Love and Tea Bags

by C F White

  As Mark slapped a hand down on the counter, he heard shuffling back in the kitchen area. Thank God Macy was there. He needed a chat. And a tea.

  “Helloooo? Only me, love. Usual cuppa when you’re ready.”

  Drumming his fingers on the counter, Mark swivelled a one-eighty. Vacant seats and no-one in the vicinity looking like they might want venture on in to grab a tea to go, which would be quite difficult as Macy only served tea in porcelain cups. And rightly so.

  “So, Macy, love,” Mark called out over his shoulder, thinking it was best to fill her in now or he might not have time to divulge all the details of his eventful morning before he had to head into work. “I’ve decided I’m better off if I just kill myself now.”

  He leaned forward over the counter, ensuring his voice would drift to the kitchen. “Turns out my roof might collapse on me anyway. And according to this rather annoyingly beefcaked member of the male species, the sight of whose perfectly rounded behind is now imprinted on me for many a future solo endeavour, and who graced me with a whole other English language making me feel every bit of my—cough—years, it’s going to cost me rather more than my arm and my leg. And I’m sadly going to have to admit it, Macy love, that I’m not sure the fellow would accept an offer of my penis as monetary value. Not that I have a wealth of offers for that part of my anatomy these days anyway. Much like the pound to the euro, I swear it’s shrinking in value.”

  He chuckled at his own joke, as he so often did, then spun around to face the seating area. A couple of joggers zoomed past the window, obviously on their beachside run rather than the mad dash for cakes and biscuits that he did.

  “You okay, Mace? Need a hand?”

  No reply. So Mark leafed through the selection of pre-packed biscuits crammed in the bowl by the till. Macy had one of those old-fashioned registers. No electronic buttons to press. No new-fangled tablet hooked up to the mains. It was basically a calculator with a drawer.

  Choosing a packet of chocolate-dipped Viennese shortbread fingers, Mark cocked his head to peer through the open kitchen door. “I mean, Macy, what is the point in filing paperwork for a living just to earn enough money to fix a roof when I have no man to enjoy the comforts of my damp-free living space along with me? And by the time I find a willing participant to snuggle with me on my antique sofa looking at my antique wallpaper in my antique house, I’ll be ready to pop my clogs anyway. So, death by sugar, please, Macy.”

  He slapped the counter to finalise his self-depreciative monologue, and nearly threw up the entire contents of his breakfast when a male vacated the back kitchen. Said man was wiping his hands on a rather beautifully stitched gingham tea towel. But that wasn’t the only thing that was a delight for the eye. The man was shirtless—rippling muscles, a glowing sheen of glistening skin and white-wash jeans hanging low on his perfectly sculpted hips. Needless to say, that wasn’t Macy.

  “Hello,” Mark said, because, it is the polite way to greet a man, regardless of the lack of shirt and the highly embarrassing fact that Mark had already told his life story, leaving out all, or indeed any, good bits.

  “G’day,” the man replied.

  And Mark’s head exploded. Or rather he wished that it would. “Where’s Macy?” He mentally crossed his fingers in hope that she would soon poke out behind the tall hunk of an obviously Australian specimen and say that the man was deaf. Or at least hard of hearing. Or that he didn’t understand English. Anything really.

  “She had to shoot off, mate,” the man replied. “Her mum.”

  Could Mark not cut a break these days?

  “Oh dear. That’s terrible. Is it serious?”

  “Dunno, mate.” The Aussie shrugged and slapped the tea towel onto the counter. “Something about her mum and the big C.”

  “Oh, dear God. What type of cancer?” Mark clutched a hand to his chest.

  “No, the big sea. Ocean? She’s off on some golden oldies cruise ship thing and Macy had to go with her as a carer or something.”

  Mark nodded. He had no words, after all.

  “I said I’d mind the shop for her. I’m her cousin.” Aussie stepped forward, wiped a hand down the back of his jeans then held it out to Mark. “Bradley. Brad.”

