Waiting for a Prince (2 page)

feigned puzzlement. April flicked her head toward Sam. “The tall drink of water on the couch.”

It was evident she was asking to be sociable. April rarely bothered to speak to him. She was

usually more interested in what color she could dye her hair next. Today’s choice was purple,

and together with the purple sparkly eye shadow and lips the color and size of ripe, swollen

grapes, she was getting a few glances—and not for the right reasons. Mark was amazed Marie

hadn’t said anything yet. He glanced at his watch. The day was still young, though.

Mark gave a non-committal shrug. “Not really,” he said, lying through his teeth. “I’m

not sure I have a type, in any case.” Like he’d discuss it with
her
. April gave a bored nod and went on her way, taking with her the odor of spearmint which seemed to surround her all the

time. Mark glanced wearily at his watch yet again and gave a sigh. Only six more hours to go.

9

time. Mark glanced wearily at his watch yet again and gave a sigh. Only six more hours to go.

And time for his break.
Yes
!

He nipped into the kitchen and put the kettle on, before dropping a teabag into his mug.

He couldn’t resist one more glance. He peered out and then froze.

Sam was stony-faced, his gaze fixed on the woman as she glared at him yet again.

“What do you mean, you didn’t book the restaurant?” Her voice grated. Mark shivered

to see that gimlet-eyed stare.

“Becky, you—”

She cut him off. “I
told
you not to call me that,” she gritted out vehemently. “My name is
Rebecca
.”

Sam got to his feet and reached for his black leather jacket, which was draped over the

back of the couch. “Well,
Rebecca
, maybe
you’ve
forgotten that you said you’d changed your mind and you didn’t want to go tonight, but
I
haven’t suddenly developed amnesia.” He slung the jacket over his shoulder. “So I’ll talk to you when you’ve finished here and you’ve decided to be civil.” He squared his shoulders and met her furious gaze. Mark noted the quick swallow

as Sam’s Adam’s apple bobbed, the slight tremor that rippled through his lean body. Sam’s

brave stance was clearly a smokescreen. The guy was nervous.

“Where the
hell
do you think
you’re
going?” Rebecca shrieked as Sam turned and

strolled out of the salon onto the bright sunlit street. Mark watched him walk slowly past the

window and head toward Union Street, head down. Mark glanced to see how Rebecca was

faring. Her cheeks were mottled purple, her eyes almost bulging from their sockets. Sonia was

making soothing noises, but Mark could’ve told her the attempts to placate Rebecca didn’t even

register on the woman’s spectrum. Sonia didn’t exist, as far as she was concerned. The shocked

stares of the three clients in the salon served only to infuriate her further. Her lips a narrow slash of bright red, she swiveled in her seat to stare at her reflection, silently fuming. Mark wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam coming out of her ears.
Wow… lady has a temper
.

Shaking his head, Mark retreated into the kitchen and poured boiling water onto the tea

bag. He stood there, eyes closed, fists clenched. Mark hated scenes like this, so reminiscent of his childhood. Christ, Sam could have been his father, only the man had never once stood up to

his wife—like Sam had just now—in all their sixteen years of marriage. Mark fought to

maintain his composure.
Don’t think about that now. Dad’s out of it, thank God
.

10

The sound of someone clearing their throat had Mark opening his eyes in a hurry, and

then sighing with relief when he saw that it was Sonia. She was regarding him anxiously.

“You all right, sweetie?” Her soft voice was like music. Sonia’s family came from

Portugal, but her accent seemed to be a hybrid of different nationalities. She always spoke

kindly to everyone, and give them their due, no one had a bad word to say about the woman.

She laid a gentle hand on his arm.

“Has she gone?” Mark asked. The salon was quiet once more, save for the music and the

soft murmurs between the stylists and their clients. Sonia nodded and Mark let the breath he’d

been holding escape in a long exhale.

“Anything you want to tell me about, Mark?” That hand squeezed his arm.

