TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (55 page)

across the road, directly in front of the archway. “That’s the entrance.”

“Thank you again, Lester.” Sensing my nervousness he offers me a sympathetic smile, which I

accept with gratitude.

“Mr. Stone will be pleased to see you.”

That comment bolsters my resolve, just as he knew it would. “And I will be relieved to see him. I

hope he’s alright.” I realise I should have brought a change of clothes, toiletries. Why didn’t I pack his

things? “Damn. I forgot his toiletries …”

“He has them Mrs. Stone. Mr. Harrison telephoned me from Las Vegas and I packed a bag for

him.” He closes the door, signalling I should make my move. “He will be fine.”

As I approach the arched entrance, I become aware of CCTV cameras swivelling in my direction.

Ignoring them I march onward, through the heavy mahogany doors and into a wide open space, a

courtyard of sorts. I look up and marvel at the restoration. It’s an impressive building, inside and out.

An official looking woman carrying a clipboard approaches me from the left, smartly turned out in

a black suit and wearing glasses; a beady eyed raven, if ever I saw one. Her white blouse is crisp and

the colour of her paperwork.

“May I help you?” She enquires.

I turn to face her. “Yes. I’d like to speak with Mr. Pendleton, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I shake my head.

Maybe I should have called first.

“Then may I enquire as to why?” She perches on comfortable shoes.

“Yes. It’s concerning Mr. Stone. He’s helping you with your enquires.”

“And you are?”

“His wife. Elizabeth Pa … Elizabeth Stone.”

Shit! How could I forget my own name?

“I see. Please take a seat and complete this form. I will see if Mr. Pendleton is available to speak

with you.” She leads me over to a side area, where comfortable club chairs are arranged around a

coffee table. It gives the impression of formal hospitality but I know this is no more than a spurious

welcome.

I complete the form, including everything about myself. I’m alerted to the arrival of Mr. Pendleton

by the sound of approaching heels on a stone floor. I stand, straightening my back and making myself

presentable.

“Ah. Mrs. Stone. Good afternoon.” He reaches out his hand to shake mine.

I oblige and offer a half-hearted smile. “Mr. Pendleton. Thank you for seeing me. “

“What can I do for you?” He ushers me back towards the club chairs with an outstretched arm.

“You can tell me when my husband is coming home, to start with,” I state, disinclined to indulge in

chitchat.

“He hasn’t been arrested, Mrs. Stone. And we are not keeping him here against his will.”

“So he is free to leave?” I cock my head, anticipating a smart reply.

“He is helping us with our enquiries concerning a matter of national security. Under Schedule 7 of

the Terrorism Act, we …”

“You don’t have to quote from the manual Mr. Pendleton. We both know Ayden Stone does not

trade with terrorists. He’s a businessman who’s worked incredibly hard to get where he is. He’s too

principled to make his money that way.”

“I’m sure you’re right Mrs. Stone. But we would be doing our country a disservice if we left any

stone unturned.” He sniggers at his faux pas.

I direct a wide eyed stare his way. “Is that so?” I pick up my handbag. “So you’re telling me I can’t

see him?”

“No, of course not.”

I hate this game of cat & mouse but I’m willing to play along, if it gets me in to see Ayden. God

knows what he’s been through. “Then let’s go. Please, lead the way.”

He turns about and four sets of heels echo off the stone walls as we make our way towards a steel

door with a keypad, climb a flight of stairs and enter a side room.

“Please take a seat.”

I position myself on the nearest chair, balancing on the edge precariously, waiting to be called. In a

most unladylike fashion I run my sweating palms along my skirt, appearing to iron our creases, but

really drying them off. I feel eyes upon me and don’t even bother to look for the cameras.

Instinctively, I know they are there.

Mr. Pendleton returns, seeming rather pleased with himself. “This way Mrs. Stone. Please, follow

me.”

I hear laughter coming from the next room and recognise it immediately. It’s Ayden. Meekly, I

push open the door. He’s sitting on an easy chair in pale jeans and an open necked white shirt, looking

fresh faced, relaxed and gorgeous.

What’s going on?

His face breaks into a wide smile when he sees me. “Beth.” Instantly he stands and dashes over,

taking my face in his palms with no regard for the other occupants of the room; his eyes are alight

with undisguised joy. “I believe you’ve been causing a mutiny in my boardroom.” He sniggers. “What

am I going to do with you?”

I’m struggling to find words to construct a coherent reply. I expected him to be wearing yesterday’s

clothes and to be despairing over his untimely incarceration. Instead, he’s here laughing with men in

suits as if they’re drinking buddies. I turn from him and cast a novice’s eye around the room.

He senses my disorientation. “Would you give us a couple of minutes, please, gentlemen?” He

takes my hand and leads me over to the sofa. We face each other, our knees touching, his hands

folding mine into a neat pile on my lap. “This isn’t what you expected is it?”

I shake my head.

“You got all dressed up and went charging into my boardroom like a belligerent bride to get me out

of here, didn’t you?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re adorable.” He kisses my forehead softly. “That took some doing Beth.”

“You have no idea.” Now I’m smiling. “I couldn’t have done it without Charlotte. She got me this

suit and a folder full of notes. Even had name plates lain out in front of everyone.”

“I heard.” He’s chuckling, freeing his right hand to massage his chin. “Stephen came marching in

here, telling me you’d belittled him in front of the Board members and he’d had to flee the boardroom

with his tail between his legs.”

I tip my head to one side, feigning innocence. “I might have.”

“It did the trick.” He strokes my hair softly as if petting a Persian cat. “Things were comfortable

enough but when he got involved, well … let’s just say I’ve been treated like a special guest.” He

winks and moves closer to whisper in my right ear. “There are at least three cameras in here, so do

your best to conceal your reaction when I tell you just how fucking hot you look in that suit.”

