Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (31 page)

Subject:
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ROMANCE?

Thank you for the précis…

I send you my heart in a song and you send
me a fucking sing-a-long - THANKS!

DON’T email me! If I don’t finish this
speech I’ll be too busy SHITTING myself to SHINE!

Get to bed!

All my love

A. x

      Oh, he’s such a romantic …

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Date:
24
^th
October   00.17

Subject:
GOING TO BED HAPPY

That’s more like it! Welcome back!

I’m going to bed now, with a smile on my
face ;-)

I love you.

B. x

      He’s found his voice and his armour
plating too by the sound of it. There’s an instant reply.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Date:  
23
^rd
October  17.19

Subject:
 SWEET DREAMS!

I’ve got a smile on my face too.
J
  You have such a good heart Beth. To have
your love is such a special gift. I treasure it.

Thanks for the wake-up call. I know why
you sent the song. I’m good.

I love you more

A x

I shut down the laptop and make my way to
my lonely bed, safe in the knowledge that Mr. P is back. One more day to get
through and then our romantic city break to the Eternal City. The thought of it
makes me want to jump up and down on my bed. Instead, I throw on Ayden’s cotton
T-shirt and slip between the sheets. The drama of the last few days seems to be
catching up with me. In the blink of a very tired eye, I feel myself falling
into a deep sleep.

After
last night’s disappointment Dan is finding it difficult to conceal his
frustration. He feels nothing but contempt for the students and the staff at
the University and, anyone taking the time to look him in the eye would see
that. Ernie’s good natured attempts to initiate friendly banter are met with
lack-luster, single syllable responses and disinterest. Why? The big man is
consumed by thoughts of ‘Beth’ Parker, to the point of distraction. He’s had to
abort two attempts at extraction and is beginning to feel that, in spite of all
the planning, the expense and his best efforts, it’s never going to happen.

Worst of all, he cannot tell a soul; hope and fear are
eating away at him like cancerous growths. No amount of medical attention will
cure him of his aliment. There’s no cure for lust. Twice during his shift he’s
had to pay a visit to his locker to see her, to find release from carnal
cravings that threaten to erupt from him like paint from an aerosol.  

Knowing how close he came has only intensified his
craving for sexual communion. Not only can he visualize her with her cute blond
air, he can smell her, hear her voice, feel her breath on his skin. She’s become
too close for comfort: she’s real, tangible, a temptress.

For the first time in his life, he can’t face lunch.
The free meal sits on the tray in the crowded dining hall, untouched. Ernie
assumes he’s unwell.

“You must be sickening for something.”

He’s not wrong.

“Got no appetite.”

“You want to get yourself off to the doctors. P’raps
you’ve got a bug.”

“Yeah, must have. Been doing too much.”

Too much planning and driving and wanking…

“Not too chatty either.”

“No.”

“Tell Crowther, see if he’ll let you leave early.”

“No. I’ll finish the shift and deal with it later.”

“Ok. Just take it easy champ.”

“I intend to.”

“That’s the spirit.” Ernie slides over his dessert.
“Can I tempt you with a blackberry muffin?”

“No thanks, I’ll pass. Got to watch my figure.”

“It’s a bit late for that! Better keep your strength
up. Don’t want you wasting away. Who’s going to lug all that furniture around
if you turn into a ten stone weakling?”

“Some other dumb fucker.”

“Exactly. Eat your muffin and stop moping about.
Looking at your miserable mush is giving me a bloody headache.”

Dan forces a contrite smile.

“That’s better.” Ernie, licks his thumb and flicks
over the page to the football results.

***

By 2.15 Dan’s mood has improved and he is southbound.
His BMW has never been so mechanically challenged; a distressed sound is coming
from somewhere under the bonnet. He turns down the cd player and listens,
checking dashboard gauges for signs of mechanical failure. Under sufferance, he
pulls over onto the hard shoulder and clicks open the bonnet.

Even before he opens it, he can smell the dreaded
odour of burning rubber. When he tries to open the bonnet, he flinches: it’s
hot, too hot to handle.

“Fuck!”