Mark shook his head, although he was genuinely touched. “Nothing you could help with,

Son.” He leaned across and kissed her cheek and she blushed “But thank you.” She patted his

arm and withdrew, leaving him to sip his tea in silence. Unfortunately, a sip or two was all he had time for. Marie stuck her head around the door and tapped her watch.

“But this is my bre—” That was as far as he got before Marie’s eyes bulged.

“The salon is a mess, Mark. That’s your responsibility, isn’t it? That’s what I
pay
you for, isn’t it?” There was no humor in her thin smile.

Mark gave up. No use arguing with the bitch when she’d plainly had it in for him since

the minute he’d walked through the door that morning. “Yes, Marie,” he intoned, the words

disturbing the air in front of his face, nothing more. With a final glare she withdrew and Mark poured away the tea with a heavy sigh. Back to work.

* * * * * * * * * *

unit was spic and span, not a single stray hair remained on the laminated floor and to the rear of the salon, the second waiting area with its comfy purple leather couch and silk flower

arrangements was immaculate.
Let her find fault with
that.

All the girls waited by the door as Marie gave the salon a final check. April and Wendy

were already on their phones, no doubt texting their friends as to where they would all meet up.

11

were already on their phones, no doubt texting their friends as to where they would all meet up.

Mark had gone along with them on a couple of occasions, but he hadn’t done that for a while

now. He’d grown bored of being required to give his opinion of every guy who walked through

the main door of the pub. Apparently, being gay meant he fancied every bloke on the Isle of

Wight.
Yeah, right
. Carol, the receptionist was talking animatedly with Deb and Janine about a party that she was giving the following month, to which they had all been invited. Sonia was on her phone, talking to her husband Dave. She caught sight of Mark and smiled.

“All done, ladies—and Mark,” Marie announced at last, reserving another thin-lipped

smile for Mark. “Have a good weekend, and see you next week.” With smiles and polite phrases

the staff filed out of the salon, Mark trailing behind. He avoided making eye contact with Marie as he slipped past her, and was relieved to see Sonia waiting for him. The rest of the girls had already dispersed, most of them in the direction of Wetherspoons for a drink or three.

Sonia’s eyes sparkled with good humor. “Want to walk with me down Union Street? I’m

parked at the bottom today. There were no spaces near here this morning.”

Mark nodded. They were going the same way anyway. They turned the corner and

began the trek down the steep hill which was the main street in Ryde. Sonia linked her arm

through his and they walked down the street in silence for a minute or two.

“What was going on earlier, sweetie?”

Mark’s brow furrowed. “When?” The whole day had been shit from beginning to end.

“When I found you in the kitchen. You were looking stressed out.”

Mark thought back. “Oh, it was just that woman treating her husband or boyfriend,

whatever, like crap.”

“Sure that was all?” He could hear the concern.
Bless her
.

Mark squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Yeah, I’m sure. Besides, day over, right?”

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Hoo, yeah. Dave says he has a delicious dinner waiting

for me.”

Mark grinned. “Lucky girl.” She beamed. She and Dave seemed to be a match made in

heaven. The thought sobered him momentarily. The Isle of Wight wasn’t exactly brimming over

with gay men. In fact, the pickings were slim.

Sonia squeezed his arm. “You’ll find someone, sweetie.” He couldn’t help but smile.

How does she do that
? Sonia had a touch of the psychic about her sometimes. She gestured with 12

How does she do that
? Sonia had a touch of the psychic about her sometimes. She gestured with a wide sweep of her arm. “Somewhere out there is the perfect guy for you.”

Mark followed the direction of her arm. “Yeah, exactly—over the Solent in Portsmouth.”

They both laughed.

They reached the foot of the hill and crossed the road to enter the main car park, which

was virtually empty. Sonia stopped by her little VW Polo and pulled Mark into a fierce hug.

