Eternally North

by Tillie Cole

  I had been lying in my bed for about an hour trying to gain some form of energy to try and move so I could calm my spinning head. However, I instead found myself staring at the ceiling and thinking about recent events.

  I had to say that meeting someone who is mega-star-famous was a bit strange, but then, I guess they’re just people too. Abruptly meeting a superstar in the back room of a restaurant in Calgary of all places proved that they did normal things just like everybody else.

  Tink couldn’t shut up about meeting Tudor and I just… well I didn’t know what to think. Sure, his looks were phenomenal, and all the adjectives in the world could not describe the pure animal magnetism of the man. But I was having a hard time trying to unravel the enigma that was Tudor North.

  He was so dry in humour, so sarcastic in his delivery. Admittedly he was, at times, an arse who seemed to find enjoyment in winding me up immensely – that being said, he did improve a fraction as the night went on. But was that genuine, or was he bullied into that by his family? He seemed unapproachable and gruff, but the real question was, was he a private person, or was he really just a wanker?

  As far as meeting a celeb went, I supposed it was memorable. Not something I would want to repeat very often, but it was another life experience in the banco di vita, as Nonna Girasoli would say.

  I smelled the addictive aroma of Italian coffee and dragged my tush out of bed. Tink was in the kitchen whipping up some pancakes, sporting his novelty naked-lady apron, complete with inflatable boobs and a hairy muff. How he had never had a Mrs. Doubtfire moment in that get-up was beyond me.

  “Hey, my little pig’s trotter. How are you today?” he asked while whisking batter at a furious rate. Tink was very skilled in using his wrist.

  “Okay thanks, the hangover seems to have settled. You?”

  “Just peachy thanks, chuck.”

  Tink was his usually bubbly self, and set to pouring the batter in the pan in small round pancake shapes, gradually adding chocolate chips and slices of banana.

  He looked over his shoulder. “Say, did you happen go to the toilet this morning using the bathroom in the hall?”

  Confused, I answered, “No, why? I always use my en-suite.” I looked up at him curiously.

  Turning back to the pan and flipping a pancake he said, “Mmm, it’s just that someone left the seat up after taking a piss. I just naturally assumed it must have been the other man in the house.” A huge grin plastered on his face.

  “Fuck off, Tink!” I grumbled, still harbouring resentment from the previous night and my mistaken gender identity.

  Following our encounter with the Norths, Tink and I had toddled off to Calgary’s gay scene, given it had been Tink’s night to choose the bars that we would drain of their alcohol. In true Tink-and-Tash fashion we didn't fail in causing a stir. Now, I was more than a little tipsy and Tink had gone AWOL after finding a giant hairy man with a handlebar moustache that he wanted to mount, so I hit the dance floor alone to stun Canada with more of my amazing moves.

  I shimmied to the stage with vigour on hearing ‘Gangnam Style’ come pumping through the speakers and as I was riding my pony with the utmost energy and winding my imaginary lasso, my ring got hooked on a guy’s chain – yes folks, his chain – that was fixed to a collar around his neck. Unfortunately the fellow didn’t take it so well when I couldn’t get myself unstuck as easily as one would have hoped, and he started going ape-shit right in front of my face, losing me precious Gangnam-dancing minutes.

  That, coupled with my already jangled nerves from my Tudor North experience, had me seeing red and unclipping my hair extensions ready for a bitch-on-bitch take down faster than you can say ‘Don’t touch the face, Don’t touch the face!’ Tink (along with his new hairy friend) arrived at the last moment to save the day and save me (and the chain-wearing bastard) from any real danger, but not before my adversary had mistaken me for a drag queen and suggested my show name should be 'Candy Made-my-ass-large’ – you know, something that suited my wide-frame. Nice.

  Grrr… I totally could have kicked his arse!

  “Aww c’mon it was funny.” Tink trilled. “As if you look like a guy. And you said yourself that he prodded your titties. How did he not get that those bazookas are one hundred per cent real?”

  “He probably thought they were chubby man boobs, after all I do look like a ‘fat little slut’, in his charming words.”

