Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (24 page)

“No touching Miss Parker, remember.”

“It’s a little late for that don’t you
think?” I leave my hand where it is. “You’re going to go and be my Mr. P. I’ll
watch and learn. Do you understand?” He cracks a smile, acknowledging
Elizabeth’s timely arrival.

I tut and stride away towards the book
display and swap my signed book for a plane old paperback. I make a point of holding
the new book aloft so he can see how obedient I’ve been. He does the, I’m
watching you double finger point, laughs, turns and seeks out his minions.

Before embarking on my solo venture I head
over to the ladies’ powder room, it seems like a safe haven away from prying
eyes and flirtatious writers. I take a moment to freshen up and to reapply some
tinted lip gloss. Before heading for the door a six foot, straight off the
catwalk, auburn haired siren almost tramples me underfoot. I say sorry but she’s
the one who should learn some manners or drink less.

I’m stopped in my tracks when she strikes
up an impromptu conversation. “You must be Elizabeth?”

I spin around to face her. “I suppose I
must,” I answer coolly. I think she actually sniggers but I can’t be sure,
after all, I’m looking at her through a mirror. “Have we met?”

“God no, he wouldn’t allow that. I’m Alenka.”
She offers me her manicured hand in a kind of mock introduction. When that’s
coupled with her perfect teeth and Eastern European accent, I feel an
uncomfortable flutter of something: jealously, maybe?

“How do you know my name?” I’m happy to
play along.

“You’re Ayden’s latest play thing. You’re
the one he’s been fucking for the past week.”

I manage to conceal my astonishment quite
well, under the circumstances. “I think Ayden’s a little old for toys.” I
position myself next to her. I might be six inches shorter, but what I lack in
height I make up for in intellect, or at least I thought I did until I realise
the implications of the word ‘toys.’ Shit! Why did I say that?

She’s on it in a flash. “He will never
grow out of his
toys
. He’s a player and players like to play, that’s
what they do. You see, it is never a game of chance, he plays to win: he holds
all the cards.”

What the hell is she going on about?
toys,
games, cards ...
Now she’s reshaping her already perfect brows: she’s the
one playing for time. Why is she so eager to have this conversation with me?

It occurs to me … she’s seen the way Ayden
listens to me, the way he looks at me, our sexual chemistry and she’s
positively seething with jealousy. Oh, this might be more fun than I first
thought: actually, I’m the one holding all the cards Alenka. I let her
continue.

“You see, at first it’s the attraction and
then it’s the chase: that’s what he loves.” She keeps stalling. “And oh the
romance, the flowers and the poetry, it’s like a dream.”

I’m feeling a little less sure of myself,
suddenly.

“Then comes the gifts, and what lovely
gifts.” Dreamily, she circles her head and sways.

I don’t like what I’m hearing, I’m
starting to perspire, glossy beads are forming on the back of my neck and
between my breasts.

“But you know this Elizabeth?” She turns
her head and observes me shrewdly.

I fear my expression may give me away. Too
shaken to engage in witty banter, I turn to fix my dress. But she hasn’t done
with me, there’s more. I watch her watching me and our eyes meet. I look away
but out of the corner of my eye I see her smiling.

“And let us not forget the clothes.”

I know she means my dress and I wish the
ground would open and swallow me up. I’m not equipped to deal with this: she’s
eating me alive. Thank God, she’s had her fill and begins to wash her beautiful
hands. She pats them dry on the soft towel.

“It’s all part of the game Elizabeth, a
game you can’t win.”

I’ve heard enough. “I think this
conversation is over. I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name.” I pretend to
check myself in the mirror. “You must be confusing me with someone else.” I
turn to leave.

“Goodbye sweet Francis. I think it is too
late for you, I can see he has your heart. He has already won.”

With that, she wafts past me in all her
catwalk glory and I feel as if I’ve just been run over by a freight train. I
wobble on my high heels and grip the marble counter for support. What the hell
was all that about? Why did she call me Francis? I haven’t been Francis for
over six years.

I manage to settle myself through a
combination of deep breathing and by applying a cold water compress to the back
of my neck: I’m nauseated and flushed. I practise a happy smile, but I can’t do
it: it’s not me. All I see is a secondary school teacher in a midnight blue
dress with a sad face. What was I thinking? Reinventing myself? I feel like an
impostor.

