Eternally North (9 page)

“John?
Psht
,
it's Tink and you know it. What’s come over you?” he hissed
glaring at me as though I had lost my mind.

Through gritted teeth I
started again. “Fine! Tink this is Pamela, Boleyn, Samantha, Henry,
Tate and Tudor. Everybody this is Tink, my best friend, roommate and
fellow Geordie,” I gestured in his direction.

Henry began laughing,
and Samantha hit his shoulder to shut him up.

I raised a questioning
eyebrow. “What?”

Henry pointed along the
table. “Tash, Tink, Tate and Tudor. All T’s – thank God you
don’t all hang out, it’d be a total nightmare remembering all
your names.”

I giggled. “Good job
your hulk of a brother can’t stand me then, eh?” I lightly
flicked Tudor on his arm, but he instantly grabbed my hand and stared
at me, squeezing my hand gently in his.

“I don’t hate you,”
he mumbled, all seductively.

I couldn’t look away,
and felt frisky little shivers creeping up my arm from where his hand
touched mine and that familiar warm sensation heading south.

Henry cleared his
throat and broke the tension, “Tink? That’s a strange name.
Where’s that from?” he asked with a curious side-look at me and
his brother.

“Well, it’s a funny
story. Wil and I–”

“Wil?” interrupted
Tudor, looking mightily confused and breaking our weird little
exchange.

“Yeah, Wilbur,”
replied Tink, naturally assuming people would make the connection
with me and the famous literary pig.

“You mean, Tash?”
he clarified.

“Well, yeah but she’s
been Wil to me since we were twelve. You know, she was named after
the pig –”

“Well, I think we’ll
leave it there, hey, Tink? Are you ready to go?” I interrupted,
practically shouting while nipping his back and Chinese-burning his
arm.

“Ow, Wil!”

I glared at him with
daggers in my eyes, daring him to continue his delightful
storytelling.

With a defeated huff,
he spat out in a prissy tone. “Fine, yes.”

I noticed Tudor
silently laughing, and I rolled my eyes at him in reference to Tink.
I also noticed Tate. He was staring at the self-named
‘Friggin’fantastic fairy’ and was practically salivating.

Tudor, having seen me
studying Tate, covertly glimpsed his way too and raised an eyebrow
knowingly. Tink, on the other hand, was oblivious to Tate’s
attention. He was too busy trying to embarrass me to notice anything
else going on around him. I decided it was time to make an exit.

“Thank you for
inviting me to meet you all properly, and for not holding my earlier
performance against me. It was really nice to meet you. Tudor, good
luck with the acting. Not that you need it but–
ah
, you know
what I mean,” I flustered. “Boleyn, have a nice break, and I’ll
see you next week. Samantha, Henry, Tate, Pamela, I hope you have a
good night.”

With that, Tink and I
headed towards the door, arms linked and giggling when I heard. “Nice
to meet you too...
Wil
.”

I whipped my head
around, stopping dead in my tracks.

Tudor had twisted in
his seat, an amused expression on his face, obviously tickled at my
swine-themed nickname.

Tink started laughing
his head off at his dig, and I proceeded to stick my tongue out at
Tudor, earning a loud, bellowing laugh from the Blade Reaper himself
as I dragged a giddy fairy through the exit.

One-nil to him.

Tudor
Bloody
North!

The morning after…

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.

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.