Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (44 page)

With his lips touching my left ear, he
whispers. “I’m so fucking hot for you right now.”

When he straightens up, my heart is
fluttering and I’m blushing like a schoolgirl. He never makes public displays
of affection, but what a perfect time to start.

So everyone can hear, including our
ex-guide, he says, “Ti adoro.” And kisses me so gently I think I may have
imagined it. When I open my eyes he’s gone. I straighten out my clothes and
regain my senses.

I turn to Cara. I do believe her mouth is
open. “You see Miss Magnani, you were wrong. He does like his women
plain.”

She has no answer for that and quickly
looks away.

Ayden returns, drains his caffe don panna
and speaks directly to her. “Thank you for your services Miss Magnani, we won’t
be needing your assistance further. I’m sure with Miss Parker’s Italian and my
map reading skills we will be able to complete the tour on our own.” He turns
to me and reaches out his hand. “You can contact my office via the hotel. Bill
me.” Dismissively, he turns his back to her and we walk away.

I turn and see her beauty fade, ever so
slightly, and then she is lost forever in the crowd.

He wraps his right arm around my shoulders
and prepares to speak “That manoeuvre was a tour de force Miss Parker, I
couldn’t have done it better myself. She made a serious error of judgement.”

I nod and keep my triumphant thoughts to
myself.

“She under-estimated my little genie.” He
kisses my cheek. “Where are we going, any idea?”

I reach into my bag and lift out a small
leather case. “I have my Sat Nav, we can use this.”

“Great.” He stands and watches me fire it
up and, after an extended session of screen pointing, lead us in what I assume
is the right direction.

Considering the Trevi Fountain is only
supposed to be five minutes away, 30 minutes later we find it, having had a
slight
detour. In the middle of a very small square, over-crowded with tourists,
stands Neptune in his chariot, being led by the Titans and sea horses. The
baroque ensemble is spectacular and such a remarkable piece of sculptural
engineering. I love it, even more so as we get to experience it together.

Ayden has me posing for photographs and I
turn this way and that, tip my hat, take a bow; he stretches out his arm and
pulls me in close and tickles me at the same time. I must look as if I’ve lost my
mind, but I don’t care. I turn the tables on him but he’s way too cool to pose.
Instead he simply looks in my direction, peeps over his Ray-Bans and steals the
show. Just as I predicted, the camera loves him, and so do I.

We conclude the tour with, what on the Sat
Nav appears to be a short walk to the Piazza di Spagna where the Spanish Steps
are located: one of the most photographed tourist attractions in the city. The
138 steps leave me gasping for breath but Ayden doesn’t even break a sweat. I
hardly have the strength to hold up my camera but he clicks away and I rest on
the wall for five minutes. He wanders off to take a look at the church and I
find my second wind before looking for him.

When I reach the top of the steps and look
around, he’s nowhere to be seen amidst the jostling crowds of people. I keep
looking and happen to spot a swathe of black hair in the middle of a group of
young Italian women.

From what I can deduce, they’ve asked him
to take their photograph, thinking and assuming with his chiselled featured,
athletic build and engaging blue-green eyes that he’s Italian. Now they have
him cornered, surrounded on all sides unable to escape. I lean against the
wall, fold my arms and watch him do what he does best: charm them, even though
he doesn’t speak a single word of Italian. He speaks the universal language and
actual words are unnecessary when you have a smile like that. One of them, an
outrageously good looking woman of around 22, with auburn hair and a husky
voice is asking him to go with her for a coffee. She is insisting. Does he need
rescuing? I think so.

I stroll over, feeling the need to prize
my ‘husband’ away from her audacious grip.  “Mi scusi se mi credete avete
attesa di mio marito.” She instantly lets go of his arm and apologises. As I
take him by the arm and lead him away, one of his admirers calls out to me.

“Siete molto fortunati donna.”

She’s right. I am a very lucky woman.