Now might be a good time to leave, I can’t
stay in here forever. God knows what she’s up to out there with Ayden.

After what I’ve heard, do
I
care?

Who am I kidding, of course I care: that’s
the problem. He’s made me care with his flowers and his poetry, his gifts, his
soft words and his fucking sexiness.

‘That’s what players do, they play
.’ Those were her exact words.

I charge out of the bathroom, leaving my
book behind and prepare to seek out Ayden.

He’s chatting to a group of executive
types. I’m fit to burst, but manage to position myself next to him: he kisses
my cheek affectionately and introduces me as his girlfriend. I give him a
surprised stare and his mouth twitches with amusement. When did that happen?
How long was I gone?

Momentarily distracted by his announcement,
my anger subsides. I start to pay attention. He’s got so much to say, they’re
hanging on his every word: he’s confident and Mr. Powerful. I feel him reaching
for my right hand and, while he’s talking and laughing, he’s stroking my
knuckles; he may not be including me in the conversation but it’s his way of
telling me he knows I’m here, we are together. I’m not an accessory.

With almost all of my senses triggered, I
feel my heart starting to race. Is it the sexual tension between us, or is it
fear? Am I the unwitting participant in a cruel game: is he the puppet master,
pulling all the invisible strings that bind me to him?

A kind of clammy sweat claims by body, I’m
becoming moist all over. I feel Ayden’s hand slipping in mine and he turns and
pins me to the spot with a piercing stare of such ferocity, I think I might be
punctured by it.

“Excuse us.” He smiles and pulls me to one
side. “What the fuck are you doing,” he asks in a strained whisper.

I can’t think straight. “I’m ...” I feel
helpless and exposed and nervously place my thumb nail in my mouth. I look up
at him through mascared lashes.

“Stop! Fucking stop it Beth. I know what
you’re doing. We’re not in the car now. Don’t make me want you here.”

“I’m not doing anything Ayden,” I confess,
and it’s the truth. What I’m experiencing isn’t sexual frustration, it’s an
anxiety attack and it’s making me tremble.

“You drive me crazy with your antics.” He
grabs my hand firmly. “We’re leaving.”

I stand my ground. “No we’re not.” I centre
myself.

“What!” His eyes are burning like molten
lava. How quickly his mood has shifted from attentive to oppressive, in the
space of two minutes.

“I’m not doing anything Ayden. I’m a
little over-heated that’s all.”

He touches my forehead with the back of
his right hand and is instantly concerned. “You’re warm, we’d better get you
home.” He reaches for my hand, a lot less forcefully now but I have no
intentions of leaving, not until he’s answered a couple of questions.

“Ayden, who’s that woman over there?” I look
in the direction of Alenka, she’s the only one surrounded by a flotilla of
admirers, bobbing and weaving, vying for her attention.

From his expression, he recognises her.
“Which woman?”

“Don’t treat me like a fool Ayden. You
know which woman. Alenka. Who is she to you?”

His unconscious ‘tell’ gives the game
away; he reaches for the back of his neck with his right hand and attempts to
massage a tender spot. “She’s someone I’ve taken out a couple of times.”

“Where?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.” My staccato delivery helps me to
pin him down.

“To some award thing, probably, dinner
maybe. Why?”

“Just answer my questions.” I tip my head
to one side and pause for a second. I want his full attention. “Did you send
her flowers?”

“I suppose so ...”

“Did you send her a poem?”

“I guess I ...”

“Did you have Celine take her clothes
shopping with one of your
special
visa cards?”

“Only because ...”

“That’s all I need to know.” I feel a
thousand daggers piercing my heart, actual physical pain lances through me, but
I refuse to let him see me cry. I release myself from his grip. Alenka was
right to warn me. He
is
a player.

“I’ll make my own way home.” Fighting off
an impulse to bolt, I walk in the direction of the exit, trying to offer polite
goodbyes on the way. I see Max, stood by his pile of books and he gives me a
sympathetic nod. That only makes me feel worse. I don’t want his pity. I just
want to get out of this fucking building without weeping.

