TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (18 page)

appear magically from behind a wall or out of the floor. The look of refinement and sophistication is

achieved through the subtle use of colour. Throughout the room shades of deep purple and blue have

been introduced, Ayden’s signature colour. I really must ask him about that. It appears even this place

is an extension of his workplace. Is there anywhere he can escape the pressures of commerce and

corporate leadership? I smile, answering my own question. Yes. How could I be so dense? The cool

sophistication of this place is a blinding contrast to the inexpensive, cosiness of my one-bed

apartment. Maybe that’s why he loves it so. This is a house, a stunning property, but no-one in their

right mind would ever consider it a home. It has no heart, no soul. Maybe I can fix that.

I follow my nose and it leads me to a coffee percolator, bubbling away on top of a granite worktop,

resting over shiny stainless steel appliances that look as if they have never been used. Cup in hand, I

finish off my coffee, circle the island and get back on track.

At the other end of the lounge I spot a large, circular dining table in clear glass with a wonderfully

modern sculpture taking pride of place on it. Six tall-backed, leather chairs in eggshell white surround

it, large enough to seat the broadest of knights.

I walk in the opposite direction. There are three doors, all are locked and my attention shifts to the

lift: it’s about the size of an old fashioned telephone box but better by design and much cleaner. There

are six buttons: B,G,1,2,T and Alarm. Assuming B is for basement and G is for ground, I press 1 and

close the door. It descends immediately but only for three seconds or so, before coming to a gentle

stop. I open the door onto another corridor, runway lit and eggshell white.

I turn the doorknob on the first door on my left, it’s locked. I keep walking, pausing to take a look

at the artwork before finding myself in Ayden’s office. Of all the rooms in this house, this is the one I

feel least confident about entering. Not because he has anything to hide or I’m prying, but because it

feels like the inner sanctum,
his
place. There’s more heart in this room than the rest of the building

combined.

On the right side of the room, dark mahogany shelves are full from end to end and top to bottom

with books; the classics mostly, ornate and valuable texts from the literary cannon. The morning

sunlight hits their golden spines, arranged alphabetically, presumably for ease of access. I settle my

fingers on the B’s and slide out a copy of Byron’s
Hours of Idleness
dated 1807. The
First Kiss of

Love
holds my interest and I savour the sentiment, before moving on to the C’s in search of the poem

Ayden sent me, hours after our first meeting:
Desire
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It is not difficult to

find, the page is bookmarked and the words almost read off the page. It’s a wonderful poem with

heart-rendering romanticism; I will treasure it until the day I die. Unsurprisingly, on the inner pages

of the aging covers, prefacing the yellowing pages is the proof, if any were needed, that all these

books are first editions: a treasure trove, filed alphabetically; a priceless collection of poetry, plays

and prose. Here rests a gathering of literary geniuses from Jane Austen to Emile Zola, poised, waiting

to be read or re-read and enjoyed.

I tear myself away from the assembly and focus on six black screens which are looking back at me,

sleeping, keeping the secrets of world trade to themselves. I’m grateful for that. The contrast of old

and new, of the ethereal and the digital is not lost on me. I take a parting look at the enormous desk by

the window and stroke the ox-blood leather back of the swivel chair in front of it. On the desk the

sunlight cascades onto a Tiffany lamp and splashes the polished mahogany surface with muted colour.

To the left of the desk is a digital picture frame; it catches my attention and holds it. At only 7 x 5

inches, it could easily be missed, but there’s something about the way it faces the chair that makes me

wonder…

I flip over the tiny switch and it bursts into life. I return it to its spot and take a seat, enjoying the

slideshow. It’s us, in Rome, in love. I can’t tear my eyes away. But, why am I so surprised? This is the

heart of the house, I belong here. We belong here.

I end the slideshow, having had my own moment of romanticism and head for the door, taking

Coleridge with me. I pull the door to, not wanting to disturb the peace.

Reflecting on what I have seen, so far, I actually think Ayden left me here alone on purpose,

knowing I would embark upon a voyage of discovery; this is a subtle and silent way of opening

himself up to me. I know so little about his past and that makes me wonder if there are memories

lurking there that are too painful to resurrect. I know that feeling. It’s testament to his trust in me that

I’ve been given free reign. I say ‘free’ but there are more locked doors than open ones in this place.

Thankfully the door on the left is unlocked. I push it open and step inside, smiling: it’s the master

bedroom. Unlike the guest bedroom, this room is positively masculine in colour and design. There’s

no midnight blue in here.

At the centre of the room there is an ornately carved wooden bed in rich mahogany. He seems to

favour the darker wood down here. The built-in wardrobes and the drawers, large and small are the

same colour and design, weighty and handmade. The opulence and the sheer volume of the space

reminds me of our suite in Rome. Hardly surprising Ayden felt at ease there.

Across his bed is a plush comforter, creating a feeling of Autumnal contentment in shades of fallen

leaves. When I run my free hand over it, I feel the rich sensuality of the material and imagine the soft

weight of it on my skin. The artwork and accessories match this stunning focal point and gold wall

lights and fittings add a sumptuous feel to this private place. It’s very classy but not too over-stated; a

reflection of the man himself.

In the bathroom there are two sinks of equal size and a large power shower the size of my kitchen,

that has more knobs and dials than Cape Canaveral; a complete spa experience at the press of a button.

I sneak a squirt of his cologne and inhale deeply, closing my eyes, allowing it to circulate the air

around me and settle on my skin. All day I’ve been feeling like Alice venturing through the looking

glass; nothing seems real, everything is of gigantic proportions and alien to me. I wish Ayden was

here to lead me through each door, big or small, and perhaps unlock the forbidden ones.

