Chapter 6 Daydream
DAYDREAM
MICK
“You missed the bloody turning, Mick!”
“What?” I glanced over to my brother who had the A to Z roadmap open on his lap.
“You were supposed to turn left, back there.” He jabbed a finger at the road map.
“Why didn’t you bloody tell me?”
Patrick’s mouth fell open, and he made a noise that sounded a bit like a fish gasping for air.
“Are you taking the piss?” he asked when he managed to find his voice.
“I did tell you. I told you after the last turn we made. I told you when it was a hundred yards away. I told you when it was the third road on the left, then when it was the second on the left. And somehow, you still went sailing by.”
“Alright, alright. Well, you should have spoken up. Keep your bloody hair on.” I looked around and tried to get my bearings. “Shall I pull over?”
“Yes, Mick,” he said through gritted teeth. “I think that’s a good idea.”
I pulled the van over onto the side of the main road, while he studied the map trying to find the best way to fix my fuck-up. I hadn’t been concentrating. Not on him, not on the road. All I could think about was Michael, and what had happened on Saturday night.
“Any clues where to go?” I asked Pat, and he ignored me. Rightly so. I was being a twat and we both knew it.
“Mick.” He took a deep breath before carrying on. “I am trying to work out where to go. The roads ‘round here don’t make any sense. All twists and turns. It’s worse than Becontree.”
He was right; it was a tricky bit of London. We didn’t work this far in, normally, but we were doing a favour for one of Dad’s mate’s sons. Or something like that. I looked around to see if I could find a way to help and realised we were near Michael’s flat.
My mind drifted to last Saturday, and I was back in his bedroom, in his bed, in him.
That had been a bloody good night. Michael was fucking incredible in bed.
It was up there as one of the best shags I’d ever had.
It made sense. He slutted around as much as I did, and he had a few years on me.
Practice makes perfect, as they say. I wouldn’t mind a bit more practice with Michael, if I was being honest. Maybe next time I was in the club I could–
“Mick!” Patrick bellowed. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yes! Of course I am!” I wasn’t.
“Right. Then what did I say?”
Oh fuck. “You said… take the next left.”
He scowled at me. “Then what?”
“Er…”
“I knew you weren’t bloody listening. I said take the next left, then I’ll direct you back round to the other end of the street the job is on. Okay?”
“Yes, boss,” I said, which earned another scowl from him.
Technically, we were both the boss, which also meant neither of us were.
We each drove a van with another mover from Dad’s company; us being on a job together was unusual.
Bloody good thing too, because we couldn’t get along if our lives depended on it.
“Don’t start,” he mumbled.
I was being a dickhead for no good reason, so I stayed quiet and pulled the giant van back onto the road.
Taking the next left like I was told, we were soon back on track.
Patrick was good with maps and tended to be a competent navigator, not that I’d ever bloody tell him that.
He guided me around the back streets until we found the house we were moving.
Looking at his watch, he grumbled, “Five minutes late,” and prodded me in the chest. “You can go and knock on the door and apologise. I have no idea why, but housewives love you. If I go and do it, I’ll get a slap and a threat to call the coppers.”
He wasn’t wrong; housewives did love me.
Unlike him, though, I knew the reason I was short compared to him, which made me less intimidating.
I was also a bit camp. Nothing like Michael or his friends, but enough that it put women at ease.
And just like that Michael was back in my head.
Gorgeous, sexy, experienced Michael. Oh for fuck’s sake.
I needed to get a grip. Mooning around like a kid with a crush, What the hell was wrong with me?
I jumped out of the van, checked the number on the front door, and rang the doorbell.
Taking off my flat cap and holding it to the front of my brown overalls, I tried to look presentable.
A minute later, the door opened, and a harried looking young woman clutching a swaddled baby to her chest appeared.
“Hello, Mrs Danby, I’m Mick MacDonald, of MacDonald and Sons, the movers.”
She looked absolutely knackered as she looked me up and down warily. I assessed the situation in order to work out the best way to approach her. She was on her own with the baby, and probably terrified at the thought of strange men tramping through her house touching her valuables.
The baby in her arms was tiny, only a few weeks old. The bags under her eyes and the fact that her hair was a day or two overdue for a wash meant the poor girl was knackered.
