Mark Means Tested (Deff Book 3) Page 3

  "Sure. You know what would make this easier?"

  "Drugs? Drink? A big fat cheque from a record label?"

  "I'd find it easier to come up with ideas if I actually got to meet them," Chris says.

  "Would you look at the time?" Mark pretends to check his bare wrist. "I should get back to work. Songs don't write themselves, y'know?"

  He drags himself out of bed, pulls on his pants and flops on the settee, reaching blindly behind a cushion for his notebook. Chris sits at his desk in his boxers and vest. They work a while in silence, Mark gnawing on his biro while Chris sketches. Eventually, Chris glances over at him.

  Mark reluctantly returns his look. "It might seem like I'm doing nowt but I'm thinking deep thoughts."

  "Right. When can I meet them?"

  "Meet who?"

  "The band. I've barely said hello since you played at Comptons. I've never even managed a hello with Simon."

  "It's not my fault that he likes to piss straight off after gigs. He's determined to bed every woman within the M25," Mark says. "I can answer any questions you've got about that twat. Height: tall. IQ: lacking. Hair: gelled. Favourite band: ABC, if you can call them a band. Favourite food: Wimpy knickerbocker glory. Favourite pastime: impregnating women."

  "I want to talk to him."

  "You're the first person ever to say that. It's a seriously underwhelming experience, a conversation with Mr Sharp."

  "That's what I want for my birthday."

  Mark closes his notebook. "What is?"

  "I want to properly meet Deff for my birthday."

  "I've already got you a present."

  "No you haven't," Chris says.

  "Yes I have, scout's honour."

  "Then what have you got me?"

  "And ruin the surprise?"

  "I can handle it, Michael."

  Mark's imagination momentarily fails him. "I've booked us dinner in Chinatown."

  "At which restaurant?"

  "The scruffy one with all the paper decorations hanging from the ceiling."

  "Did you intentionally pick the scruffy one for my birthday?"

  "They do the best duck pancakes."

  They have a brief stare-off before Chris smirks.

  "Alright. Ring them up and ask for a bigger table."

  "Because you've got an appetite?" Mark guesses.

  "Because it's a good excuse to meet Deff. Make it a table for eight."

  "How big do you think my band is?"

  "The four members of Deff plus me, Andy, Mark and Paul."

  "So a table for seven."

  Chris frowns. "That's eight people."

  "You've double counted me."

  "Deff, me, Andy, Mark and Paul. Eight. How did I count you twice?"

  Mark tries not to look panicked. "Right. I'm Mike, I'm in Deff. Gotcha, sorry, long day."

  "Right."

  They go back to their work before Chris speaks again. "If you really hate the idea, we don't have to. I thought it made sense, since it was your birthday just now. A joint celebration with all of our friends."

  "How d'you know it was my birthday?"

  "You used it as leverage to get me to fuck you last Tuesday. And last Thursday, despite saying you wouldn't ask for another present on the Tuesday."

  "Oh yeah," Mark says. "As far as presents go, that's not bad. Free and fun for everyone."

  "Do you want another present?" When Mark makes to answer, Chris adds "that isn't me fucking you?"

  Mark purses his lips for a moment. "Not sure."

  "There's really nothing you want?"

  He's about to explain that he nicks anything that catches his eye but remembers who he's speaking to and smiles instead. "What can I say? I'm a simple soul. I don't need much to keep me entertained."

  "You can't think of anything?"

  "Tickets for a Supremes tribute act, a good one."

  Chris's eyes crease with a puzzled smile. "I've got to ask-"

  "Then do."

  "Joking about loving The Supremes... that's not really a joke, is it?"

  "No way, I'm deadly serious! Why'd you doubt me?"

  "I just assumed it was a joke, since you've got all the metal t-shirts."

  "I'm a renaissance man. I like some Diana, I like some Dying Fetus."

  "You're hard to pin down."

  He tries to look amused rather than annoyed. "It's not like I've made a secret of it."

  "I guess not. Things always seem like a joke with you."

  "That's because I'm entertaining," Mark says. "Everyone says so. You've said so."

