The Tea/Tee Pun

The glass-panelled plastic, white door swung open and Casey strode towards the bar, pulling up a leather stool. Her headset and radio hit the marble countertop with a thud. The drizzling rain stuck like beads of sugar on her hairline.
“Oh my life, Esther, I don’t know how long I can keep driving that guy around without ripping off his shirt.”
A young girl with big, sea-green eyes and a polo shirt on made a sympathetic face. Her fine, brown hair was pulled back neatly from it’s perfectly centered parting like a Disneyworld employee. She was putting clean glasses from a plastic crate on to the shelves under the bar, and when she leant forward little static hairs fell in front of her face. She stood up and brushed them away, exhaling deeply before replying.
“I dunno what to tell you, Case, except you probably shouldn’t bite the bottom lip of Peter Nyman. At least, not without a pretty definite come-on.”
“I know, honey, I know, but what am I supposed to do? The guy has got a Scandanavian accent and fag burns on his golf trousers.”
Casey put her face in her hands, resting her elbows on the counter. She felt the coolness of the marble even through her waterproof jacket. For the last few days her job had been to drive Peter Nyman, an ex-European golf pro, around in her cart. He was doing some presenting with the TV network she worked for and whenever he wanted to go to the studio or the course or the club house, she was his ride. The first day had been alright, he was a relatively quiet man, just happy to drag away on a cigarette and examine the holes of the golf course as they drove past it in silence. But after a few trips she started noticing how broody he looked as he gazed into the distance, and how smooth his voice was. That slight Scandavian lisp gave him a hint of Sean Connery which put the image of a James Bond-style sex scene firmly implanted in her mind. For the first few days the setting had been idylic; the golf tournement hadn’t started so the course was peaceful, with a quiet soundtrack of birdsong.
“Did you just drop him off?” Esther asked. Her English accent seemed quiet and proper compared to Casey’s New York City dialect.
“Yeah. I’m telling you, girl, I have watched that boy walk away so many times I could draw you his ass. I swear to God I have never felt this way before. I’m pretty sure he’s still single, too. I haven’t seen a ring and he’s never mentioned a wife.”
“It’s just a crush, Case, it will go away.”
“I’m not normally like this, but every time I’m driving him around I’m trying to think of a plan to get him to fuck me. Forgive me, Lord. Ohh, it was those fag burns on his golf trousers!” She wailed, and a couple of the men drinking quietly in the corner turned around to look at her. Esther didn’t know all the faces yet, so it was hard to tell if they were important.
“Keep it down or these guys will expect me to throw you out. This is a golf club house after all.”
“Oh please, they are happy for the female company.” Casey replied deliberately loudly so that the men in the corner could hear.
“Shh.” But Esther had to smile. She had only been in New York a few weeks but so far she had yet to meet anyone that didn’t match the stereotype. The golf club she had worked in England was serious and a dictatorship of white middle-class etiquette, but at this tournement most of the audience were young men who were paraletic by the fourth hole.
“So when have you got to pick up Mr Nyman? Got time for a cold shower?” Esther asked, gently whipping Casey on the arm with a tea towel.
“He wants me to pick him up in a couple of hours. I don’t know what he does up here. Catches up with old friends, I guess. Maybe a bit of coaching, who knows? I know he’d be able to teach me a thing or two, and I am not talking about golf anymore. I have never used the phrase ‘ravish me’ in my life, but I just know when he threw me on that bed I’d-”
“Casey, for crying out loud will you keep it down? This is where I work. Just think about something else. What else are you doing when you’re not playing taxi service to Peter?”
“Playin’ taxi service to the other ex-golfers that are reporters or whatever for NBC. And if I’m not doing that, then I’m getting people their coffee or handing out their schedules for the next day. Don’t forget, honey, I’m still bottom rung. Whatever shit jobs people got, they pass it my way.”