  Mark took the solid hand that had surprisingly smooth fingers and a firm grip. Most definitely surfer hands. Not that Mark had any idea what type of hands a surfer might own, other than slightly wrinkly owing to so much time in the water. But, he suspected, hands like this. Because all Australian men surfed. That was what both Neighbours and Home and Away had taught him in his youth.

  Mark shook, not swaying his gaze from the light blue eyes of the man in front of him. Brad. His name’s Brad… Bradley, much better suited. Specks of green flickered in Bradley’s eyes, like mini frogs bouncing around in a swimming pool, sparkling against the piercing Aussie sun rays. A much better lido than Marsby’s freezing fifty-metre monstrosity that was probably filled with more urine than chlorine. Ha! I rhymed.

  It wasn’t until the man—Bradley, such a wonderful name—attempted to free his hand that Mark realised he had just performed one of the rudest acts in the English realm.

  “Mark,” Mark suddenly blurted out. “Mark. I’m Mark.” Because his name was Mark.

  “Nice to meet ya, Mark.” Bradley shot him a smile of perfectly aligned white teeth that Colgate would snap up in a second to be in their next commercial. “And I’m sorry to hear about your roof.”

  “Ah.” Mark burned a lovely shade of crimson that matched the colour of his wallpaper. His antique wallpaper. “No bother. Nothing a cup of tea couldn’t fix.” Okay, that wasn’t strictly true. If it was, he wouldn’t have the problem in the first place.

  “Righto, mate. I’m just getting to grips with everything, so bear with. I’ll go grab a shirt. Was mighty hot behind there.” Bradley jogged off back to the kitchen before Mark could blast out the proceeding lyrics to one of Nelly’s finest…So take off all your clothes…

  Bradley returned a few moments later, unfortunately having found suitable attire to wear, and handed Mark a mug. “On the house. First tea I’ve made here, so think of it as a trial run.”

  “Why, thank you very much.”

  “You take sugar?”

  “No, no. Just milk,” Mark assured him. “I’m sweet enough,” he added because he was a complete idiot.

  “Fair dos.” Bradley held up a tiny jug of milk and began to pour it into Mark’s mug. “Say when.”

  “When,” Mark declared just before the desired amount of milk was in, suspecting that young Bradley might not have perfect reflexes to stop pouring at the exact right time and Mark wasn’t a particularly milky tea drinker. He was more on the Midnight Savannah levels of tea colour, as referenced by Her Majesty’s official colour chart.

  Mark held up the cup in cheers, then took a sip. He closed his eyes to really savour it and swallowed down the delightful wake-up in a cup.

  “Any good?”

  “Perfect.” Mark smiled.

  Bradley returned the smile and raised it. It was the sweetest smile Mark had ever seen, full of pride and a feeling of a good job well done. It was only tea, but by God it was important.

  “Well, sit down then.” Brad waved a hand to a vacant table. “I thought I put the closed sign up but as you got in, might as well open up for good.”

  Mark whipped his head around. The OPEN sign hung on the inside of the door. Mark made a mental note to take the High Street chemist up on their offer of a free eye test with the purchase of any men’s grooming product.

  Taking a seat on one of the little square tables covered with a yellow and white checked plastic tablecloth, Mark sipped his tea. It seemed to be getting stronger with every taste, but Mark continued none the less. He didn’t want to upset the dear Bradley, considering he was a complete novice. Mark started to wonder what else this man could be a novice in that Mark would be happy to play teacher in. Which instantly made him wince. He really should not be thinking along those lines
.

  Mark’s life consisted of a series of disasters, followed by unfortunate mishaps, then brief but noteworthy embarrassing incidents, swiftly engulfed by immediate tragedy and swooping in on the left would be a spout of sheer disappointment. So, this guy would most certainly not be a novice and would be highly active on the heterosexual scene, no doubt.

  “Hey, Mark?” Bradley’s head popped up from the counter where he’d been crouching.

  “Hmm?” Mark stilled the cup at his lips.

  “You know if there are any decent gay bars in this town?”

  And splat. A wet and sloppy tea bag fell from Mark’s cup and landed on his nose with a squelch. Mark didn’t move. There was no point. This wasn’t an inconspicuous moment. This was yet another of those embarrassing incidents to add to his growing collection. There was no coming back from this. Mark plonked the cup on the table and peeled the tea bag from his face.