  "What do you want if there's no high calibre Supremes tribute acts touring? Coke or something?"

  Mark gawps like a guppy. "I don't do coke."

  "Mike, I wasn't born yesterday. You're not getting that wired from Double Deckers. Don't lie to me."

  "You don't need to buy me coke for my birthday." He hesitates briefly. "I do speed, actually. But you don't need to go buying that either."

  "You don't do anything stronger, do you?"

  "Not my style, no," he half lies. "Strictly speed and booze for me, strictly recreationally. It helps with the music writing."

  "Keep a handle on it. I've known guys back in Manchester who..." Chris trails off, toying with his pencil. "Just, be careful."

  "Promise."

  "If you've got no other ideas for presents, let's stick with the joint Chinatown dinner."

  "I'm really not confident they're gonna have a table big enough, it's a pokey restaurant."

  "What day did you make your fake booking for?"

  "It's not fake."

  "Don't lie."

  "Fine. I haven't booked yet but I was planning to book it for Wednesday."

  "Hang fire," Chris says. "I'll book somewhere instead."

  "You think I'm not gonna do it?"

  "I think you'll pretend to try booking for eight, then claim you couldn't get a table big enough, yeah."

  Mark scowls. "Only cause I want you to myself."

  "I want to meet the band I'm creating artwork for, it's not a lot to ask. When you're not here, you're with them. I'd like to get to know them."

  Mark tries and fails to think of a counterargument.

  "If you want, we can say we're friends," Chris says wearily. "If it makes you uncomfortable, saying we're..."

  "They know," Mark says curtly. "No-one spends this much time looking at doodles with their mate."

  "Doodles?"

  "Collages. High art. You know what I mean."

  "You're getting stressed."

  "Because I'm supposed to be writing a song and instead we're having bloody couples therapy."

  Chris smiles. "First time you've called us that."

  "There's two of us. That's a couple, last time I checked."

  "Right."

  Chris stands by his side so Mark gets to his feet and returns his look.

  "This has been going on for a year, practically," Chris says.

  "Yeah."

  "I'd like to spend time with you outside of this room."

  "It's a lovely room though, in plush, glamorous Bermondsey." Chris doesn't react to the joke so Mark sobers. "This is really all you want for your birthday?"

  "Really."

  "And you say that, knowing full well that I've got no gag reflex?"

  "I've got a hunch you'll give me a blowjob anyway," Chris says.

  "Got me there. Alright, book it, before I change my mind."

  "It won't be that bad, I'm sure your friends are fine."

  "Let's not be hasty, calling them friends. They're colleagues. Welly and I didn't talk for half a decade, Joe's secretly in love wimme and Simon... the less said, the better."

  "I thought Joe had a thing for Natasha at the deli on Greek Street? That's what she told me."

  "Oh yeah? Then why has he stuck by me for a decade, eh?"

  "Maybe he likes you."

  Mark feels his expression stiffen. "If you say so."

  "I like you."

&nb
sp; "Give it time."

  Chris looks ready to challenge him so Mark grabs and waggles his notebook. "I need to crack on. Me and Sharp have a song writing contest going."

  "A contest how?"

  "Whoever writes the better song gets it as the next single and picks the video treatment for it."

  "I thought your next single was Muck and Brass?" Chris asks.

  "Changed us mind. We need summat that'll do better in the charts. The higher we chart, the more likely we'll get signed for more than tuppence ha'penny." Mark looks at Chris's sketch. "What're you working on?"

  "Ideas for the Muck and Brass video."

  "Ah. Sorry, should've said summat sooner."

  "It's fine, it's nothing much. Do you not want me to work on anything if the winner picks the video treatment?"

  "I meant the winner works on something with you. I'm not good with visuals and Simon's not good with ideas, full stop. We need all the help we can get."

  "How's your new song go? What're the lyrics?"

  Mark considers his near empty page. "It's a work in progress. Be honest now, who'd you rather win? Would you rather spend time with me or Mard Arse?"

  "Are Zoe and Joe not competing?"

  "Just me and diva. Remember, you just said you wanted to get to know Deff better."