Once outside, the cool evening air hits me
and I look left and right for a taxi. At that very moment Lester pulls up,
brakes screeching as the car comes to a grand prix halt. Ayden must have phoned
him from inside. He jumps out of the Rolls Royce, looking agitated; printing around
the car he opens the door for me. I take one step back but, before I can walk
away, Ayden scoops me up and forcibly marches me into the car. It all happens
so quickly I have no time to protest as he bundles me in and onto the back
seat. I try to slap his hands away whilst flopping down onto the leather
upholstery with a thud. I’m not going anywhere, he’ll make sure of that. God
forbid I should cause a scene.

He slams his door shut. “Get us the fuck
out of here!” He yells, trying to regulate his breathing.

I arch my body away from him and focus on
the changing scenery. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his reflection in the
privacy glass which Lester has raised without being instructed to do so. He
knows Ayden so well, which is more than can be said for me.

My world is in turmoil, even the passing
crowds and the flashing lights are no more than a psychedelic blur. I can’t
bring myself to look at him. The sound of his uneven breathes make my chest
feel tight and constricted and I shiver, not because I’m cold but because I’m
wounded and shocked to find out he’s not the man I thought he was. I want to
scream and shout and say I hate you for making me feel so special, when really,
what I hate most is myself for falling for it; falling for him.

In a measured tone he speaks “I know why
you’re upset, but you need to think back to everything that’s happened between
us; how I’ve treated you, even put you before my business. I’ve done everything
to please you, so don’t fuck around Beth and don’t confuse kindness with
weakness.”

What! I don’t recognise his acerbic tone.
Is this the man who has been sleeping in my bed? Is he the one I gave myself
to? Who the hell is he?

When Lester pulls up outside my apartment,
I make a point of reaching around my neck and unfastening my treasured kiss
necklace. Before stepping out of the car I turn to Ayden, open up his left
hand, that same hand that touched me so intimately less than an hour ago, and
let the necklace cascade into it. Without thinking I wrap my hands around his
so it forms a fist around the platinum chain: now it’s his to keep. I have to
give it back. Of all the feelings I have, this simple act is the most
distressing; it takes me back to the moment we met and it’s ironic that such a
delicate piece of jewellery should bring us full circle.

He grabs my wrist and I recoil. A single
tear rolls down my cheek but I won’t look at him, I can’t.

“Let me go Ayden,” I plead in a broken
whisper.

“Please … “ Slowly, a millimetre at a time,
he releases me.

I step out of the car alone and make my
way towards the security lamp outside my apartment block; it shines like a
homing beacon. I don’t stop walking until I reach my front door

Stumbling
, I make my way inside and put my back to
the door, creating a human barricade. I feel as if my legs are too weak to hold
the weight of my extravagant dress and I slide to the floor. The silk material
falls into disorganised creases, there’s no discernible shape: how quickly its
beauty fades. It’s just a dark blue dress, fancy wrapping for something very
ordinary: for me.

Like sad Cinderella, I pull off my
uncomfortable shoes and throw them across the room, hoping that ridding myself
of them will make me feel better. It doesn’t. I need to cry it out, but I
can’t. I’m still too raw.

There’s a buzzing sound. I can see my
mobile phone dancing across the breakfast table; it’s on vibrate. I stagger
over to see who is calling: it’s Ayden, Mr. P. himself but this time he has no
potential, he’s not perfect or powerful and most certainly not Prince Charming:
he’s a fucking
Player
and he’s played me for a fool.

The phone keeps dancing and stopping and
dancing again. If I hear his voice, I’ll lose it. I take up what was Ayden’s
place at my breakfast table and open up my laptop. It takes a minute to boot
up. When it’s ready to go, I compose an email:

From:
[email protected]

To:
 [email protected]

Date:
21
^st
October   21.50

Subject:
NOTHING TO SAY

I can’t bear to speak to you. I’ll let the
song do the talking.

I attach Jar of Hearts by Christina Perri.
Welcome to my world Mr. Stone. You said we should add some new songs to my
eclectic collection, and here’s the first and last of them: enjoy.

Flat footed, I walk into my bedroom and
barely recognise myself in my full length mirror; my hair has fallen over my
face and the dress reaches my shins. I look like a broken doll, and that’s
exactly how I feel: misused and broken.

The dress doesn’t put up much of a
struggle and it’s happy to drape itself over the chair by the wall while I
climb beneath my duvet, in an attempt to rid myself of the frigid air that
seems to be enveloping my body. What sound does a heart make when it breaks; is
it like glass shattering or the roll of thunder across an empty sky. I don’t
know. In my ears is the swishing of a heartbeat. I’m alive, but dying inside
with every breath.

