Eternally North (15 page)

I turned away,
embarrassed. “Same really – family, TV, music, his acting,
nothing of great substance. Oh, he did say one thing though. He
thinks you hate him.”

Tink was genuinely
shocked and upset. “I don’t hate him, I don’t
hate
anyone. Negativity gives you wrinkles. I just don’t trust him with
you. It is my job to see you don’t get hurt again, and I think he
is pain and heartache all tied up in a Tudor-shaped gift box.”

“Well, go easy on
him, okay? I’m not going to discuss this again. I appreciate the
concern but there is nothing to be concerned about. We are drawing a
line under it, capisce?”

He smirked. “Capisce.”

We shook on it. Well,
slapped hands twice, blew two kisses to the side and Eskimo-kissed
with our noses – our own version of a hand shake.

“So what’s the plan
for today?” I asked.

“Pookie’s going to
pop around, and I thought we could have a movie day.”

“Sounds good, what we
watching?”

“Well, we’re
starting with
Priscilla Queen of the Desert
, then
The Rocky
Horror Picture Show
and maybe
Mamma Mia
to finish?” he
proposed, seeking approval.

I laughed. “Bloody
hell, Tink, do you sneeze glitter?” I teased.

He pouted and nodded.
“I sure do, and I piss pink martinis! So are you in?”

“I’m as in as you
are out!”

“Then let’s get this fairy show
on the road,” he winked.

About midday, Tate let
himself in, armed with an arsenal of camp DVDs and enough
sugar-filled candy that he could have been Willy Wonka himself. I
settled on the sofa and Tink and Tate sprawled out on the sheepskin
rug in front of the fire.

We made light
conversation, and they were talking animatedly about the view of the
skyline from the rotating Calgary Tower. I let my gaze wander around
the room and smiled when it landed on the vase full to the brim of
sunflowers. They always made me happy.

Tate interrupted my day
dream. “Do you like the sunflowers, Tash?”

I beamed. “They are
my absolute favourite, I can’t believe you knew to get me them.
Talk about being bang on.”

He coughed, hiding a
grin.

“What?” I inquired,
confused.

“Err, I actually
picked tulips for you. Tudor was watching me from the car, and when
he saw me picking the tulips, he got out – even though he hates to
be noticed – marched into the store and said that the tulips didn’t
suit you at all. He searched the shop and stopped dead in his tracks
at the sunflowers. He picked as many as he could carry and took them
to the counter. When I asked why he chose them, he said that they
reminded him of you. Said that they were bright and bold and that
they always make people smile – funny how spot on he was, eh? Plus,
the woman who owned the shop had no clue who he was – so I’d say
it was a successful trip all around!”

I could feel the heat
rising to my face, glowing red. How weird that he knew that I adored
them. What was he, a bloody flower psychic?

‘
Mmm, Natasha
these sunflowers are the botanical personification of you and your
exuberant personality.’

“Erm yeah, he picked
well I guess,” I said, flustered.

Tink suddenly
interjected, “Why didn’t he give her them himself, then? If he
went through all that risk to get them for her, why let you take all
the glory?” He wasn’t being bitchy, just genuinely curious.

Tate squirmed. “He
thought it may have looked a bit forward and he didn’t want her to
get the wrong idea, you know, receiving flowers from a movie star,
most people would think it meant more than a ‘I’m sorry I gave
you a concussion’ and more of a ‘My dreams are coming true, a
movie star loves me!’”

My heart sank right
down to my big toe. If I had harboured any remaining delusion that
Tudor liked me as more than a friend, maybe even just as a
‘Mmm
it could maybe happen one day’
or even just a
‘I bet Tash
would be a cracking shag’
, then that comment alone killed it.

After a few moments of
increasingly awkward silence as Tate became aware he might have just
put his size nine winkle-picker in his mouth, I suggested we put on
the first film.

Tink looked at me as
his new fellow operated the DVD, and mouthed, “You alright?”

I smiled and nodded.
Tink knew what I had been fighting against in my head. I liked
Tudor... a lot.

There, I’ve said
it!

I let out a dejected
sigh. “What we starting with, Tater-Tot?” I teased, using Tink’s
inventive pet name.

“
Priscilla
okay?” I could tell he was worried he’d offended me.