His words wash over me like steam from a facial spa, causing my throat to speckle and flush in

response.

“If we were alone, I would move my hands from your knees and part them so I could feel just how

wet your panties are, but …” He leans back. “ … I’m not going to do that.”

I flutter my eyelashes theatrically. “Thank God for that.”

A boyish grin ends the sex talk. “Tell me what you’ve been up to at Stone Heath. I’m glad you went

back there.”

He waits for my reply, fixing me with an intense stare; the afternoon light creates a translucent

shimmer of sea green that makes it blindingly obvious. He belongs to me.

I mirror that look, or try to. “I wanted to. It’s my home.”

“Our home.” He corrects me with a knowing look.

I’m giggling. “You stole my line.” I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze him so tightly,

until I feel his chin pressing into my shoulder, only now experiencing the agonising ache of

separation. In responds with a vice like grip, staking his claim. I belong to him.

“But it’s just a house without you there.” When I feel able, I release him. “Why won’t they let you

leave?”

“I can leave. Any time I want. I’m here of my own accord.”

What?

“I don’t understand.”

“I think it’s best I forgo the explaining for now.” He signals left and right, indicating the unblinking

eyes in every corner of the room. “We’ll speak later.”

Remembering the document in his study, I begin to speak “I think I know how someone …”

But, before I can get another word out, he kisses me hard, welding his lips to mine, suffocating a

garbled “how.”

I have no defence. I kiss him back, bury my fingers in his hair, snatch at his shirt and rediscover the

man I married. I want him so badly.

Taking me by the shoulders, he pushes me away. In a daze I open my eyes and see my name leave

his lips in a whisper. “Beth … It’s time to go.”

Go!

Fearing the worst, I lick my swollen lips. “Time to go where?”

“Home.” I feel the pad of his thumb against my cheek and see the dying embers of our passionate

kiss flicker and fade in his eyes. “Get your bag.”

I remain seated. “Are you staying here?”

“No. I’m taking you home.” He lifts me into a standing position and rearranges my suit, as if I’m a

child wearing their school uniform on the first day of term. When he’s happy I’m presentable he hands

me my bag. With molten breath he speaks into my right ear. “Don’t say anything other than goodbye.

Laugh as if I just made a lewd suggestion.”

I take a step backwards and laugh softly. “It’s a good job we’re married Mr. Stone,” I state,

rearranging his collar and flattening the flicks in his hair. “Or I might have to slap you.”

He takes my right hand and presses a kiss into the palm. “Let’s never go there again.”

A simple shake of the head is enough to assuage that recollection.

Clearly aware of our intention, Mr. Pendleton returns, flanked by our two ‘bodyguards’ from Las

Vegas. With steely expressions they look right through me.

Following orders, I say no more than goodbye and trace the same route back down the stairs, into

the open space by the arched entrance. There to meet us is another upstanding civil servant carrying an

overnight bag. Ayden takes the bag in one hand and my right elbow in his other.

“Thank you for your hospitality Mr. Pendleton. I have no intention of paying you a return visit. No

offence intended.”

“None taken Mr. Stone. Please, this way.” He leads us to the large mahogany doors, where I see a

slice of grey sky and the Thames: freedom.

With Ayden at my side I taste the afternoon air; it’s not fresh or cleansing but it’s such a relief to

be sharing it with him. To my utter surprise, the silver Rolls pulls up in front of the entrance. Lester

steps out, nods, takes Ayden’s bag and opens the nearside door for us.

“Where to, Mr. Stone?”

“Stone Heath Lester and make it sharpish.”

The journey starts off silently and continues that way. Conversation is surpassed by reflection and

the occasional squeeze of my right hand. I have the SD card tucked away in my purse. If Ayden gave

me a penny for my thoughts right now … I’m not sure what I would say.

In an attempt to strike back, rather than simply roll with the punches Dan returned to THE INK

SPOT on Saturday afternoon. He was in no mood for best friend banter and ploughed his way through

the small parlour like a steam train. With no more than the raising of his chin he had settled himself in

the chair, having discarded his shirt and flexed his muscles in preparation for the outlining process. In

total it took two hours, after which he was pleased to have four skilfully drawn letters across his left

pectoral muscle:
BETH.

Having had little time to treat the wound it has begun to scab over; the B is no more than a bubbling

bridge of hard unattractive skin and the remaining three letters appear to have morphed into an

unsightly grouping of crusted plasma, barely recognisable as letters. He looks down at it with self-

loathing, a single thought in his head. ‘It ain’t a pretty sight.’ Throughout his busy Monday morning

shift he rubs at it until a weeping outline begins to dampen his work shirt. It may not be visible

through the black material, but that doesn’t make it any less tangible.

It hurts like hell.

21

Stone
Heath looks much the same as it did when I left it this morning, except for the layer of late

afternoon moisture that is beginning to mist over the brass name plate.

“Thanks Lester. I’ve got the bag. We won’t be needing the car again today.” Ayden takes the bag

from him and opens the front door, expecting the alarm to sound. It doesn’t.

“Sorry.” I smile apologetically. “I didn’t know how to set it.”

The rolling of eyes is enough to caution me for my slip-up. “Remind me to show you.”

“I will.”

We step into the lift, holding hands. The air between us is charged with electrons; hairs on the back

of my neck are bristling against the collar of my blouse. The confined space encapsulates his cologne,

filling my nostrils with a provocative concoction of warm cinnamon and jasmine. All I can do is close

my eyes and pray for self-control, and wait for the lift to ascend the two floors to the lounge.

As I move to exit, Ayden outstretches his arm to prevent me. “Before we step out together, I want

you to know something.” He turns to me head on, taking both of my hands in his. “Mrs Stone, I realise