  Tink switched off the hob, and sat down opposite me at the breakfast bar, gracefully placing a plate of delicious breakfast treats before me. “Shut up, Wil. Are you honestly bothered by what he said?” seeming genuinely concerned that I had taken it to heart.

  “I suppose not, but it’s never nice to be seen as masculine when you’re a girl.” I exaggerated, and stuffed a comforting piece of pancake in my mouth. Mmm… chocolate.

  “I hear ya. People often mistake me for a camp man until I speak, and then they know I’m a whole lotta female perfection,” he said whilst running his hands down his sides, jumping up and swaying his hips.

  “Keep making man-centred jokes at me and you will be all woman; I’ll friggin’ castrate you!” I warned.

  “Okay I’ll stop, just quit with the constant threats to my manhood. It’s my best asset,” he said with a grin.

  “And where your brain is, or so it seems,” I mumbled.

  “Anyway, I have a surprise for you that’ll turn that pout back to a snout,” he informed me excitedly.

  “Really? What?” I answered dubiously. Tink’s surprises often left me wanting or injured or both.

  “Nope, I’m not telling you yet. Go and get dressed in something sporty and meet me back here.”

  “Tink-"

  “Wil, in the words of Nike, just do it!” he ordered.

  “Fine!” I relented, storming to my bedroom.

  I am so mature.

  “Oh, Wil?” my secretive fairy shouted as I disappeared from sight.

  Bending my head back around the door, I answered. “Yeah?”

  “Make sure you have a shave. You’re already getting a five o’clock shadow and it’s only eight-thirty!”

  I slammed my door and screamed.

  I dressed for warmth. Most people know that Canada gets very cold in the winter, but in reality it feels like you’re at the North friggin’ Pole and your next door neighbours are a penguin and a polar bear. We were only at the end of October and temperatures were already hovering at a delightful minus twenty degrees Celsius, and a light covering of snow and ice was adding a sparkly glow to everything.

  I dressed in my pink puffa jacket, pink Nordic headband with snowflake motifs, and left my long brown hair hanging loose down my back, exhibiting its natural wave. I had on three pairs of black thermal leggings and two pairs of socks, with leg-warmers to match. My gloves and scarf were bright white to really highlight the stunning beetroot red my face would go after two minutes in the harsh wind chill. Yep, I was going to look very fetching.

  I walked out of my bedroom and bam! I was suddenly front row in Tink’s live version of Olivia Newton John’s ‘Let’s Get Physical’ video. He too was dressed for the weather, and was sporting a multi-coloured neon ski suit – an outfit so bright that Joseph and his brothers would be jealous. He had teamed it with neon green mittens and a faux-fur deer-hunter hat.

  Tink spotted me walking into the room whilst he was stretching out his glutes on the cow-print footrest.

  “Ah-ha! You’re here. Let’s go shall we, my rasher of streaky bacon?”

  “Where are we going, Tink?” I asked whilst reaching for my trainers, or ‘sneakers’, as the locals say. When in Rome and all that.

  “No, Wil!” exclaimed Tink with a growl.

  “What?” I quickly dropped my shoes.

  “You won’t need them, pork scratching,” said Tink, pointing at my footwear choice. “At least not yet.”

  “What are we doing? And why won’t I need shoes in this weather?” I asked, dreading the answer.

 
; He dashed away, and came running back seconds later with two of the most beautiful pairs of white leather, pink-wheeled roller skates I had ever seen. Not blades, but real quad boots like they use in Starlight Express.

  Tearing up, I ran over to a smiling Tink and grabbed them from his hands, stroking the skates like Gollum with the shiny, all-powerful ring. My precious.

  When I had composed myself, I grabbed my super-thoughtful bestie and hugged him tightly.

  “They are gorgeous, just like my old beauties that that bastard bully, Stephen James, threw in a cesspool when we were fifteen.”

  “I know, I saw them on eBay and just had to get them for us. You never did get over losing your pair.”

  “Losing them? They were ripped from me, and with it a piece of my tender heart, and flung into the stinking, smelly depths of Spooks Woods' shit tip,” I sniffed, remembering the overwhelming hurt on that fateful autumn day.

  “So? You ready to try them out?” he teased.

  “OMG! Yes!”

  “So, where are we going to put the speed of these babies to the test?”

