Arlandria - 2. Mark

Mark’s chiselled knees poked out from the rips in his washed-out skinny jeans, the tears and fraying led all the way up his thighs. Even though it was twilight, he moved up the High Street in his aviators checking out the women undetected as they spilled out of the tube station. The prominent Standard headline screamed fire and brimstone, but Mark didn’t notice. This was not due to his sunglasses, but because he had no interest in headlines. The Pussy Cat Lounge’s doorman Frank saw Mark making his way up the hill, walking to the rhythm of the beats banging through his headphones. When he arrived, the door was conveniently held open and Mark flashed Frank a smile of recently bleached pearly whites. Frank’s acknowledgement was reserved.

Mark didn’t know everyone, he just knew the ‘right’ people. So, even though he’d never seen her before and hadn’t introduced himself, he got to know her name within about a minute of having spotted her on the dance floor. He’d surreptitiously taken a photo on his phone and distributed it to his mates. Jake’s phone had pinged and as he was in the club too, he sauntered over to Mark, bumped fists with him and leant in to divulge the name right up close to Mark’s ear:

“Arlandria.”

Mark’s mind slipped away to a place in the country. He lay under a willow tree in the lush grass and warm dappled light. Arlandria lay with him. She sucked his thumb.

Mark snapped himself out of it.

Mark had looks, the kind that would catch a girl’s eye and make her forget what she was saying in mid-sentence. He wore his t-shirts tight to accentuate his pecs and biceps. His physique was one that, thanks to lucky genes, needed a minimum of physical attention, and a mind that retained only details that would get him where he wanted to go. Effort was alien to Mark.

Mark’s modelling career was successful, but it was also his perfected charm that got him places. He had honed a disarming friendliness that made strangers accept him quickly, treating him like they’d known him for years, happily lulled by a nagging familiarity. They couldn’t quite place him and didn’t remember seeing him on a billboard or in the pages of a magazine. If you were lucky enough to befriend him, he had a way of gathering you into his exclusive fold, making you feel wanted and special. There wasn’t a thing he couldn’t procure or a threshold he couldn’t pass. If a mate asked a favour, a favour was delivered, with bells on. All of these attributes contributed to his achieving all he wanted in life, always.

Mark scanned Arlandria up and down as she moved and swayed to the music. She had everything going for her and didn’t even know it, this in itself enhanced her standing with the opposite sex, same sex, anything with a heartbeat actually, and the ill-disguised longing on the faces of the other men and women on the floor only made Mark want her more.

Mark locked eyes with her, flashing his professional lightbulb grin, looked away at the floor for a beat, then looked back at her, this time smiling shyly. He could tell she hadn’t broken her gaze, hadn't even blinked, and she looked flushed.

Mark projected past the first couple of dates he’d have with her, past the first few encounters where he’d give her all he thought she wanted. He couldn’t wait for the moment he could stop calling her baby, for the time he would flip her over, pin her down and call her bitch.

Mark jumped off the barstool and made his way to the dance floor.

Foo Fighters song: For All The Cows 

Mark will be mentioned in Arlandria.
He may even make an appearance depending on how generous I feel. 

One thing’s for sure: he has a small part. 

Richard Curtis always writes a ‘Bernard’ into his films. The story goes that there was once a Bernard in his life whom he hated for whatever reason: Mark is my Bernard. This version is harsh and two dimensional and is entirely intentional. Each paragraph starts with his name, because it was always about Mark.

Should I give Mark a bigger part? Comments welcome. x C x