Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (2 page)

"I came straight out of university into teaching
so it’s, what, six years now." I smile responsively.

Pull yourself together, he’s a professional, you’re a
professional …

"And do you think you’ll remain in teaching or do
you have other ambitions?"

He’s asking me about ambitions? How can I think
straight when he’s playing around with his bloody bottle top. Keep still!

"I, I’m not sure. I enjoy teaching, I’m only 27,
so I think I’ll stick with it for now." I look anywhere but at him. I
don’t think he’s noticed.

"Good, you should do what makes you happy. So
much of my life is centred on my company. I envy you." After a thoughtful
pause he continues with what feels like honesty. "That’s why I started up
the ‘Pay Back Programme.’ It’s a small gesture but I like to think I’m making a
difference, if only in a limited way. Of course I’m not educating the next
generation like you ..."

"You’re a fine role model for them Mr. Stone: a
capitalist and a humanitarian." I’m finding my feet in the conversation and
justly rewarded with an amiable smile.

"If you say so Miss. Parker." Discreetly, he
checks his watch which probably cost him more than I earn in six months.

We’ve only been talking for ten minutes, and already
I’m boring him? I take hold of my paper cup and bottle. "You’ve been very
gracious, Mr. Stone.  I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll let you go
..."

"Only if that’s what you really want to do
..."

Did he just say what I think he said?

He’s directing a molten stare my way; it’s igniting
the air around us and causing a rush of blood to my head, my face. "Well
... I suppose I could stay and chat ..." I pour out another mouthful of chilled
water to douse the flames. Thank God I’m wearing my reading glasses because my
pupils must be the size of footballs by now.

"Good, I’d like that." He repositions
himself on the flimsy wooden chair directly in front of me, laying out his
hands on the table in a kind of predatory stance, ready to pounce. "Tell
me what interests you have, other than teaching."

Me?
I
swallow hard, shifting my focus between his hands and his eyes. I must look
like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a Ferrari. I feel like one. "Oh,
I like to read, listen to music, watch movies, visit friends, you know, the
usual kind of thing. What about you?"

I follow his right hand, keeping my eyes on it as it
leaves the table and settles on his chin. He’s massaging the cutest dimple  
with his forefinger, contemplating his response. "Let me think ... I like
to travel, go to the theatre, to keep in shape and to fuck beautiful women
..."

He leaves those words hanging like a hot air balloon
caught on electrical cables; they crackle and circulate the room, before
creating a moment of uncomfortable silence. And that’s when it hits me: you’re
toying with me Mr. Stone. You arrogant bastard!

"Is that so. That must make you The Playboy of
the Western World then Mr. Stone?" I smile sweetly and tip my head to one
side. The ball’s in your court.

"I’m not a fan of Synge but I take your point.
You’re an English teacher I presume?"

"Yes, full marks, I’m an English teacher, you
know, plays, prose and poetry." I hold up my arms in a kind of ta da and
he rewards my animation with a sexy smile.

"That’s surprising," he muses, sounding so
self-assured I could slap him, if only to feel a chiselled cheekbone against my
palm. He leans over to my side of the table, forcing my back to straighten
reflexively. "From where I’m sitting there seems to be more chemistry than
poetry."

Bang! What a line!

I give him a well done smile and roll my eyes; he
looks quite pleased with himself. "Did you make that up on the spot or is
it one you save for occasions such as this?"

"No, it was a one off, just for you Miss
Parker." He leans back in the seat, forcing it to creak under the strain,
taking great delight in watching me squirm.

“Then thank you Mr. Stone." I offer a formal nod
and try to suppress a smile. Another comment like that and I’ll spontaneously
combust and my insides will cascade across this table like spaghetti.

"Ayden, my name’s Ayden," he states.
"And you are?"

"Elizabeth, Beth."

“I like the name, it’s solid, traditional."

"I suppose it is, but Beth’s fine."

It’s just a name …

"May I ..."

Just when I think I’m holding my own and I’ve got the
measure of him, he hits me with a sucker punch. He removes my glasses with both
hands without touching my face, breaths on the lenses and proceeds to clean
them with his blue, silk tie. Even without the glasses I feel his eyes on me,
sharp and scrutinising, stripping me of my self-imposed disguise.

He looks at the lenses against the light. "There
you are, that’s better. Now you can see things more clearly."

Things, what things?
"

“You have beautiful eyes Beth, the colour of a summer
sky. You shouldn’t hide behind your glasses." He hands them back.

Summer sky? Where is he getting these lines?

"I’m not hiding," I answer, defensively
.
"I can’t read without them and that’s quite important for an English
teacher." I settle them more comfortably on my nose.

"Indeed it is, forgive me." He tilts his
chin and launches a rocket of a stare my way. I try to launch one back but he’s
too skilled in what feels like verbal foreplay and, defeated, I glance away. I chew
my thumb nail and breath …

"Can I get you anything else ... Ayden," I
ask, brusquely. "I’m afraid I have a lesson in 10 minutes and I need to
prepare for it." Looking purposeful, I gather the bottles and stand.

He seems unsettled by my assertion. "Yes … of
course, I hadn’t realised. What are you teaching?" He stands and fastens
his jacket, once again adopting that model pose.

I throw the cups and bottles into the rubbish bin and
head towards the door. "The sonnets, you know, ‘Should I compare thee to a
summer’s day …’” I stop, realising what I’ve said and smile coyly.

"How apt, ‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate’"
He smiles broadly, enjoying my look of genuine surprise
.

"You’re fond of the sonnets?"

"Not especially, I’m more of a Romantics man
myself."

"I find that hard to believe," I huff,
starting up my mouth before getting my brain in gear.