She wore a fashionable red dress–A-line and cut quite short–which told me she wasn’t an old-fashioned type. Camping it up was my best bet. She’d feel safer if she thought I was bent, and she didn’t seem the sort to call the police on me.
“Don’t worry, Ma’am, I’m stronger than I look, I promise.” I give her a wink. “And my brother is here to help as well, and his wife tells me he’s got the safest hands in London.”
The added detail of Patrick’s (fictional) wife made him a safe presence too.
Her tense shoulders slumped, and she smiled in relief.
That was why the housewives liked me; I was safe.
If I’d judged her to be posher or more traditional, I’d have gone down the super polite, cap-doffing workman route.
I much preferred this way, though I always felt a bit dirty after playing the cheerful cockney labourer, and not in a good way.
“Oh yes, do come in, Mr MacDonald.”
“Please call me Mick.” I followed her into the house. “‘Mr MacDonald’ makes me feel like I’m being told off by the headmaster.”
She giggled, and the tiny bundle in her arms let out a little snuffle. She jiggled the baby a bit and made little shushing noises. “Mick it is, then,” she whispered. “Can I get you and your brother a cup of tea?”
It didn’t seem fair to let her struggle with the kettle and tea things with a baby in her arms, but it would have been very rude to refuse.
“Tea would be lovely, Mrs Danby.”
“If we’re going to be on first name terms, you can call me Grace.
” She went over to a pram in the corner and placed the infant inside, tucking her up in the blankets and laying a kiss on her tiny forehead.
I looked around the room and started forming a plan of action.
Everything seemed to be packed away in boxes, which would make it a lot easier.
I didn’t mind packing away ornaments and the like, but it hadn’t been listed on the job.
The number of times I’d shown up at a house expecting to move boxes and furniture and been presented with a home as it was lived in was too many too count.
They didn’t seem to understand that packing away a whole house took a damn sight longer than just loading a house’s worth of boxes into the van.
“Are tea bags alright, Mick?” Grace called from the kitchen. “Only I’ve packed the teapot and everything away.”
“Not a problem, Grace. As long as it’s hot, wet, and the colour of mud, it’ll do just fine.”
“Does your brother take it the same way?”
As if summoned by the prospect of a cup of tea, the man appeared in the doorway.
“No, Ma’am,” he said, piling on the charm. “Unlike my brother, I have some taste. Two sugars and plenty of milk please, blue top if you have it, please.”
She came out of the kitchen with two steaming mugs.
“It’s all we have because of little Sophie.
” She nodded towards the navy blue pram.
Patrick’s face stretched into a soppy grin.
He was a big softie when it came to babies.
It surprised me he hadn’t already found a girl and got her to pop out a couple of sprogs.
We drank our tea while making quiet small talk and then got on with the job.
It went about as smoothly as a move can.
Being busy with baby Sophie meant that Mrs Danby wasn’t hovering around, worried about breakages–which more often than not made us nervous and caused more breakages than it prevented.
The furniture was all modern and lightweight.
Despite being easy, it wasn’t a quick job. By one o’clock we were less than halfway done emptying the contents of the house into the truck.
“Pat, I’m gonna go and see if I can rustle up something to eat, alright?”
“Yeah, fine. I’ll make sure everything’s secure in here.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder into the van.
“Nice one,” I said and nipped back to the house.
“Mrs Danby?” I called from the front door. She cleared her throat and shot me a stern look. “Sorry, Grace.”
She smiled. “Yes?”
“I’m going to pop out and fetch some dinner for me and Pat. Do you need anything?”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you, Mick. I think we’re alright. The baker on the high street does fresh filled rolls, if he’s got any left.”
“Thanks, Mrs Da–Grace. I’ll go and have a look. Pat’s got some work to do in the van, so he won’t be under your feet. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Walking down the street to find the baker, my mind started wandering, and–big surprise–it wandered straight into Michael’s bed. I couldn’t stop thinking about him; his lithe, lean body, and his delicate, skilled hands.
“Mind out!” said the paper bag. Well, it was probably the person holding the paper bag, but it was so huge I couldn’t see their face. The warning came too late, and I walked straight into them bracing myself with my hands outstretched.
