Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (32 page)

Carrying half a dozen at a time, I pile
them up against the wall beneath my window. There they sit, having promised so
much but actually given me nothing more than a sanctuary and a place to dream.
Now, I have no need of dreams, I have a trip to pack for. I have Ayden.

The one thing I cannot relegate to the
other side of the room is the small, battered wooden chest: it’s a treasure
trove of memories, a visual record of my childhood loves and losses, laid bare
for all to see. I don’t have the heart to disregard its contents, to hide them
away as if my life before Ayden didn’t exist. It did. I did. I’ve got time to
take a look.

I take hold of two stark, white envelopes;
they bring to mind a cold, harsh reality. I don’t have x ray vision but I know
the words written on my mother’s and my father’s Death Certificates and I have
no desire to be reminded of them. Softly I place the two envelopes side by side
on the bed. They’d like that.

Before me is a scattering of photographs,
the most recent on top. Two young women in their early twenties holidaying in
Rhodes framed by an emerald sea and fishing boats; a beaming Charlie and a
bemused Beth, self-consciously posing for the camera in a bikini which, in
retrospect, doesn’t look that bad.

Turnover, move on: my graduation
photograph. An orphan girl dressed in back wearing a silly hat. The feelings I
had on that memorable day re-surface: the loneliness, the disappointment, the
despair.  I remember going home alone and downing a half bottle of Bacardi,
just so I could get through the day. I cried myself to sleep and woke up the
next day with a monumental hangover and my parents wedding photograph on my
pillow. God knows how it got there. 

Turnover, move on: I glance and flick
through school holiday snaps, me as Hermia in a school production, holding a
netball trophy, eating ice-cream with my dad on Brighton Pier; a petit girl of
around fourteen with wayward brown hair, looking like Medussa caught in a
backdraft. What was I thinking? I smile at my dad, noticing the absence of
sparkle in his eyes. He’d lost that three years earlier, the day my mum died;
buried it with her with no prospect of ever finding it again.

Now this next group of photographs require
a double dose of endurance. My eleventh birthday, the last recorded image of my
mum; a floral dress two sizes too big, hair in a plain pink scarf the colour of
ripe peaches against her cream complexion. Dark circles like Saturn’s rings around
her eyes, a weak smile. She was always beautiful, even ravaged by cancer and
more so only two days away from saying goodbye, forever. 

I daren’t look yet can’t bring myself to
tear my un-focusing eyes away. I must. I lay her to rest next to the two envelopes,
close to my dad, knowing wherever she is he will have found her and will be
taking good care of her. I have to believe that.

I rummage around, in search of happier
times, hoping to find images to neutralize this numbing sense of loss. They
come in droves: the whole family sitting around a dining table wearing
Christmas hats, a holiday in Cornwall, an unsteady tent, dad with a mallet and
mum off-loading a car, me stroking a stray dog that hated the rain but loved
cheese. It’s all coming back to me, making me choke back tears.

I’m done. There’s nothing left to see,
it’s all so far back I can barely remember, but I try when I see my dad
standing tall and proud in his white overalls, leaning against a second-hand
van: ‘Parker’s Painting and Decorating Services.’ Such a fancy title for a
one-man-band. I was his five year old apprentice, passer of brushes, stirrer of
paint extraordinaire. There we are: a proud father and a daughter who worships
him and would not leave his side.

I remember that summer, hiding under
billowing dust covers and climbing ladders, playing king of the castle and
pretending to be a princess perched on a tower, out of reach of a monster or a
wicked witch who had cast a spell on her: I was sleeping beauty wrapped in
white, waiting to be rescued by a prince. I remember.

I splay out the photos from that summer in
my hand like a fan, trying to put a name to faces and places, but it was 22
years ago and every recollection is wrapped in memories that have become no
more than shapes in smoke. I hold onto the final photo and take a long sip of
warm Rosy, with it emerges a memory, forgotten.

In the background is a large Victorian
house with three children haphazardly arranged in front of it.  A dark haired
boy has his arms around two small girls, the smallest, on the right is me, I
think. I have my thumb nail in my mouth, as was my way even then, and a pink
bow in my unruly hair which I’ve allowed to blow across my face to mask my
shyness. To one side is my dad’s van which he just
happened
to get in
the picture.

For the first time in an hour, I smile.
Sometimes it’s the simplest of things that mean the most; realising what a
wonderful childhood I’ve had lifts my spirits, leaving me with a warm glow that
circles my heart. I have been loved and I am loved. I can ask for no more than
that.

I return the contents of the chest to
their rightful place and close the lid on my past. The precious container
slides easily back into position under my bed, right where I place my head to
sleep, close enough to be a comfort when the dark shapes buried in my dreams
awaken and take hold of me, again.

***

By 9.30 it’s done, everything bar the
proverbial kitchen sink is wedged, crammed and crushed into 32 inches of
luggage space. I haven’t weighed it, I daren’t. I pour myself another
congratulatory glass of rose, take my phone off charge and hit Speedial 1.
Ayden answers on the third ring.

“Hey, I was just about to call you. I’m on
my way to the airport.” He sounds cheerful but tired and relieved.

“Good, you managed to get away from your
adoring fans then?”

“Just about, thanks to you they wouldn’t
let me go.” He pauses and I’m not sure why.

“I was just the monkey, you’re the organ
grinder,” I reassure him.

“Well, you’re a very clever monkey. I
couldn’t have done it without you.” He sniggers. “There’s something I never
thought I’d hear myself say.”

“Well you have, and you won’t have to say
it again. Like I said last night, we’re a team.” I love saying that.

“Seems that way.”

“Are you ok. Are we good?” I throw back
one of his perfunctory questions.