I’m met with a bemused smile which only lingers for a
second, but it’s there. I change the subject

quickly. "I assume you’re parked at the front of
the building?"

He nods. Before reaching the door, he stops abruptly
and I turn to see why. He’s rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand as
if there’s a tense spot that he can’t reach. "Look, Beth ..."

"… Please Mr. Stone, Ayden ... you don’t have to
say anything. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, really it has. I’ve enjoyed the
‘I’m all yours’, the smouldering looks, and the chemistry thing was very clever
but, if you don’t mind, I have to go back to my world now, and you have to go
back to yours."

For some reason he is taken aback by my directness. In
fact a veil of sadness has descended upon his face, sharpening his stunning
features. "So you think we’re worlds apart do you?" There’s that
scorching stare again.

"Well aren’t we? In your world, people react to
you in a certain way, and I get that."

"... You mean women?"

"Yes, I mean women. You know what you’re doing,
and you do it so well. What can I say?" The words ricochet out of my mouth
but I’m not entirely sure I want them to find their target.

"But sometimes Miss Parker, worlds collide."
There’s only the trace of a half-smile, but his sparkling eyes are intense and
questioning.

"Yes they do, but it usually ends in tears."
I reinforce my declaration with a carefree shrug and look away.

"Touché," he concedes, pressing his lips
together, nodding but not appearing entirely convinced.

I reach out to shake his hand, prepping myself for
another power surge. I’ve done myself proud. If that’s the case, then how is it
this man is affecting me so, is tormenting my senses and breaching all my
defences?

"It’s been an interesting morning, Miss Parker.
How
was it for you?" His crooked smile reaches up to the corners of
his eyes which now, in the morning sunlight have taken on a kind of cerulean
iridescence: they bewitch me. The cool morning air has breathed new life into
his handsome face and I’m spellbound, caught up in his ethereal beauty. We’re
sharing a private joke, and the space between us has become incredibly
intimate.

"It’s been ..." I take a dramatic pause,
adopt a thinking stance and turn to face him. "Entertaining."

"I won’t argue with that." He nods his head
in agreement and I realise that he still has hold of my sweaty palm and his
thumb is brushing across my hand, stroking my feverish skin, creating a silent
but not unfamiliar bond. He leans into me and kisses the corner of my mouth and
I find myself moving into him. My lips are parted, anticipating something more.

"It’s been an education, Miss Parker," he
whispers softly, so close I can feel the warm air leaving his mouth, caressing
my cheek.

Standing on my tip toes I reciprocate and kiss the
corner of his mouth, catching the essence of masculine heat and expensive
cologne: it’s an intoxicating mélange. Breathless, I put my lips to his ear and
say softly. "But you didn’t win Mr. Stone."

When I pull away I am met with an expression I can’t
read; it looks a lot like affection, but there’s mischief lurking in those eyes
and a silent promise of … something.

The school bell sounds and I focus my attention
anywhere but on him, it’ll be easier that way. “Saved by the bell,” I say in an
airy whisper. “Goodbye Mr. Stone. Have a safe journey." Leaving him in the
safe hands of his chauffeur, I turn and walk away.

My classroom door closes behind me with a slam. What
just happened? With that whisper of a kiss he has awakened something in me. I
feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my heart, a spell broken. I feel
alive.

I’m cooling in the afterglow, having been charred by
the scorching rays of something hot and unbidden. I’m gasping, moisture oozing
from my body, heat flaying my skin. Dear God! This can’t be normal. Two words
are forever etched into my consciousness: Ayden Stone.

The day comes to a welcome end. All I can think about
is climbing into my car and being alone with my sensual thoughts. For some
reason, I’m exhausted but unsure why. Who am I kidding, after the morning I’ve
had and the inquisition I faced at lunchtime, I’m lucky to still be standing.
Margaret had gone to great lengths to spread the word: Ayden Stone is a babe
magnet, or was it a fine specimen? Probably both. Female colleagues were
Googling him and a thousand photos appeared, 70% of which included stunning
women of five foot ten plus, draping themselves over his arm or around his
shoulders like poison ivy. What could I say: he hit on me, he took off my
glasses and cleaned them with his tie, and he mentioned chemistry for God’s
sake. They wouldn’t believe it - I don’t believe it. Instead, I said he was
self-assured, polite and cultured. I wasn’t lying, but I did fail to mention I’d
probably lost three pounds in perspiration.

Thankfully, the rest of the day passed without further
incident and now I’m grateful to be left alone to my own devices, to drive home
with only Sting urging my beating heart to still. I relive our conversation
over and over: ‘I could have said this’ and ‘I should have said that.’ But I’d
had my fifteen minutes and blown them in sterling fashion.

When I enter my ground floor apartment, there’s the
fragrance of fresh flowers. I think nothing of it until I set foot in the
kitchen. There, placed in my biggest vase is an enormous bouquet, courtesy of
my obliging neighbour: blue hydrangeas, crème roses, lilies, lavender limonium
and salal in cobalt blue: so it says on the card. My first thought is, whose are
these? My second thought is: Ayden Stone.

Unable to contain a cry of unparalleled delight, I
throw down my bag, lift out the card from its envelope and read the hand
written note:

Where true Love burns Desire is Love’s pure flame;

It is the reflex of our earthly frame,

That takes its meaning from the nobler part,

And but translates the language of the heart.

x

There’s only one person who would send me flowers, and
there’s only one person who would think to include a poem called ‘Desire’
written by Coleridge. That would have to be a self-confessed ‘Romantics man.’
It’s a powerful message, so romantic and - it’s for me!

I put the card next to my lips and think of where it’s
been: in his hands, between his finger and thumb, maybe he even blew across it
to dry the ink? He knows I’ll recognise the poem and, more importantly, he
knows I’ll understand it.