I climb upon his bed and lie on my stomach; it’s just me and the collected works of Samuel Taylor

Coleridge. After only twenty minutes or so, I feel myself drifting. My wrists fall limply and the book

settles on the bed next to my head: gold on gold. I’ve over-exerted myself mentally and physically,

and my weary body is telling me it’s time to take a break. I do.

Following on from his dinner date with Elise, and feeling the need to get back on track, Dan has

decided to spend the night at Elm Gardens. With the sensory skills of a praying mantis, Pat catches

him on the stairs. It’s 2130hrs and a little late for a neighbourly chat but she is bursting with news, so

much so her eyes are on stalks and her arms are flaying about in all directions, like a carnival dancer

without her pompoms. Dan manufactures his best look of surprise and allows her to fill him in on the

events following the break-in at 53a.

“Oh, it was all very CSI. There were lots of men here all yesterday in white overalls checking

everything. I had a chat with the alarm engineers and they said the alarm had not been set. I can’t

imagine why. What’s the point of having one fitted if you’re not going to put it on? Don’t get me

wrong, Beth’s a lovely girl, but … anyway, never mind. The Police Inspector said she was unlucky …

someone breaking into your home in the middle of the night …”

He nods and smiles, conceals his bandaged hand in his trouser pocket, and lets her volunteer

information, even though it’s no more than he already knows. He offers her a watery smile. “I go into

the city to see a play and all hell breaks loose. What’s this bloody neighbourhood coming to?”

With the spirit of a true Neighbourhood Watcher, Pat comes to the defence of her ‘good area.’ “Oh,

I can assure you Daniel. Nothing like this has ever happened here before. In fact, the police said that

burglars don’t usually break into homes when they’re occupied. He must have thought Beth was still

on holiday. Poor Beth, she was as white as a sheet when they wheeled her out on the stretcher.”

Now there’s something he didn’t know. He’d made himself scarce via the French doors, long before

the police and the ambulance arrived. As far as he knew he’d given Beth a fright, not a heart attack.

What’s with the stretcher?

“I suppose she was in shock?”

“I don’t think so. She was unconscious and there was blood on the blanket they wrapped her in.

Poor thing. I hope she’s alright.”

“They will have looked after her in hospital.”

“I’m sure they will have. I heard the siren sounding when the ambulance left with that other well-

dressed gentleman. He seemed to be on his phone the whole time. Maybe he was in touch with her

mother?”

“Maybe?”

“Thanks for the update Pat. I’ll remember to keep my front door locked and bolted.” He chuckles

quietly and makes his way upstairs. There’s little in the form of home comforts up there but it’s a

place to crash and he can’t face the 74 mile drive to another empty flat. He has a mattress, a duvet.

What more does he need?

The apartment is cold and inhospitable; wherever he looks there’s yard after yard of open space.

Two fold-up chairs are leaning up against the outside wall. One is tattered and torn, the other ill-suited

for anything other than a fishing trip. All in all, it’s a room devoid of warmth of any kind.

The bedroom is hardly a romantic chamber made for two. Exactly where he left it, lies the second-

hand mattress he picked up, with a sheet carelessly arranged on top of it. It’s a token gesture; not

ironed, folded or tucked, but screwed-up and thread bare. At its side on the carpet, is a length of chain

with links an inch or so wide; there it sits, looking like a shiny reptile attached to the wall. A sturdy

lock, key inserted ready, is strategically positioned a couple of inches away. Everything is set;

everything but the girl.

Dan tips out the contents of his backpack onto the make-shift bed and fishes out more painkillers.

His hand is starting to throb and the pain is starting to grip him like a crunching right hook on an

unguarded chin. It’s throwing him off balance. He swallows hard, tosses back his head and crawls onto

the mattress, not bothering to undress, not bothering to turn out the light. He draws up the duvet and

stretches out, a worn out and ragged figure of a man, a stark contrast to the man he was, or believed he

could be with a princess for a companion.

The easing pain has dulled his appetite for rough, non-consensual sex. Graphically envisaged scenes

that usually play such a big part in his bedtime routine become no more than a blur. What
she
has put

him through has desensitised him. No longer is he captivated by her beauty and her seductive ways; or

spurred on by the chase. This has become something else: more about getting even than getting laid.

A malevolent grin widens until his lips are touching material on both sides; vindictive thoughts are

circulating his drug soaked brain, thoughts of such a deviant nature that even he finds them shocking.

‘How would it be if he watched?’ he wonders, exchanging his personal moment of debauchery for a

private performance. ‘I’d make him watch you suffer, princess. I could give him a blow by blow

account.’ His thoughts fragment as sleep presses down on him. A thick and impenetrable blind

descends over his eyes, shutting out light, shutting out reality. He sleeps placidly, pacified by that

singular thought.

9

For
some reason, even though I’ve heard the lift ascending, I have no immediate desire to move.

I’ve slept for a couple of hours, and Ayden has come home. How strange, I’ve barely set foot inside

this five star, luxury residence and already I’m calling it home. Usually, I find it hard to settle

anywhere: teaching rooms, parties, seats on trains …

Yet I feel as if I belong here; as if I’ve been waiting like Ayden, searching for that one special place

to call home. Fate has seen to it that we have found each other, but I wonder how long it will take him

to find me now?

“Sure, I’m not suggesting it’s bad business, I know what it means to diversify, Jake. For fuck’s