“Yep, let’s watch a
cock in a frock on a rock,” I quoted.

He gave a shy grin, and we settled
back and watched our fill of Australian drag queens bopping to the
soundtrack of Cece Peniston and lots of ‘
fucking
’ Abba.

We had just started the
second film in our movie-marathon day,
The Rocky Horror Picture
Show
, when there was a knock at the door. Tink jumped up and
seconds later he walked back in, followed by Tudor. My fairy drew my
attention and gave me his ‘
I told you so
’ glare.

Tudor moved from behind
him to meet my eyes, and gave me his lop-sided smirk. The killer
Tudor smirk.

Heart. Skips. A.
Beat.

“Hey, Tash. How are
you today?” he asked in an upbeat tone.

He looked good, as
always. Hell, who am I kidding, he looked positively edible. He had
on dark-wash jeans and a fitted long black T-shirt, showing the top
of his tattoo-coated pecs and as ever, a matching black beanie hat. I
quickly glanced down at myself, not remembering what I had thrown on
haphazardly that morning. Standard black leggings and long denim
shirt with my hair in a messy bun and the puppies pushed together,
creating a fabulous cleavage. Not too shabby.

“I’m feeling loads
better, thanks. Cheers for looking after me last night. Sorry I
wasn't awake when you left.”

He smiled back at me,
flashing the delicious dimples, and shrugged. “No problem, glad I
could help.”

I stared at him, my
head tilted to the side in contemplation. He seemed different –
friendlier, and not as stiff. He was speaking to me like one of the
guys, where before he had been more intense.

He headed in my
direction, jumped onto the couch next to me and scooped up some of
the sweet popcorn I was clutching in my hands, pushing the whole lot
into his mouth.

“You hungry?” I
teased.

He lightly punched my
shoulder. “Always hungry for your goods, Tash.” he laughed.

He punched my arm, my
friggin’ arm!
Well shucks, friend-zone it is.

“Tate was just
telling us that it was actually you that chose the sunflowers for
Wil,” Tink chirped up as I nursed the burgeoning bruise on my upper
tricep.

Tudor fidgeted and
blushed under the fairy’s steely gaze, rubbing his lips together,
exposing his dimples. “Oh, yeah... I did.”

He flicked a glance my
way. “They just reminded me of you. I don't know… I-”

“I love them, thanks.
A nice apology gesture from a new
friend
,” I interrupted,
taking into consideration what Tate had just said and exaggerating
our platonic status.

He looked slightly
confused but chose to ignore it. “So, what are we watching? Is that
Tim Currie in latex and suspenders?” he leaned forward to get a
closer look.

I laughed. “Sure is.
Keep watching, big boy. You’re in for a real treat!”

He fell back and
shuffled closer to the popcorn bowl between us. “I have a feeling
this will be educational, Tash.”

I winked. “Like I keep saying, if
there is one thing Natasha Munro can do, it’s teach!”

And so the afternoon
went on, involving lots of jokes and friendly banter and absolutely
no touching or all-consuming stares from Tudor. I’m going to be
honest and say that I was a tad gutted about the lack of physical
contact or affection, but at least we were friends. When Tudor
loosened up, he was actually really nice to be around.

The rest of the week
went by in much the same way. Tate would come over to see Tink, Tudor
would tag along, and we would chat and watch TV or play games.

Our favourite topic of
discussion was linguistics. Tudor introduced me to Canadian slang
words and ribbed me about my accent. He tried to imitate me, but,
like most non-Geordies, he ended up sounding like a dodgy version of
Dick Van Dyke in
Mary Poppins
.

He laughed at my
pronunciation of his name, ‘
Chew-da
’, and informed me that
beanie hats in Canada were ‘Tuques’ (pronounced ‘Toook’) and
woolly hats in no way resembled beans, thus ‘beanie’ was a stupid
name in the first place. I couldn’t believe he thought ‘Tuque’
was any better.

He explained that
Canadians say ‘eh’ at the end of practically every sentence, and
he laughed when I told him us Geordies say ‘like’ at the end of
ours. He explained that a ‘loonie’ was a dollar coin and a
‘toonie’ was a two dollar version, and I made him say ‘out
house’ over and over again until we could barely breathe from
laughing. I explained what the difference between a ‘bonny lass’
and a ‘canny lass’ was, and introduced him to the staple terms of
‘alreet’, ‘Aye’ and of course the obligatory ‘howay, man!’
Tudor vowed never to go to Newcastle without me there as his personal
translator.