  “I was thinking a few laps of Stanley Park and then post-skate lattes at Starbucks?” he suggested.

  “You’re on like Donkey Kong, my fabulous fairy!” and we raced out of the door.

  CHAPTER 9

  Skater-gate Scandal

  Roller skating in the park was beautiful and breath-taking. The wind whipped through my hair, the snow-capped Rocky Mountains dominated the view, and my senses were heightened. A real ‘I’m alive’ moment.

  In our excitement over our new kinky, kitsch boots, Tink and I were flying through the park at unnatural speeds. The only other people around that early on a cold Saturday morning were hard-core joggers and a few dog-walkers. We couldn’t tell if they were annoyed at the two of us or admired the sight of our obvious glee as we glided and soared, overjoyed at being reunited with our favourite teenage pastime. If we’d have had a bottle of cider in our right hands it would’ve been perfect.

  Tink and I breezed around the path surrounding Elbow River hand in hand, pulling each other forward and swapping sides. My diva of a partner got a little bored of the mundane ‘flat’ routine and began to experiment with some Dancing on Ice moves he had recently seen on ITV One. He began humming the tune to Torville and Dean’s gold medal-winning Bolero and started spinning me around whilst picking up a dangerously high velocity.

  I was giggling at his antics and never even thought to look at the floor as we raced down the hill or considered what could be coming our way around the sharp bend. As I expertly pushed out of a spin, my foot slipped, and kept slipping. Tink grabbed me around the waist and we kind of shuffled awkwardly against one another, shrieking and screaming in a soprano pitch… and that was just the fairy!

  Unsurprisingly, with our pink plastic wheels we couldn’t gain any grip, any traction; we were going down and down and boom! We were taken out by an unseen force and we hit the ground hard, my wrecking ball of destruction now situated heavily on top of me, pinning me to the floor and crushing my chest. I couldn’t really take much else in as a dull throbbing in my head was making me lose focus.

  “What the fuck?” exploded the deep voice of my human tackling-machine. I then heard a similar ruckus to my left.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry! Wait, Tink? Is that you?” exclaimed a gentle voice next to me.

  “Well, well, well. Nice to see you again, mister, but if you were that keen to get on top of me you should have at least asked me out to dinner first, you cheeky scoundrel,” Tink replied.

  The other voice laughed shyly. "If you’re being serious, then that, I can do."

  "Oh, really? Then it's definitely a date, mister," Tink confirmed, with excitement in his voice.

  Too disorientated to make sense of what the hell was happening, I decided to just give in to the sleep that was looming, and it all began to go temptingly dark. I could hear bits of talking around me, most prominently Tink giggling and using his ‘fuck me’ voice.

  OMG. I’ve died and gone to Fruit-Fly hell!

  A string of seriously pissed-off grunts and curses brought me back to my own situation with a bang, as the human dumbbell lifted itself off my oxygen-deprived body.

  “Shit. In future watch where you're go– Tash? Tash, is that you? Shit!” said my personal bulldozer, as I felt rough fingers fumble across my face.

  “Tink, isn’t it?” the bulldozer asked someone beside me.

  “Yeah,” Tink answered excitedly.

  “It's Tash, I think she’s hurt.”

  I felt body heat appear near my left ear, and smelled the familiar scent of ‘Fantasy’ perfume by Britney Spears. Tink.

  “Wilbur? Wil, babe, are you okay? Talk to me!”

  I could hear Tink begin to flap. Oh no, this was no time for a fairy meltdown.

  “Calm down, sweetie, she’ll be fine. Check her head, buddy,” I heard the gentle voice from before instruct.

  I felt the surprisingly cautious hands again from the bulldozer, this time on my head, and light breath falling on my face. I could smell him. Mmm… delicious.

  I began to come around, eyesight re-focusing, shapes becoming sharper, sounds becoming clearer until–“Oww!”

  Someone had just pushed something painful at the back of my head. My eyes began to water profusely.

  “Tash? Can you see me? Can you hear me? Does it hurt? Fuck, there’s a huge bump… aww man, it’s bleeding,” the unbelievable-smelling person said. I tried to sit up to see who it was. I felt a hand grasp mine and a second hand push my chest back to stop any movement.

