-flops slapped against the paving stones. “I can climb up.”

  “You can what now?”

  Bradley didn’t reply. Instead, he swung effortlessly up using the drainpipe on the side of the house and climbed onto the sliding roof of the kitchen lean-to. He then jumped farther, gripping at the windowsill of the first-floor bathroom, both his flip-flopped feet landing on their tiptoes. Mark gasped, awful visions of insurance claims and death by negligence accusations flickering before his eyes. But Bradley leaned back and propelled himself to jump another rung up the house and onto the tiled roof. He crawled on his hands and feet to the top of the slant, swinging his legs either side and sat, straddling the tip.

  Mark gaped, speechless. There were no words for his reaction to what he saw. His groin had taken care of that.

  “Right,” Bradley called down to him. “You need two new clay tiles on the top here. That’s no worries, mate. I can get them from the nearest builders’ merch. Easy fix. No probs.”

  “Okay.” Mark hesitated “Thank you. That’s…wonderful.” He added the lamest word in history because he obviously felt he hadn’t embarrassed himself enough this very day.

  Bradley didn’t seem all too perturbed by the ridiculousness of the reply and nodded, smiled and lifted himself elegantly up to stand on the roof top, feet either side of the point. He then proceeded to slide one foot over the slope to run—in flip-flops!—down the slant to the gutter scurrying along the edge of the roof and jumped down to the ground with a graceful bend of the knees. A true gymnastic-style finish. He might as well have added a bow. Mark would have applauded if he could have gotten his tongue off the floor.

  “Right.” Bradley brushed down his board shorts. “So I’ll get some tiles tomorrow and do it after I close up Macy’s. Work for you?”

  Mark swallowed, loosening his dry mouth.

  “Mark?”

  “Yes? I mean, yes, that’s more than okay with me. Thank you.”

  “No probs.”

  “How much do you charge?” Mark pulled himself together. The thought of monetary transaction could do that.

  “Oh right, well, I’ll get the tiles and give you the bill for those. But as for my time —” Bradley shrugged. “How about I just get a little bit of yours?”

  Mark coughed. “My what?” Oh God, the man heard me back at Macy’s talking about offering my penis as monetary exchange!

  “Your time. Maybe even down the pub? Saw one at the end of your street. Looks nice.”

  “Oh.” Mark nodded. “Well, that pub, I’m afraid, is full of young bods. No one in there over the age of twenty-one. Wouldn’t be doing any good in there.”

  Bradley raised his eyebrows.

  “Ah. Of course, you probably would fit right in. How old are you anyway?”

  “Just turned twenty-one.”

  Mark choked on his gulp of tea.

  “Right, yes, well. I’m afraid I’ll just cramp your style.”

  Bradley laughed and slipped Mark’s tea from his cupped hands. “Come on, Mark. You’re certainly not past it yet.” He winked, then jogged back through into the house. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you out late. You’ll no doubt want your beauty sleep. And I can’t stay till morning. You’ve got no OJ for a start.”

  Chapter Four

  Drinkiepoos

  The problem with Marsby, or perhaps not so much a problem as in unique selling point, was that it boasted more pubs per square mile than any other town in old Blighty. Mark wasn’t sure what that said about the residents of his home town, but it went some way to explaining why the population of almost seven-thousand people, courtesy of the last national census, always turned up late for work. It was also a rather circumspect question to ask as to why each of those remarkable public houses, ranging from the ever-popular chains to the independent family-run ale houses, were always
rammed full of people. Regardless of the day and the season.

  Much like this day. A Monday. Whilst it was technically the summer months in England, it still wasn’t exactly holiday season. So the Moon & Stars, on the corner set-up at the end of Mark’s road that was bursting full of patrons, both inside and milling outside on the doorstep chugging on their death sticks, was both orthodox if rather cumbersome.

  Mark didn’t get on with crowds. He didn’t get on with being alone much, either. He preferred a happier medium where he could mingle amongst the living whilst sipping a pint of Kent’s real ale offerings and not have to stand whilst doing so. Nor tut furiously when people knocked his elbow, sloshing his pint each time someone passed him to pick up the packet of pork scratchings or scampi fries that they had forgotten to purchase during their first round.

  Sweat formed on Mark’s forehead as he pushed through the ye olde-style wooden swinging door entrance that bore some resemblance to the taverns of the American Midwest, Still, he did have a rather dishy Australian to look at whilst standing amongst the brutes at the bar to sip on his pint of Bishop’s Finger. But that also made his social anxiety rise as he scouted around at the young bloods. They were mostly late-teens, sharing their first outing to a bar without the parents in tow to limit their intake of sickly-sweet alcopops or anything mixed with the deathly Red Bull. There were a few in their twenties who still considered themselves young enough to drink on a Monday, even if they did have to get up for work the next day. School wasn’t an issue. One could do that on a hangover, but work was relentless with a headache. Mark had made that discovery time and time again. Yet here I am…not learning.

  Mark spotted a couple at the back. The male counterpart sipping on a pint of the good stuff had enough of a receding hairline to suggest he could be an early-balding thirties gent, but Mark was still the oldest one in there. He knew that for sure. And it brought out his inner waffle.