“Yes, just tired. I’m looking forward to
showing you just
how
good we are, together.” He purposely inserts a
dramatic pause and waits.

I smile into the phone. “I’m looking
forward to that too. Can you see me smiling?”

“
All
I can see is you, Beth.”

There’s a gentle hum in his voice and it
touches me. “You’ve been in my thoughts the whole time you’ve been away.” I
find myself gazing into space, just the sound of his voice and the way he says
my name is enough to send a shiver through me. “Access your emails before you
go to sleep and don’t email me back, I’ll be sleeping too or maybe not ... I’ve
got gift number two.”

“And?”

“And I feel like I’m taking in deliveries
for you.”

He’s laughing down the phone. “I love it
when you talk dirty.”

“I’m know.” I’m laughing too.

“Did you know what is was?”

“No but I do now.”

“Then you must know that it’s a
joint
gift?”

“I’ve yet to be convinced.” I tease.

“Then I’ll be happy to convince you when I
get back.”

“I can’t wait. I already feel like a kid getting
excited the night before Christmas. I’m won’t sleep.” Why am I telling him
this?

“I love your honesty, you’re my favourite
naughty girl, especially when you’re sat on my lap in the back of my Rolls.”

Oh that’s so unfair, bringing up that
memory now. It feels like play time all over again. “But I like sitting on your
lap, especially when you have the biggest hard on for me.”

“Whoa!” I can hear him clearing his
throat. “Any more mischief from you and I’ll put you across my knee again
Missy.” He’s smiling down the phone, but that doesn’t stop it being a very
sensual threat.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” That
warning has sparked a visceral response. I’m finding it difficult to keep still
on the kitchen chair. The idea of his hand leaving marks on my skin has me
writhing.

“That’s up to you.”

“Then we’ll call it a promise,” I answer
boldly and wait for his reply.

“But you do know I always keep my promises,
don’t you?”

I do.

“I’m counting on it.” I can play this game
too, if that’s what it is.

His breathing falters, he exhales noisily.
“Beth ...  if I’m going to get a wink of sleep on this long haul flight, we’re
going to have to end this conversation
right
now.”

I hear the yearning in his voice and want
to soften it with some words of reassurance. “I understand. Sleep well Ayden.
Arrivederci mio caro.”

I hear him laughing softly. “Sleep well
baby.”

The instant he leaves, something unexpected
finds its way into my home, maybe it’s the promise of his unbridled love.
Whatever it is, it enfolds me, wraps me up tightly to the extent, I can barely
breathe. It’s not desire. It’s fear.

The way this man makes me feel is
frightening. All this time spent analysing his irrational behaviour has caused
me to ignore my own. I realise I’ve given so much of myself, perhaps too much,
too soon to someone who already has his life mapped out. My intervention nearly
ruined him, nearly brought two decades or hard work crashing down around his
hears. What if he hadn’t been able to speak to me, and I hadn’t been able to get
him back on track? It doesn’t bear thinking about.

What if we aren’t meant to be together?
He’ll be able to cope, he has the survival gene. Of course he’ll miss me but
his life will go on. I can’t say the same for mine.

I unwind my hands from around my arms and
take a swig of wine. Nothing’s going to go wrong, I tell myself.

I reach back in time and hold onto words
Charlie said all those years ago. “Stop thinking you caused what happened to
you. It wasn’t your fault. You deserve to be loved, you’re not soiled goods.”

Right now, that’s exactly how I feel. My
fear stems from the horrifying idea Ayden will stop loving me when he knows
what happened to me. I won’t be his little genie or his clever money any more.
I’ll be back to being ordinary me. That thought scares the hell out of me.

Remembering my insistence that he check
his email I compose a goodnight message and prepare a musical attachment. Ayden
is still sending me love songs even though we have resolved our differences and
we’re closer than ever. Here I am, a self-confessed media junky keeping some of
the best love songs ever written to myself. He said we should create our own
soundtrack, and that has to begin with the songs we fell in love to. I have
just the song to ease him into a gentle repose.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Date:
25
^th
October  10.20

Subject
: DREAMING OF YOU

What Means the Most: Colbie Caillat

Having had your chance to shine and shone
sooooo brightly, I’d like to put the romance that you missed so badly last
night, back into our long distance relationship. This song spells out EXACTLY
how I feel about you: these words from my lips, to your heart.

I love you Ayden

B x

***

After a restless night spent mentally
preparing for my first holiday without Charlie and with one of the most
eligible bachelors in the western hemisphere, I’m sitting in my travelling
clothes: black silk blouse with silver poker dots, black fitted trousers, black
boots and silver scarf, all courtesy of Emporio Armani, by way of Ayden Stone.
I also have a black military coat to throw over my arm, just in case.

It’s 10.50am, Katy Perry sings
Wide
Awake
on the radio and the song reminds me that, for the first time in my
life, I truly am. Ayden has opened my eyes to the possibility of real
happiness, a far cry from the mundane existence I called a life before he came
along. My wish has become my reality; I’m being swept away, carried along on a
tide of immeasurable joy, embarking on a sensual adventure with the best of
guides.

When I hear his car pulling up outside, an
involuntary scream leaves my mouth. Thrown off balance by the butterflies in my
stomach, I stumble over my handbag in my eagerness to get my hands on him
before he reaches my front door. Taking a moment to compose myself, I stop and
take a breath and pull open my front door and then the external security door.

As he steps from the car I’m enraptured by
the sight of male perfection. He looks too good: black jeans, grey sweater and
a zip-up, designer jacket that accentuates his broad shoulders. Forgetting
every rational thought in my head, I run down the path to greet him, spurred on
by his easy, heart stopping smile; the one he saves for me. With the speed of
an Olympic sprinter I reach him and wrap my arms around his neck.