Casey pulled back the elastic cuff of her jacket to check the time. Her colourful fake nails had been chipped from the week’s hard work and the patterns had become distorted, giving the impression of ten tiny Van Gogh paintings.
“OK, I’m going to head over to the caddies hospitality tent.” She said, “D’you know it’s the only place here that’s got Gatorade? I wanna get their early today, yesterday they only had that yellow shit left. D’you want me to grab you one?”
“Case, I’m not even sure what Gatorade is. I’ll stick to Diet Coke.”
“OK, but you’re missin’ out. I might try and catch a glimpse of Tiger while I’m out there, too. Supposedly he’s on the driving range practicing. I’ll be back in a while.”
Casey put her headset back on and clipped the radio and wires back in place. She spent a few seconds adjusting the volume, so she could hear clearly if anyone was barking orders.
“See yuh.” She walked out of the door, throwing an affectionate wave back at Esther. Her thick, dark hair whipped round her face like charred udon noodles.
Esther couldn’t help but smile to herself. Casey was like the wild daughter in a nineties black American sit-com. She was inappropriate and loud, outspoken about her desperate love-life, and yet there was something endeering and agreeable about her. Something that made the loud part less annoying.
Esther reached up to a high shelf behind her, where bottles of spirits were sitting in neat rows, with their labels facing outwards. On her first day she had hardly recognised any of the alcohol, it was all expensive bourbons and other amber liquids that were drunk neat by the golfers and their associates. Next to a half-full bottle of Eagle Rare sat Esther’s ‘I Heart NY’ mug. She put both hands around in lovingly, and drew it to her mouth for a long sip of hot, English tea. The main thing people had told her about moving to America was that you couldn’t get a proper cuppa anywhere, and it was a necessity that she took English tea bags with her. She was down to her last half a dozen now, and frantically checking every supermarket for the good stuff whenever she got the chance.
The men that had been sitting in the corner by the window got up and started making their way to the door. Esther slowly walked round the bar and went to collect their empty glasses. They mumbled their goodbyes and she returned their semi-polite thank you’s. She grabbed the cloth out of her apron pocket and quickly wiped the sticky surface of the fake mahogany table top. A deep voice behind her made her gasp slightly, not realising someone had walked in as the other men had left.
“Sorry, I thought I was alo-ne...” She said spinning around, trailing off at the end of the sentance because standing by the door was Peter Nyman, as unexplainedly sexy as Casey had described.
“Umm, would you like a drink?” She asked, composing herself and striding back behind the bar, which somehow felt safer and less exposed.
“Ah, an English girl.” He said, pulling up the same stool Casey always sat on. “Where abouts are you from?”
“Surrey.” Esther replied quietly.
“I live mostly in Sweden but I’ve got a place in London, up near Euston.” His voice was deep and sibilant, like a fifties crooner.
“I used to go to university in that area.” Esther could feel her freckled cheeks warming. “What would you like to drink?”
“Ah, well. Someone told me that this is the place to come if you want to get a good cup of tea, and I guess if there’s an English girl behind the bar that’s probably why.”
“That’s odd, who told you that?” Esther temporarily forgot her timidity.
“A girl that works for NBC called Casey...I don’t know what her second name is.”
“Ha, I know you mean.”
“Now, you’ve got to tell me your secret, because I haven’t had a single good cup of tea out here yet.”
Esther smiled and sighed. Then she reached under the counter and slapped a box of PG Tips on the bar in front of Peter. His surprise and pleasure gave the split-second impression of a man climaxing. Esther looked down at the box of tea bags, horrified.
“Oh! You’re an absolute angel!” He gushed.
“Would you like a cup of proper tea then?” She asked, still looking at her hands sitting rigidly on either side of the box.
“I’d kill for one. Four sugars, please, love.”
“Four?” Her gaze broke away to meet his narrow eyes.