  “That doesn’t usually happen?” Bradley pointed to Mark’s face.

  Mark shook his head. “No.” He wiped his nose with a napkin. “Usually one takes the tea bag out of the cup before serving.”

  Bradley covered his mouth with his hand, a look of sheer horror plastered on his face. “Oh, Jeez. Sorry, mate.”

  “No bother.”

  “Here.” Bradley zipped over to the kettle. “Let me get you another one.”

  “No, no. That’s quite all right.” Mark stood. “Best be getting on anyway. Paperwork doesn’t file itself.” Which was rather fortunate, as Mark would be out of a job.

  He sauntered toward the exit, slipping one of the extra-large umbrellas from the bucket Macy kept them in and attempted to wave a cheery, and nonchalant, goodbye. The umbrella popped open unannounced, one of the metal prods poking Mark in the eye, and he wrestled inside to slap it shut. Bradley whipped over the counter, sliding along it in true Dukes of Hazzard fashion, and grabbed the handle. They both found the sharp edge of the protruding button and Bradley slammed his thumb on top of Mark’s to slap shut the umbrella, which swallowed both of their arms inside like a Venus fly trap.

  “Sorry.” Mark fumbled, desperately trying to open the thing up again. Their fingers were in danger of entwining and Mark closed his eyes at the sheer embarrassment, although he should have been used to the feeling after thirty-nine years of it.

  “Here.” Bradley gripped the pole, tugging it away. “Let me.”

  Mark slipped his arm out and Bradley handed the brolly back to him with a smile.

  “Thanks.” Mark took it, with caution.

  “Looks like you’re gonna need it.” Bradley nodded at the window where huge raindrops splattered like water balloons. “Think it might rain here more than Sydney.”

  “It rains here more than a sodding rainforest. Least in a rainforest it’s hot.”

  “Not at night, mate. Pretty cool then, I can tell ya.”

  “Really?” Mark’s interest once again piqued.

  “Yeah. You’ll need a roof there too.” Bradley winked. “Just in case you’re considering a move.”

  “Perhaps not to somewhere wetter.”

  “Avoid Oz then.” Bradley opened the door for Mark, the little bell tinkling and ending the conversation.

  “Thanks for the tea.” Mark stepped outside, opening his umbrella minus any personal injury.

  “No probs, mate. Maybe once I get the hang of this place, I’ll make you a decent one. Like my gran makes.”

  “That would be lovely. And do send Macy my love.”

  Bradley nodded and closed the door, switching the hanging sign to display OPEN. It swung against the other various posters stuck onto the window advertising the array of products that Macy sold in the shop, from real Cornish ice cream to hot chocolate. The sign caught on the corner of one of the leaflets, covering up most of the words, except for available here.

  Bradley meandered away from the window, his hips swaying, then vaulted the counter in one swift athletic move. Mark pondered as to whether Bradley was available here. Probably not. This was Mark’s life, after all.

  Chapter Two

  Nine to Five

  Mark rushed through the glass door of his seafront office, his work phone ringing on arrival. Clambering through the desks, he mouthed his apology to Yvonne on the front reception for his bag whacking her in the face. He assumed it had, anyway, as she wore one of her more screwed-up grimaces, rather than the resting one she usually favoured.

  He was a tad later than preferred in to work, thanks to the morning’s escapades, and he slumped down on his rotating office chair that collapsed to the lowest rung on its axis. As per bloody usual. Mark could barely see over his desk, let alone dump his elbows on it. He fumbled for the lever underneath, adjusting the seat back to his preferred height settings, then grabbed the phone.

  “Good morning.” Is it? “Steinberg Accounts, Mark speaking, how may I help you?” His chipper tone was ten years in the making, and he could still achieve it whilst tucking the receiver between his chin and shoulder and wriggling free from his coat that had soaked through from the inevitable ten-minute downpour from his walk to the office from Macy’s. Glorious sunshine gleamed outside his office window now though. Go figure.

  “I hear you’ve met Brad.” The female voice chuckled down the phone.