He pulls down the cuffs of his jacket over his palms
and lifts it tentatively, keeping the scorching metal away from his skin.
Settling over the engine is a cloud of steam and sizzling droplets of water.
He’s no mechanic, but even he recognizes an over-heated radiator. He checks his
watch, time is against him. It’s 1500hrs. He’s over forty miles from home and
less than thirty miles from Elm Gardens. His hands are tied. If he chances the
drive to Elm Gardens he may not be able to get back. If he heads home, then
he’ll have to go another night without her. That thought hits him like a body
blow.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” He roars to the heavens, but no
words can convey the tormented nature of his ferocious anger. So profound is
his misery that he slams down the bonnet of the car again and again, ignoring
the scorching pain in his hands as the hot metal sears his flesh.

Like a man drunk on despair, he staggers along the
hard shoulder; heavy boots on gravel, eyes smarting in the autumn wind. There
are no bars but, to the passing motorists, he looks like a caged animal, unable
to escape, unwilling to accept his fate. 

‘Operation Snatch Back’ will have to be put back
another night.

Every half term ends the same way: excited
teenagers wearing their own clothes, lesson plans being filed, films being
projected onto whiteboards. The perfect reward for seven weeks of hard labour.

By 4.15 pm the natives are off school
premises, leaving me to focus on marking and planning. First stop the
photocopier. As the worksheets mount, my thoughts shift to Ayden’s emails last
night. I haven’t needed to worry all day, the time difference has meant he’s
been preoccupied with speech writing or sleeping. Now, 45 minutes before his
conference opens, I’m anxious.

Margaret from the office bounds into the
staff room, “Oh great you’re still here Beth. I’ve just had an urgent phone
call for you.”

My pulse starts to race and I clutch my
chest. What’s happened, is it Charlie? Is it Ayden? Oh dear God no!

“A gentleman rang and insisted I find you.
Apparently your phone is turned off and he needs to speak with you urgently.”
She searches the note for a name. “He said his name was Mr. P? “ She gives me a
capricious look and I take the note from her.

“Thank you, Margaret.”

After snatching my pile of photocopying
from the machine, I dash off to my classroom for some privacy. I turn on my
phone, silently scolding myself for turning it off on such an important day.
What was I thinking? I press Speedial1 and he picks up on the first ring.

“Elizabeth?” I’m about to speak but the
fact he’s addressing me as Elizabeth stops me in my tracks. “Elizabeth?”

“Yes Ayden, I’m here.” I want to speak
softly but I sense he needs more than that. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s ... it’s this fucking speech, I
don’t think I can pull it off.”

Fuck!

“You can’t be serious!”

“I can’t seem to get my shit together.” I
barely recognise his voice, it’s a nervous whisper.

“Where are you?” I boot up my laptop and
access the CNN website. They’re bound to be covering the conference. “Can you
talk?”

“Yes, but ...”

“… Be quiet and listen.” I nibble my thumb
nail and contemplate my words very carefully. “You can do this blindfolded with
your hands tied behind your back, I should know.” I think I can hear a snigger
of sorts at the other end of the phone. “Are you listening to me?”

“Yes Elizabeth.”

I need his full attention. “Take out your
final draft.” I hear paper rustling. “How does it begin?”

“Good morning ...” He starts to read it
out, it’s disjointed, rushed.

“It’s a good speech Ayden.” I lie. “You
need to read it through and centre yourself.”

“How?”

“Do you have the lock of hair I gave you?”
Please let him have it.

“Yes, it’s in my pocket.”

“Well it’s no good in there is it! Take it
out and wrap it around the fingers of your left hand.” I swear I can hear him
breathing, his chest sounds tight and that’s not good. “Wrap it really tight
and close your eyes.” I give him a couple of seconds.

“It’s done?”

“Tell me what the lock represents, breath
slowly and tell me.”

He breaths in, out, in, out. “It’s you
next to me, holding me keeping me safe. It’s tight and it’s like being inside
you.”

“And how do you feel when you’re inside
me?”

“I feel safe, invincible and powerful.”
There’s a noticeable change in his voice, the timbre has altered: he’s becoming
more assertive, more imposing. He’s becoming my Mr. P.

“Read the next paragraph. At the end of
each sentence feel the lock, see how it centres you and makes you focus? The
words will come to you.” I nibble my thumb nail and wait for his reply with
trepidation.

He starts to read. “Yes. You’re right.”