He nodded guiltily, as if he had just admitted an addiction to teen dramas. She wanted to say ‘You certainly don’t look like you have four sugars in your tea’, but panicked and ended up blurting out; “It’s not so bad. I just I don’t have any sugar in my tea, because I’m already sweet enough”, and then cringed as she turned her back to him.
To redeem herself and make him forget that comment (although she would never, ever forget that moment), Esther offered him the ‘I Heart NY’ mug.
“It tastes more like home in a proper mug.” She said, chucking the teabag in and splashing a bit of milk on top.
“You’ve got a proper kettle, too.” Peter noticed.
“Yeah, they mostly have urns or coffee machines in places like this, so I brought my own travel kettle in.”
They waited for the water to boil in silence, watching the pearly steam start to curl and rise. Peter put both his hands on the counter and Esther’s eye caught a flash of light bouncing off a gold band on his ring finger. Casey had obviously seen what she wanted to see there.
“Have you had a chance to get out and see any of the golf?” He asked.
“Not really. I’m usually in here when they’re playing. And when they’re not. I had to work over time yesterday when there were rain delays, it was so busy in here. I can keep up with what’s happening on the telly up there, though.”
“Don’t you find watching golf really boring?” He said abruptedly.
Esther was slightly stunned. “Is there a right or wrong answer to that? I mean, is that a trick question, given that your Peter Nyman?”
“Ah, you know who I am.” He grinned and looked down, obviously somewhat flattered, and Esther’s cheeks went even pinker.
“I’ve...seen you on the telly.”
The red light on the kettle went off with a click and Esther poured the hot, clear water, like a stream of cling film, into the mug.
“You want to let it brew.” She said, sliding the cup slowly across the counter towards Peter’s hands. The top of the tea bag bobbed like a buoy on the opaque, tan liquid.
“Thanks, you made my day.” He dipped a metal spoon in and fished out the bag, immediately taking a huge mouthful, obviously not bothered by the temperature.
“Perfect.” He said, glancing at his watch.
Esther looked quickly for the Rolex symbol, but he shook the sleeve of his yellow jumper down too fast.
“Listen, I’ve got to be somewhere. Can I ask you a huge favour; can I borrow this mug and bring it back to you later today?”
Esther hesistated but was uncontrollably obliged to please him, “Yeah, you can borrow it, but as long as you bring it back sometime.”
“Oh, don’t worry, love,” Peter said, backing towards the door, “I’ll be back to see you plenty of times this week.” He winked and Esther felt something inside her faint, as if even her butterflies were swooning. She was about to breathe a huge sigh of relief at his exit when he bumped into someone in the doorway. A bit of the tea spilled out of the mug and on to the floor.
“Shit- sorry.” He muttered, holding the mug high in the air as if that would somehow help. “Oh, Casey love, it’s you. Sorry about that. Listen, I’m just heading to the practice greens, but I’ll need your help with something in about fifteen minutes, so do you mind following me over there in your cart?”
“Yeah...of course.” Casey answered with false confidence and too much blinking.
“OK, great. Thanks again for the tea.” He called back to Esther and then disappeared.
“Oh my God.” Casey mouthed.
“I know.” Esther replied breathlessly. “You were totally right, there is something about him that’s just...suave.”
Another younger golfer and his entourage came through the door, squeezing past Casey who was still standing there, grinning. She nodded in agreement.
“He’s got a ring, by the way.” Esther remembered.
“What?” They were standing fairly far apart and the men that had just come in were talking quite loudly.
“He’s got a ring.” They couldn’t talk too loudly with other people in the room, so they tried to mime to each other. Esther made exaggerated gestures, pointing at her other hand, but Casey didn’t understand. She just shrugged and replied “I’ve got to go.” Both girls made an incommunicable squirming, clenching motion and Casey hopped out of the door with a final excited squeal. As the door slowly closed itself Esther admired a rectangle of pale custard sky sitting on the curved horizon and began tidying up the mismatched chairs around the tables for the evening rush.