Ayden is unruffled, but a little put-out.
“God damn women, they were like a pack of wolves, couldn’t get away from them
and didn’t have a clue what they were saying.”

“Oh, my poor Mr. P. I think you know
exactly what they were saying.” I smile, focusing my attention on the steps as
we descend.

He says nothing and doesn’t have to, his
smirk says it all.

One hundred and thirty eight steps later,
we reach ground zero and turn to look back. The Spanish Steps really are quite
striking, but more fun than historically significant. I, for one, had a lot of
fun.

To the left of them is a famous Museum.
“Look where we’ve ended up Ayden, exactly where we started.” The thought of it
takes me back to our first meeting, making me feel suddenly very reflective:
how far we’ve come.

I point over to the pink and white
stripped building. “It’s the Keats’ Museum. Do you want to go in?”

“Have we time?”

“No, not really. Our meal is booked for
two thirty and it’s twenty past. What a pity, you being a Romantics man too.”

“That’s me.” He pulls me to him by my
collar and looks down at me for longer than is comfortable.

“What?”

“I just want to take a minute to look at
you. ‘
Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all you know on earth, and
all you need to know.”

“Hello Mr. Keats.” I take his face in my
hands and on tiptoe, kiss him softly. Never has a quote been so fitting to a
time and place. I feel his hands grasping mine and my arms being outstretched
into a flying position. Passers-by step aside, giving us space.

He doesn’t have to say anything, but he
prepares to. “You stir my soul Miss Parker.” He releases my arms and lifts me
off my feet, so our faces are level. “Ti adoro.”

“I adore you too Ayden.” Overwhelmed by
his declaration of love, I fight back tears and match his passionate kiss with
my own. The noise around us fades, time stands still, all we have is each other
and it’s everything. He lowers me onto my feet. Feeling a torrent of emotion, I
look anywhere but at him.

I hand my camera to a very trustworthy
looking English tourist. She’s plainly dressed in sensible shoes. The perfect
candidate. “Just click away,” I tell her as we turn this way and that, leaving
her to capture our merriment in each frame. I give thanks and realise the time.

“We’d better head off to Nero, we’ve only
got a couple of minutes.” With tears gathering, I search his face and see
nothing but undying love for me, forcing me to stifle a cough and lick my lips.
I’m moved beyond words.

“Come on, I think I know where Via
Borgognona is.” He takes hold of my hand, kisses my knuckles and leads me in
what I expect, for the first time since leaving the Pantheon, is the right
direction.

***

Nero’s is everything it professed to be;
behind the terracotta coloured frontage lies a family run restaurant which has
played host to the likes of Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt, but that’s not why we’re
here. The ambience is calm and old-worldly; walls panelled with dark wood,
mellow yellow walls and champagne coloured table cloths.

An elderly waiter dressed in a smart,
white shirt and jacket beckons us to our table in a quiet corner, sensing our
need for privacy and seclusion. I ask what he recommends and we go with that,
why not? Everything is supposed to be good here. Besides, I don’t think I can
sit and watch Ayden dissect what is already a very simple, traditional menu.
Instead, I hand him the wine list and he opts for a bottle of Barolo Acclive
and, of course, water to keep me cool.

We agree to share our spicy, garlic
flavoured starters: Roman artichokes and marinated aubergines with a portion of
sauted porcini. The main course is a revelation: osso bucco with mashed potato
for Ayden and cannelinni beans, tagliatelle bolognese for me. The combination
of old world charm and a typically Tuscan cuisine makes for a lovely meal. We
have barely enough room for dessert but the castagnaccioa, chestnut cake is too
good to ignore and we order one portion and request “due cucchiai.” The two
spoons arrive and we devour what is probably the best cake in the world.

“This is a great little restaurant Beth,”
Ayden remarks, sitting back in his chair and finishing off the remains of the
wine. “It’s very you.”

“How so?” I’m curious.