The realisation of what might have been settles
in my consciousness like oil on water: a shifting slick of blackness, dragging
me under with no hope of rescue. I am alone.

It’s only 10.00 o’clock but it feels like
four in the morning. My eyelids want to close, but my brain won’t let them,
instead it has them flickering and twitching frantically. I need to sleep. I
need to forget.

I drop off to sleep, but the sound coming
from my laptop wakes me. Ping. I have an email. I know it’s Ayden, he’ll have
something to say in response to my musical message but I can’t deal with it
now. It pings again. A minute later it pings again.

I’m yelling at the top of my voice. “Stop!
You’re driving me crazy!”

I jump out of bed and before I can get to
the laptop it pings again. I have four emails from Ayden. It’s the same message
re-sent with an attachment.

I disconnect the charger and take the
laptop to bed with me. At least I won’t be sleeping entirely alone. I click
open:

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Date:
22nd October 00.35

Subject
: LISTEN!

Who am I ?

There’s no text just a musical attachment.
I recognise it.  It’s from my iTunes library. I climb into bed and place my
laptop beside me, opening the track from Will Young’s album. This musical
message is unexpected but the only way Ayden can reach me, through a medium he
knows I will welcome into my home and, more importantly, listen to. It begins,
‘
Sometimes you push me so hard...’
 and the lyrics that follow speak of
love. It’s a beautiful song.

When I wake up, it’s 5am. My laptop is
still sleeping so I wake it up too. I have a song in mind. It will be my way of
explaining how I feel. I let it play and the words have me sobbing into my
pillow. I email:

From
: [email protected]

To:
 [email protected]

Date:
22nd October  05.05

Subject:
LISTEN!

What Hurts the Most

It’s
a country music song by Rascal Flatts and he won’t know it, but the words echo
what I feel. I settle myself down and try to sleep, knowing my alarm will start
screaming in less than two hours. Ping. I sit up, hoping it’s another song from
him. I check my emails:

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Date:
22nd October 05.30

Subject:
LISTEN!

All Over Again

I know this song by Justin Timberlake,
it’s a desperate plea. I play it and find myself pacing and weeping
uncontrollably; every line is ladened with meaning and it takes all my willpower
not to pick up the phone. Instead, I head for the shower and allow the steaming
spray to scatter my tears. It’s only when I see my reflection that I’m reminded
of what he’s done to me.

The skin around my eyes is red and
swollen, even my lips are twice their normal size. My face is the colour of
sour milk and I look like a ghostly imitation of my former self. I’m drowning
in my own sadness, tears welling, deep enough to swamp every hope, every wish.

This time yesterday we were in this very
house together, making love. How will I survive a day at work looking and
feeling so fucking wretched? I tear off wet underwear and wrap myself in my
bathrobe. With dripping wet hair, I climb back into bed.

When the alarm sounds, for a couple of
mindless seconds I feel ok, then I remember. My head aches, my pillow is damp
and I have no desire to ever leave this bed. The alarm repeats and I want to
throw it across the room but I need the toilet. I turn it off and drag myself
from the sheets. Outside there’s daylight and I think I can hear traffic; life
goes on, for the rest of the world at least.

I wash and clean my teeth before
attempting to do anything with my hair; it’s such a mess and I don’t have the
time, energy or inclination to style it. I twist it into a clip and fold over
the ends. What the hell. I reach for my body spray and my hand accidentally
touches Ayden’s toiletries bag. Without a second thought, I gather up his
things and bundle them together. His overnight bag is by the door, so I start
to pack it. I resist the urge to inhale his T-shirt or to fold his jeans.
Instead I gather them up like dirty washing and stuff them in. There is one
other thing I need to do. I take the ‘special’ visa card out of my purse and
slip it into the side pocket of his bag. I won’t be using that again.

On my way to the kitchen I give last
night’s dress a passing glance and snigger: ‘sorry you did your best.’ I wonder
what happened to the killer heels but I see them abandoned and on their sides
where they landed, and that’s where they can stay. I throw back a couple of
gulps of orange juice but even they threaten to erupt from my mouth. I can’t
face eating anything.

Arriving at school, I see the same old
faces: students, colleagues and flustered office staff. I’d forgotten it was
presentation evening. Thank God I did my planning last week. I won’t be
undertaking anything that requires any mental effort today.