“You try and relax this weekend, hon,” she admonished. “Enjoy your day off. Maybe go

across to the mainland tonight? You never know. Your Prince might be waiting for you in some

gay bar as we speak.” She winked.

Mark kissed her cheek. “Sorry, Son, but I don’t think that’s gonna happen. You have

your
fairy tale guy, but they’d run out by the time I came along. Go home to your man and have a nice weekend.” Her face fell and Mark felt like shit for passing his negativity onto her. He

kissed her again. “Don’t mind me. Get a few beers down me and I’ll feel much better.”

Appearing only slightly reassured, Sonia bobbed her head and climbed into her car. She

waved cheerily to him as she headed out of the car park. Mark walked slowly over to his aging

Ford Fiesta and got in. Instead of turning the ignition, he stared out through the windscreen at the horizon, where the Spinnaker Tower rose above the Portsmouth landscape across the water.

He could hear the hovercraft revving up, ready to speed its occupants over to the mainland

where home awaited some of them, a night of fun for others. He wasn’t in the mood.

For some reason his thoughts turned to the couple in the salon. He could still see that

beautiful guy—Sam, that was it—and his harridan of a partner. Why anyone would put up with

such vitriol was beyond him. He closed his eyes as he recalled a conversation with his father

some years before.

“I shouldn’t have put up with it for so long, Mark.”

Mark clutched his father’s hand. “Then why did you?” He had to know.

Fred Horrocks had looked so small and frail, lying there in that hospital bed. There

seemed to be tubes everywhere, but the steady beep of the heart monitor comforted the fifteen
year old Mark, reassuring him that his father would recover.

“I thought it would get better,” his dad said at last. “I thought, ‘there has to be an end to
all this anger, doesn’t there?’ I mean, she can’t have an infinite supply, can she?” He attempted
to smile, but his face suddenly contorted in a grimace as the steady beep changed to a more
13

to smile, but his face suddenly contorted in a grimace as the steady beep changed to a more
erratic rhythm. Mark looked around in desperation for someone,
anyone
, to help his father, and
was then pushed hastily aside as the doctors and nurses fought to revive him, leaving the

teenager standing beyond the curtain, listening to the last breaths that his father gasped on this
Earth. The cardiac arrest which had struck without warning three hours previously had

apparently not given up, and his father’s damaged heart evidently saw the futility in fighting a
losing battle.

Tears streaked down his face as he watched the shadow-play on the curtain surrounding

his father, as figures slowly retreated, pulling back in defeat.

“Mark?”

He stiffened at the sound of his mother’s voice as she came up behind him. He didn’t

turn. He couldn’t bear to look at her right now.

“You’re too late. He’s gone.”

Mark shook himself, pushing down the painful memory that had only lost a little of its

intensity during the last five years. He hoped to God Sam had more strength of will than his

father.
No one
should have to put up with so much anger. He prayed Sam had the good sense to walk away while there was still time.

14

Mark loved Mondays. Okay, so Sundays were pretty cool too, but that was usually when

there were more people out and about over the island, as virtually all the shops closed but the attractions, such as they were, remained open. Sunday was Mark’s day to clean his small flat, get the weekly shopping in, and generally work through his To Do list, crossing off each item with

relish. Unfortunately, it was also the day his mother usually chose to make her weekly phone

call.

Monday was his day off. And summer Mondays were the best.

Mark parked the car at Yaverland car park, and after paying for his parking ticket, he

headed down to the beach to go for a walk along the shore. It was a glorious August morning.

The temperature was already pleasant, considering the fact that it was eight o’clock, and there were only a few people dotted over the beach. A few lone dog walkers were the norm at this

hour. Mark loved coming here at this time, before all the tourists arrived with their kids,

windbreaks and other beach paraphernalia. Come midday, this section of the beach would be

knee-deep in children and dogs. Not that Mark had anything against children and dogs—it just

turned a simple walk along a beach into an obstacle course.

His rucksack nestled easily between his shoulder blades, Mark walked along the