“Classy, understated and unforgettable.”

“I can live with that.” I smile broadly,
taking hold of his left hand across the table. “This has been a very memorable
day Ayden, not one I’ll forget in a hurry.”

“Me neither.” He takes hold of my other
hand and we steal another precious moment of quiet devotion. The waiter
shuffles over with two tiny glasses of grappa and our bond is broken, but only
temporarily: it will take more than a casual interruption to break what we
have. It’s probably too soon to call but, what the hell, I adore this man.

Considering it’s only seven weeks until
Christmas, the weather is unseasonably mild, there’s a nip in the air but the
sun is shining and there are splatters of blue between the grey clouds.
With his pride restored, Dan ends his shift, settles
himself behind the wheel of his patched-up BMW and hits the accelerator. The
roads are busy, white lines stretch out for miles as the storm clouds gather
and swallow up the daylight; usually cats’ eyes point in one direction, to Elm
Gardens, but today they seem to be leading him nowhere. Without his girl in his
sights he’s lost, moving forward aimlessly without purpose.

The 54 miles journey from Cambridge to
Harrow is a pleasant one, giving him time to think through his plan of action
and to take in the scenery. He continues to push the car hard. Even though he’s
finished an hour earlier as it’s Friday, he wants to get to Elm Gardens before
night fall. His logic being he won’t have to switch on any lights and draw
attention to the fact that there’s someone in her apartment when she’s supposed
to be away.

Just in case, he’s brought supplies along:
a small torch, his knife and, not forgetting the most important item, a set of
her keys. He has every reason to believe that the technicians will not have set
the alarm and so, this is his window of opportunity.

Knowing he’s within touching distance of
her stuff, causes a familiar twinge to circulate his nether region. For days
now, he’s been out of sorts, not himself, but he’s about to put all that behind
him.

All fired-up, he enters the apartment
block and makes his way upstairs, whistling and heavy-footed, knowing Pat will
have seen him arrive. If anything goes awry, she’ll be his alibi.

Once inside his apartment, he cautiously
checks the front of the property for any new vehicles, or any unwelcome guests.
There’s no-one and nothing out of the ordinary. Next, he slips on the latex
gloves and fixes them in place over his hardened, boxer’s hands and throws his
rucksack over his shoulder. All set.

Having already worked out which stair
creaks and where to step, he tip-toes down two flights of stairs and takes a
moment to listen. The coast is clear, he makes his move and enters 53a,
allowing the door to click softly behind him. He closes his eyes, savouring the
moment, taking it all in: the delicate floral fragrance, the ticking of the clock,
the  silence.  He breaks it.

“I could be happy here.”

With his senses finely tuned, he scans the
room with telescopic vision, wondering what to touch, taste and take. There are
endless possibilities. By-passing furniture he heads for the bedroom, it
beckons him like a homing beacon, with promises of sweet surrender and sex.
Even before he opens the first drawer he’s hard and primed.

The large set of drawers near the door
invite him to fondle their contents; to sample the sweet sensation of lace on
skin. He removes the glove on his right hand and rummages through underwear,
lifting, sniffing, kissing; he wipes the sweat from his brow and licks the
crutch on a pair of delicate white panties.

“I usually take Princess, but I’ve left
you a gift from me. It’s only fair.”

He dismisses one item after another: he’ll
know it when he finds it. Everything is new, he wants something worn and a
little frayed around the edges. He slides the top drawer shut, still in search
of that illusive item.

His next stop, her wash basket.

The bathroom light flickers on,
illuminating the many lotions and potions that have felt her fingers inside
them, he envies them. He tips out her wash basket and rummages through the
contents like a vagabond, smiling when he strikes gold. It’s a simple blouse,
the one she was wearing when he saw her on Monday night; beneath the arms are
patches of sweat the size of tea bags. He smiles with satisfaction. The blouse
fits easily in his rucksack.