  “Wil, it’s Tink. Talk to me, please.”

  “Tin–”, Pathetic cough, “Tink? Wha-what’s going on?” I struggled to speak.

  “We had a little accident. We crashed into some… joggers,” he said, sounding sheepish.

  “My head. It hurts.” I whined.

  “Hold still, Tash,” the deep voice said. “Just wait until you come around a bit more.”

  “Who- who are you?” I could only hear his gruff voice. He was too close to make out a face.

  I heard a small laugh and felt warm breath against my cheek. “You’ll find out in a few minutes, just stay awake, okay?” he urged.

  “Mmm,” I felt something being put under my head, something warm and soft like a pillow. It smelt like my bulldozer. Wait, my bulldozer? It was woodsy, musky, and just… lovely, it reminded me of home somehow.

  Fingers kept stroking my hand – Tink. I could feel it was him, but another finger was running repeatedly down my cheek and brushing away my hair, it was lulling me to relax.

  “What were you doing on skates in this weather?” the voice asked harshly.

  I went to answer but Tink jumped in, “I bought them for a surprise. We were only trying them out." I realised the question had been directed at him in the first place so I settled back into the pillow.

  “Fucking hell, look at what’s happened! What were you doing when we crashed into you? Do either of you have any common sense? Any at all? Jesus-”

  “We were dancing! Sor-ry, Dad. Is that a crime? Anyway for your information, it was a simple two-step swing that we had already completed several times before!”

  He huffed, and, knowing Tink, he would have dramatically looked away and crossed his arms.

  I chuckled to myself at Tink defending the roller skate dancing. What was he like? Feeling a little better, I broke the strained silence, eyes still closed. “At least we hadn’t progressed to the death-defying ‘head banger’,” I muttered dryly.

  Hands stilled and voices came at me simultaneously.

  “Tash?”

  “Wil!”

  I opened my eyes one lid at a time, my vision coming back to me quicker now. But I was still unconscious and dreaming. I had to be as I saw... I saw, well, a vision.

  “Tud–, Tudor? Tudor North?” Was it really him? Tudor North? Moody, Tudor bloody North!

  Giving a slow, disbelieving head-shake and
that devastating lopsided smirk, he replied. “We need to stop meeting like this, Tash. How are you feeling?”

  “Ugh! Like crap. My head is hurting… a lot,” I moaned.

  My stomach started to flutter at his intense green gaze.

  “Yeah, you really whacked it when we fell.”

  “We?” I asked in confusion.

  “Yes, we. When you took me out… with your dancing… on skates… in winter… on black ice. Yep," he pretended to think deeply. "I think that about sums the situation up," he said, a bit snippily.

  “Great, more Tudor attitude. Just what I need!” Shit, did I say that out loud?

  There was a sharp intake of breath above me, and then muffled giggling sounds coming from the left.

  When I looked up, I saw Tudor scowling at someone, or several people, I couldn’t be sure.

  Had I pulled in an audience? I couldn’t move my head to see. Tudor held it in a vice-like grip whilst straddling me, pinning down my body.

  Yep folks, I often repeat that visual in my head too, you know, on cold and lonely nights.

  He looked back into my eyes. His were sparkling, alight with humour. “Well it seems you’re feeling a little better.” Not a question, a statement.

  “Yeah I think a little. Please can you help me up?”

  He seemed worried; he had a line between his eyebrows that showed his concern.

  Bloody hell, why was that sexy too?

  “Hold on to me and I’ll sit you up. Slowly, eh?” he instructed.

  I nodded lightly, grabbed his massive upper arms, and held on tight to the ripped pythons as he pulled me into a sitting position.

  Ugh, nausea.

  “You feel sick?” he grunted.

  “Just a smidgen,” I whispered, trying to keep composure and not vomit all over him, whilst cringing about the fact that I must resemble the putrid green Wicked Witch of the West.

  “I’ll sit behind you to prop you up until we can move you without you feeling queasy,” he announced, signalling to Tink and… yep, I thought so, Tate to keep me upright whilst he straightened only to lower himself behind me. At least the four of us were the only witnesses to this debacle.