Thank God! “Now you’re ready. You only have
to read the speech through, slowly, breath and feel the lock tight on your
hand. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” There’s the exhaling of breath down
the line. “I’m good.” He pauses.

“So, what are you waiting for?” I hold my
hand to my mouth, preventing an emotional gasp from escaping. “Go be Mr. P.”

“I will.” Now that’s the man I love.
“Watch the speech. The wink will be for you.”

I sense a grateful smile. I’ve accessed
CNN coverage of his press conference which must have taken place earlier this
morning.

“I’m watching you at the press conference
earlier. Straighten your tie and take that ‘fuck-me’ look off your face. This
isn’t the Playboy channel Ayden: it’s business.  Now go out there and shine,
like the star you are.” My voice is not my own.

“Yes Elizabeth.”

“Are we done?”

“We’re done.”

I end the call and leave him hanging. He’s
ready.

I sink into my chair visibly shaking,
sweating: what just happened?  I keep watching the coverage. It’s live. An
overweight counterpart with a skin-tight waistcoat has introduced Ayden and is
inviting him to the podium. He’s approaching, shaking hands, checking his tie,
looking confident and serious: he means business.

Oh dear God please let him be brilliant.

Quickly the distinguished members of the
audience settle and he positions himself, back straight, hands either side of
the lectern, head held high. I wipe my hands on my skirt. I’m perspiring and
having to make a conscious effort to breathe.

Ayden thanks them for their kind
introduction and launches into a cohesive dialogue, pausing only to acknowledge
applause. He speaks of a ‘
defining moment.’
and stresses the importance
of
‘global integration.’
Every new sentence is shaped; ‘
commercial
innovation’
is juxtaposed with ‘
consumer application.’
He concludes
with a directive,
‘If we are to expand our geographic reach we’ll need to
work smarter, creating new pathways through expansive leadership and by
offering transparency, reliability and affordability. Let us not forget this is
a small planet, we are all connected.’

Applause reverberates around the
auditorium.  The camera moves in for a close-up, I watch him discreetly slip
the lock of hair into his jacket pocket. Looking directly into the lens he
winks. I smile. We connect.

I want to call him but I can see he’s
surrounded by his peers. I let him be, let him have his moment in the
spotlight. He’s had his chance to shine and so dazzling is his brilliance it
hurts my eyes. A glossy tear streams down my cheek. How I love this man.

Driving home is an exercise in patience
and good grace. I know Ayden will not call until I get home, but every traffic
light is against me and I want to speak to him before he boards his return
flight. He’ll be exhausted, having added an extra seven hours to his day and
sleep is the only thing he should be thinking about at 40,000 feet above the
Atlantic.

I’m listening to classic Fleetwood Mac on
my iPod and I’m singing,
‘I want to be with you everywhere,’
and never a
truer word has been spoken. I break, envisage what tomorrow will bring,
accelerate and picture him coming to whisk me off to the Eternal City. When I
park up, my excitement is discernible; the skip in my step is a dead giveaway.

Having consumed a tuna salad, I set about
the unenviable task of packing, but not before I flick through my post. All my
bills are paid via direct debit so I know I’m debt free and most of the junk
mail goes straight into the bin. I take hold of a small parcel, give its
contents a gentle rattle and fondle it. I think I’ve seen this discreet
wrapping before.

With eager fingers, I tear off the brown
paper and open the black box. Something tells me it’s not a bracelet. I lift
the lid and sneak a peek. It’s a kind of silicone ring with an attachment at
the top. Oh!

This is one toy I won’t be using in the
privacy of my own home, not alone anyway. Does this actually count as a gift
for me? Shouldn’t this have been sent to Stone Heath, it has Ayden Stone
written all over it?

***

Usually, I hate packing but tonight
there’s nothing I would rather do. Thankfully Celine has simplified the task by
matching clothes and accessories; getting a collection together to take account
of the weather is
my
problem.

I’m planning on throwing my faded suitcase
away, but not before I have inspected its contents.  It’s collecting dust under
my bed and my dad’s small treasure chest is keeping it company. I must move one
to get at the other. The case weighs as much as I do and I soon realise why,
it’s full of books. When I flip open the lid, I’m reminded of a former, solo
pursuit and I lift up a couple of paperbacks, realising instantly what drew me
to them: escapism, pure escapism.