As the days passed by,
Tudor was turning out to be a close friend, something I learned he
didn’t have too many of, and I was happy with our new friendship. I
was still not immune to him by any means, and when he flashed the
dimples or when he first walked into a room, I admit I drooled a
little and had to fight to keep my composure. But he was completely
stunning and my body couldn’t deny that, as much as I wished it
could.

Time passed quickly in
our new life and it was soon November. The school show was just over
one week away. It was snowing non-stop and I had on more layers than
a Pass the Parcel present. Work was crazy–busy, the show taking up
all my free time during the week, and weekends were filled with
activities with my new bud, Tudor.

Saturday morning came,
and my slumber was interrupted by
Simple Minds’
‘Don’t
You Forget About Me’ coming from my phone – the personal ringtone
I had assigned to Tudor.

“Piss off,
Hollywood!” I answered as politely as I could at seven-thirty in
the morning on my day off.

“No can do, you lazy
grouch. Get up, Tash, I’m coming for you in half an hour, and its
minus-fifteen and snowing, so dress warm.”

“Ugh, what are you
doing to me? Where the hell are we going at this time?” I asked,
rubbing sleep from my eyes.

“It’s a surprise.
Chop, chop,” he ordered cheerily. Well, as cheery-sounding as
someone can be when they have a moody, brooding, and gravelly voice.

After a hot shower, I
dressed in my pink snow suit, applied my truck-load of make-up,
combed through my hair, leaving it down, and made my way to the
kitchen to grab a slice of toast.

As I turned the corner
I stopped dead at the sight of Tate buck-naked apart from a small
towel wrapped tightly around his waist; actually it looked more like
a face flannel.

“Well hello, Mr.
Muscle,” I quipped in my best seductive voice.

Tate whipped around to
my direction, obviously embarrassed and clinging to his miniscule
loin cloth with all the strength that he had.

“So, did you finally
give up the goods and stay the night?” I asked light-heartedly.

“Erm, yeah, is that
okay?” Bless, he was so embarrassed.

“Ha! Totally, chuck.
I’m surprised it hasn’t happened before now. Tink is not normally
so…
restrained
.”

“Wil! Stop grilling
my lover,” trilled my sex-happy fairy, appearing at his bedroom
door. He turned to ‘Pookie’, “You find the whipped cream okay?”

Tate held up the can
and ran back into the bedroom without looking back at me. I laughed
and gestured a thumbs up to Tink, who in turn pursed his lips and
used his hands to create a distance of about ten inches, winked and
walked backwards into the bedroom, firmly shutting the door.

Lucky bastard!

I quickly gobbled down
my breakfast, and just as I was putting my plate into the dishwasher
the doorbell went.

I opened the door, and
there was Tudor in a black North Face jacket, black beanie hat and
dark jeans, holding up white ice-skates with leopard-print laces in
one hand and coffee in the other,

“For you,” he said
proudly, passing me the skates.

“Arghhhh! Are you
serious?” I screamed, way beyond excited.

He laughed. “Yep, I
can’t quite pull off animal print. Thought I would take you skating
– you know, the kind that is appropriate for arctic conditions.”

“Har-bloody-har! But,
one slight problem. I can’t ice skate,” I admitted.

His face contorted in
shock.

Yes, yes, it
possible that I can’t skate. Bloody Canadians! Not everyone lives
on frozen water.

“Then that we shall
remedy!” he replied in a terrible William Wallace accent. Our
attention was suddenly caught by a loud ecstatic groan coming from
Tink’s room.

I quickly looked to
Tudor and winced. “I say we go, unless you want to listen to the
explicit soundtrack that accompanies Tink in the throes of passion?”

He shuddered
dramatically. “Let’s go.”

It was at that moment
Tinks bedroom door flew open. We stood gaping at the buck-naked fairy
standing, without shame, in his doorway.

“Tink? What’s up?”
I asked, and realised that it was very evident exactly what
was
up.

“I thought I heard
the door.” He peered around my shoulder. “Hey, Tudor.”