The morning’s lessons go well,
considering. I take my foot off the gas and allow my students to entertain
themselves with some private reading, I’m happy to baby-sit. Actual teaching is
out of the question.

I work through lunch unable to face my colleagues.
I can’t endure the simplest of questions today. “Did you have a nice weekend
Beth?” Could open up a whole can of nasty, little worms.       

I’m grateful for my free period at the end
of the day and occupy my mind with thoughts of contemporary poetry and
examination preparation. I decide to stay at work and to get a head start on
tomorrow’s lessons. I have nothing to go home to. Besides, curtain up is at
6.30pm.

I’ve purposely avoided turning on my
laptop all day. With time to myself, I boot up and it greets me with another
Ping.

From
: [email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Date:
22nd October 09.50

Subject:
LISTEN: IT’S THE LAST ONE!

The Reason.

I don’t know the song or the group
Hooberstank but, when I play it back, I realise it’s his final assault. Another
despairing attempt to bombard me with a message seeking forgiveness.

It starts off with a driving beat and I
don’t know what to think. When it begins,
I’m not a perfect person ...’
I
know this is Ayden speaking to me directly, it’s such a meaningful song.  Maybe
he does care, maybe he’s not
playing
with me? 

I pull up the lyrics off YouTube, play it
through again and I’m touched to think he’s gone to the trouble of finding such
a profoundly moving song. I’m torn.

Without a rational thought of my own I
find solace in Jane Austin; “
You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope
… I have loved none but you.”

***

Some early-bird parents arrive before the
arranged time, hoping to get a seat at the front of the theatre. I take a
couple of minutes to assess my appearance; my hair is still clipped back, my
knee length skirt and white blouse are clean and tidy and, best of all, I can
hide behind my glasses: they’ll go some way towards hiding my sadness.

I take my position near the front of the
auditorium, seating former students in alphabetical order as planned. My back
is to the stage and I’m doing my best to offer welcoming smiles and the
occasional hug to my most dedicated protégées. I’m still getting them seated
when the lights go down and the Head Teacher begins her speech.

“Good Evening ladies and gentlemen,
Governors, students, staff and special guest Mr. Ayden Stone, who has very
graciously offered to hand out our awards this evening.”

Now I’m hearing things: I could swear I
just heard her say Ayden Stone. I turn to face the stage and there he sits,
every inch the mercurial MD.

He’s so smart in his signature suit and I
examine him from the knees up, terrified of what I might see the minute our
eyes meet. I lower my nose to look over my glasses and we lock into each other.
He launches a missile of a stare my way and I lower my head and look away. I
have no defence against an assault of that magnitude.

I walk to the back of the theatre and hide
in the shadows. I can see him, he can’t see me but he knows I’m here.  Unlike
his last visit, he doesn’t seem quite so self-assured; he appears lost in
thought and tired around the eyes. Maybe he didn’t sleep at all?

For forty minutes he stands, smiles and
shakes hands with students receiving their awards. With infinite patience, he
poses with each one for a photograph and I know how he hates to do that. By
student number 70, his smile is fading: he’s running on empty, or maybe I’m
just projecting?

It’s customary for the guest of honour to
give a speech and my hands are starting to sweat on his behalf - I’m nervous
for him. Why should I be, he’s done this kind of thing a hundred times before but,
he’s had little if any sleep and no time to prepare. My hands sweat a little
more, and I remove my glasses and prepare myself. What is he going to say?

He begins, “
Good evening everyone,
Governors, Head Teacher, teachers, students, parents and guests. I was very
pleased to be invited back to your school after a very rewarding visit only a
week ago.”

He looks calm but over-rehearsed somehow.
His words waft over me.

“
For those of you collecting your
well-earned Awards this evening, this is a time for celebration and for
recognising achievement. In this vein, I’d like to share my observations with
you about success, in the hope that you’ll gain an insight into what it means
to find fulfilment.”

Oh great, the Ayden Stone story, the
students will be riveted.

“
When I was your age, I had one driving
force: building a media centred business. I dedicated myself to it, to the
exclusion of everything and everyone. And there’s nothing wrong with that. The
payoff has been immense and I have been very fortunate and surrounded myself
with some very talented people and lots of beautiful things.”