  Chris smirks. "Write something good, Michael."

  "Will do," Mark salutes. He sits back, notebook open but gaze sliding over and over to Chris.

  Chris clearly notices and flicks him a smile. "I'm not going anywhere. Get to work."

  The words are spoken too kindly to go to Mark's cock. With a queasy smile he goes back to his notes and draws a blank.

  Chapter 4

  Simon

  "I can't believe you're actually doing this," Ryan says.

  Simon tears the cheque out of his battered old cheque book and shows it to him. "Have I filled that out right?"

  "How'm I supposed to know how you fill out a cheque for nine and a half K? God, just looking at that makes me feel sick."

  "You're not the one spending the money! It's fine, Alan's a mate of Dad's. I've already had a test drive and it handles beautifully."

  "It better do for nine and a half K!"

  Alan is already stood beside the gleaming Audi TT when they turn onto Tudor Road. Simon's grin grows.

  "How d'you even have that kind of money?" Ryan asks under his breath as they get closer.

  "Nan gave me some for Christmas and my birthday last year, plus I got a piddling advance from Solitaire for the singles, plus..."

  "Plus what?"

  "I took out a little loan."

  "You're nuts, you are," Ryan says.

  "It's fine! We're gonna get signed, I'll pay it straight back. It's just an advance on the advance."

  "Do your mum and dad know about the loan?"

  "Ry, Alan's waiting."

  "They don't, do they?"

  "I'm a grown man," Simon insists, ignoring how Ryan snorts. "Come on, let's get this thing bought, time's wasting."

  He strides the rest of the way before Ryan can protest.

  "Thought you were having second thoughts," Alan jokes.

  Simon grins. "Nah, Ryan's just messing around."

  "Alright Alan, how's things?" Ryan asks.

  "Not bad. Not as good as they are for Simon, by the sound of it," Alan says. Simon tries not to look smug. "You're paying by cheque, aren't you?"

  "Yeah." Simon hands it over as confidently as he can.

  Alan gives the cheque a look before pocketing it. "If it bounces, I know where your folks live, young man."

  Simon fakes a laugh. "It won't, I've got an advance from the record label."

  "Deb and Ste were telling me all about it down the club. When can I expect to hear you on the radio?"

  "Soon," Simon invents. "They've already played us a few times on Essex FM."

  "Very good, I'll be telling the papers I sold you your first motor." Alan hands him the keys and Simon can't keep from beaming like it's Christmas morning. "Log book's in the glove compartment with the MOT papers. I topped up the petrol and had it cleaned down the hand car wash yesterday so I think you're all set."

  "Brilliant, thanks so much Alan," Simon says, giving him a firm handshake.

  "You're welcome, Si. Give my best to your folks, won't you?"

  "Course."

  "I'll head in, safe driving you two."

  "Thanks Alan," Ryan and Simon say.

  After Alan closes the door, Simon unlocks the car with a shaking hand. He climbs in, leans over and opens the passenger door for Ryan.

  "Come on, I'll give you a lift home."

  "How the tables turn," Ryan jokes. He laughs as he sits down. "Fucking hell, these seats are practically on the floor."

  "It's a sports car, innit?"

  "Watch you drive straight into someone."

  Simon cuffs him. "Don't joke about that."

  "Bet Alan's watching with the missus behind them net curtains. Bet they stuck her car in the garage so you wouldn't take it out."

  "I'm serious, you'll jinx me. I'm a good driver!"

  "I'm kidding, I'm kidding."

  Simon starts the engine and they share a grin.

  "That's beautiful," Ryan admits as they set off. "Girls' knickers'll slide right off at that."

  "Why, have yours?" Simon asks. Ryan smacks his arm. "Oi! I'm driving!"

  "Don't take the long way home, I need to get ready for work, said I'd pull a longer shift."

  "You sound right pleased about that."

  "Yeah, well, driving Claudia to the warehouse to do boring as fuck manual labour isn't quite as exciting as driving a sports car around with my rock star mate."

  Simon fails to hide his smile. "We can go driving when you're free. Text me your rota."

  "I'm gonna want a go driving her."