“Umph!” said the person, followed by an anguished cry of, “My buns!”
I stepped back and felt something wet and sticky all over my hands. Looking down, I saw thick whipped cream and gooey red jam all over the sleeves of my work clothes.
“Oh bollocks!” If I went back to Mrs Danby like this and word got back to my dad that I looked like this on a job, he’d have my gut for garters.
“Mick MacDonald, as I live and breathe!”
My head jolted back up, and I saw the cause of my mess. In front of me, covered in as much cream and jam as I was, holding a crumpled and broken paper bag, was Michael. Fucking hell, that was weird.
“Michael?”
“The very same,” he said and put the big bag on the pavement beside us.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I was getting cakes from the bakery. It’s Mary’s birthday, and she likes the sticky buns they do there. Seeing as she covered for me last Saturday by not telling Mrs Delaney that I left early, I thought I’d treat her and the rest of the girls.”
“Erm… alright?”
Michael laughed and pointed at a hairdresser’s on the street. “I work there.”
“You’re a hairdresser?”
“A stylist, dear,” he corrected.
“Oh. That’s nice. I didn’t know.”
“Why would you?”
“I don’t know. I just realised I don’t know anything about you.” That was a weird thing to say. Why was I acting so strange? It’s like sex with Michael had scrambled my brain, and now I didn’t know how to be normal near him.
His eyes darted to the mess on my sleeves. “Do you have something to change into?”
“No. I’ve got nothing. And I’m not wearing anything underneath except my vest and pants. My dad will kill me if I go to a customer looking like this. That’s all he needs–a reason to have a go at me. He might dock my wages. Oh shit, what am I going to do?”
“Okay, first things first. Calm down.” Finding a jam free area, he gripped my arm.
Rather than calming me down, it sent a buzz of excitement through me.
For fuck’s sake, it was his hand. On my arm.
Through several layers of clothing. What had he done to me?
I’d never in my life behaved this way around someone I’d shagged.
It was like he’d cast some kind of magic spell on me.
“Does anyone ever calm down when someone tells them to calm down?” I asked.
“Probably not, now you mention it. But you do need to, because standing on the street having a fit isn’t going to help.”
“Nothing’s going to help. I’m going to have to go back there in this state.
I’ve got no choice.” I looked at my sleeve again.
It was still covered in jam and cream. Not sure what I expected, to be honest. His hand was still holding my arm, and I couldn’t think straight.
Stupid Michael and his stupid sex magic.
“Oh shit, I still need to find something for us to eat. That’s why I’m here.
But I can’t go shopping looking like this.
Pat won’t complain because he’s not a dickhead, but he will be upset.
And he’ll end up mentioning it to Mum–not on purpose, it’s just what he does–and then she’ll tell Dad and then I’ll be for it. ”
“Mick, stop!” He put a hand on my shoulder, and the solid connection made me feel better right away. “All is not lost.”
“It isn’t?” I hated how pathetic I sounded.
“No. We’re right near my flat.”
I looked around and realised we were standing in front of Jackie’s cafe. The estate Michael lived in was a couple of streets away. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed, with the way his face–and the rest of him–kept popping into my head.
“Oh yeah, I hadn’t noticed,” I said.
“I’ll take you home–in a manner of speaking.
” He looked away and cleared his throat, and I was thankful he did because I felt my cheeks heating up.
“We’ll see what we can do to clean you up, and we’ll get you a cuppa.
” He looked at me again. “Or maybe something stronger. And I even have some bread and ham to make some sandwiches for you and… Patrick?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Alright, let’s get you off the street, shall we?”
“Yes, okay. Let’s do that.”
He threw the crumpled paper bag in a nearby dustbin and put his hand on my back to guide me, which caused such a reaction I had to hold back a shudder.
Definitely some kind of sex magician. Following him seemed like the right thing to do, even if he did keep making my body react weirdly.
He was very calm and grown up and knew what to do, which I shouldn’t have found sexy, but I did.
“What about your cakes? Do you want me to buy some more? For your friend?”
“Don’t worry about it. She wasn’t expecting it. It’s alright.”
“Alright.”