  Mark slipped free of one side of his soggy Barbour outdoor wear jacket, making a mental note to contact their customer service department to complain that their outdoor range obviously didn’t mean waterproof, then transferred the receiver to his other ear. The phone, disgruntled at being shoved around so early in the morning, protested by slapping down with a loud bang onto his desk.

  “Bugger.” Mark mouthed his apology over to Yvonne who had given him his second dose of eyeful that morning. She usually gave around fifteen per working day, so Mark was well-rehearsed on how to handle her after ten years on the job—by mouthing sorry, then mimicking holding a cup of tea up to his mouth. She nodded back, accepting his gift horse for what it was.

  Mark fumbled with the receiver after several attempts of freeing his arm from his jacket sleeve and throwing it in a huff over the back of his seat. That extra bit of weight was all too much for the lowly workings of his vintage blue three-lever operating chair and it instantly slammed down to the bottom rung once more. Mark left it there, knowing when to admit defeat. He’d live to fight another day.

  “Macy? Sorry, dropped the phone and had a fight with a chair.”

  “So tell me something new.”

  “Ha bloody ha.” A milky cup of tea slammed down in front of him.

  He offered up a grateful smile to Yvonne, who’d clearly taken pity on him for once, and wrapped his hands around the mug. Yvonne nodded, which was as affirmative as she usually was, and slumped off. Mark peered into the mug and managed to refrain from grimacing. The contents appeared more suited to a child’s sippy cup than a wake-me-up for a thirty-something office worker. Still, one mustn’t complain about how one received the gift of tea, no matter how vile it came.

  “So, I just called the shop,” Macy continued.

  Mark twisted in his seat to look out of the full-length window that boasted the view of the seafront. Sipping from the mug, he grimaced. The full-fat milk that Yvonne had used to mask the taste of any actual tea curdled the roof of Mark’s mouth. The stuff was off. He spat it out and the white dots swimming around in the liquid were like tadpoles, or little sperms. Mark shook his head. It had been a while since he’d seen any spunk that wasn’t his own and it appeared he was now hallucinating about having it in his daily hot beverage. And whilst tea was his first and presently only love, he rather wanted it separate from any bodily excretions.

  Setting the cup down, Mark glanced over his shoulder. Yvonne scratched her nails along a purple emery board, taking full opportunity of the boss’s absence, so Mark threw the milky tea into the spider plant on the windowsill, the froth bubbling over the dried soil. He wasn’t sure what out-of-date milk would do to the scarce foliage, but he wasn’t part
icularly green-fingered, so wasn’t too worried about creating some Day of the Triffids re-enactment in the otherwise boring seaside town. And even if it did, he’d get the day off work, so that was a bonus enough to attempt it.

  “Yes?” Mark settled back into his chair, digging his cheek against the telephone receiver. He tapped a few keys on his PC keyboard in the hope that the thing wouldn’t explode as he tried to log on for the day. The way his day was going, it wasn’t to be unexpected.

  “And Brad said he met a rather curious man who goes by the name of Mark.”

  “Well, yes, I did pop in.” Mark tapped his password into the little box on the screen. An alert popped up, declaring it was wrong. It wasn’t. Mark was one of those rather lackadaisical people who never feared the threat of invasion, cyber or otherwise, and had the same password for almost everything. Except his porn hub. He didn’t want anyone ever getting into that. Bank details? Pfft, have them. Then HSBC might stop sending him threatening letters and he could pass them over to the geek who now had responsibility for his overdraft.

  “He said the shop was closed but you managed to worm your way in.” Macy chuckled. “I knew I should have just given you a spare set of keys. You’re there more than me. Brad said he thought you might have worked there at first, what with you telling him your life story.”

  “You know, Macy…” Mark struck his fingertips down hard on his keyboard and rammed down the Enter button in the hope that his computer just wasn’t convinced enough that Mark knew his own sodding password. “You can go off people.”

  The computer flashed up password not valid for the third time and Mark dropped his hand down on the keyboard, sending random letters flying into the little box on the screen. The computer returned another password not valid sign, which Mark delighted in flipping off.