  Simon parks at the end of Ryan's drive. "You're not on my insurance."

  "Yeah, but I drive better than you anyway, she'll be in safe hands."

  "Have a good shift, yeah?"

  "Thanks." Some thought seems to strike Ryan. "Oh and give my best to your mum and dad."

  "What's inspired that? Alan?"

  "I'm being polite," Ryan says, with an oddly sweet smile. "Say I hope they're doing alright."

  "Okay?"

  "You'd think I was asking you to sniff them, it's not that weird."

  "I guess not," Simon says dubiously. "Tell me when you're free."

  "Will do," Ryan says before disappearing inside.

  Simon takes out his mobile. After some thought, he texts Mark:

  meet me outside HQ in an hour. got sum1 4 u 2 meet

  Dread to think who comes the rapid reply. See you then.

  ***

  As promised, Mark is stood outside when Simon parks. Once he's spotted who's driving the Audi, he starts laughing obnoxiously.

  Simon winds down the window with a scowl. "What's so funny?"

  "Fucking two seat, soft top sports car in fire engine red? Fucking hell Sharp, he saw you coming, didn't he, the bloke who sold you that."

  "It's a beautiful car."

  "Maybe, but it's the size of my fingernail and last time I checked we live in England, so that top's coming down precisely never."

  "You getting in or what?"

  "Am I allowed to? Where're you gonna put the next girl you see? In the boot? On the roof? On my lap? I seriously can't believe you bought a two-seater after all the palaver last year with the van not having enough seats."

  "Let's not talk about that again," Simon grumbles. "If I see a girl, I'll put her in the passenger seat and you'll have to walk it back. Get in and stop being an arse."

  "You really know how to extend an invitation." Mark climbs in and gives the interior a baffled grin. "Is this brand new?"

  Simon sets off. "No, it's second-hand."

  "How've you paid for it? Turned to a life of crime?"

  "That's rich, coming from you."

  "Seriously, how are you affording th
is if you haven't nicked it?" Mark presses. "Gift from your dear old nan? Negotiated it down to a fiver?"

  The traffic eases so Simon speeds up, grinning as the estuary whips past the window.

  "We're signing with a major," he says. "I used part of the advance, in advance."

  "This time in English?"

  "I got a loan, I'll pay myself back when we sign with Maiden."

  He feels Mark stare at him.

  "You've gotta be kidding."

  "Why have I?"

  "We don't know that Maiden, or anyone for that matter, is gonna offer us an album deal."

  "They will," Simon insists. "Visualise success and it'll happen."

  "Been too long since you've gone all New Age on me."

  "We're having a competition to write a better single. You said yourself, if it does better than Ready, labels'll wanna sign us, what's the problem?"

  "Alright, but say the rest of us vote to stay with Solitaire. How're you paying yourself then, eh?"

  "You're not gonna turn down an offer with a major, you're not that stupid. We can talk the Oes round."

  "Maybe I'd take the Oes' side on this, just to fuck you over. That way I can watch you file for bankruptcy, Simon Skint."

  "Stop calling me that."

  "Where're we driving, anyway?" Mark checks the road signs. "London? What for? Enjoy getting stuck in traffic, do you?"

  "I thought we could check out locations for the music video."

  "You realise the budget's a few hundred quid, don't you? Spielberg ain't directing, it'll just be you, singing at a camera."

  "I get that, but I could still be singing at a camera against a cool background."

  "You're not just using this as an excuse to show off your sports car, then?"

  "I'm already impressive, I don't need to show off," Simon says.

  Mark leans against the headrest as he laughs. "The ego on you."

  "Quit complaining."

  "They should study you, try and figure out what happened that made you so full of yourself."

  "You'd prefer I was shy and retiring? Good qualities in a frontman, yeah?"

  "If you're so impressive, gun it," Mark says. "Why buy a sports car if you're gonna drive at thirty miles an hour? Come on, this road's dead, chop chop!"

  "But if-"

  "The car's not even registered to you yet. Whoever sold it to you'll get the angry letter from DVLA if a camera did flash you. C'mon, y'pansy."