When we get into our stride I’m smiling from ear to ear and he’s finding it impossible to contain his amusement. That’s when I feel the blinding flash of the camera and it’s enough to wipe the smile off my face in record time. I tip my head down and cover my face with my clutch.
“Who’s taking photographs?” I ask, sounding much too anxious.
“Who knows? Fucking press probably. They follow me round like flies on shit. What is it with these guys?”
I give him a stern look, disapproving of the simile.
“Let’s get inside.”
The moment we enter, people are turning and acknowledging him: he’s become the focal point of the room. Seeming jet propelled, he soars above his peers and I am caught in his jet stream, carried along at a pace. He accosts a passing waiter carrying an empty tray. “Two glasses of champagne.” No please. No thank you.
Maybe I didn’t want champagne?
He moves through the crowd with effortless grace and authority, shaking hands and introducing me as his friend. I’m not entirely comfortable with that but I’ll save it for our talk later. It brings a crooked smile to my face when he refers to me by my full name: Elizabeth. That could get him in all kinds of trouble, but I don’t doubt for one minute he’s done that on purpose, knowing Elizabeth’s preoccupation with boldness. Unfortunately, there’s the paradox: I have no opportunity to be bold or even to speak. I don’t like this kind of role play. I’m wasted as an accessory that can do no more than stand and nod and smile.
After twenty minutes of silent listening, I’ve had enough. My feet are aching and now I’m rocking from left to right: I’m bored senseless. “I’m going to the little girls’ room and then I’m going to speak with Max Bradley,” I inform Ayden, loosening my grip on his hand.
“Who?” He hasn’t a clue who he is.
I’m shocked. “You know, the author. It’s his book launch?” I tut and shake my head. “I won’t be long.”
I think he is advising me against it as I walk away and trying to keep hold of my hand but he quickly relinquishes his grip, realising I won’t be contained a moment longer.
I wander across the room and pay a quick visit to the powder room. It’s very stark and marbelesque, even the toilet seats look like pieces of sliced granite. It’s a quick in and out and I’m ready to begin my adventure into the world of popular fiction.
I collect a fresh glass of bubbly and scan the venue; there are quotes from the book plastered everywhere, even the music has a mysterious quality about it. Before me is a table covered in a cardinal red cloth, stacked high with copies of the book. Strangely, no-one is bothering to flick through the pages, no-one is even pretending to be remotely interested in it. How rude. I pick up a copy and read it, back cover first and then the opening chapter. Ten pages in, someone appears at the side of me. I’m conscious of their proximity, but I continue to read.
“It’s a bit of a clichéd opening don’t you think?”
I shift my attention from the page and offer a rather distinguished looking gentleman to my right an amiable smile. “I suppose so, but in this genre it’s important to establish characters and context quickly. The author’s achieved that.” I return to the book.
“What about the writing style?” He presses me further.
“I’m no expert, although it is engaging and using the omniscient narrator is probably the best narrative style for revealing multiple characters’ motivations, and to move the story forward. I know Grisham favours it.” I put the book down. “I’m sure it’s a very entertaining read.”
I take a closer look at my inquisitor; he has the darkest brown eyes I have ever seen and they are holding my attention. I break away. “Do you know the writer?”
He nods his head. “I do. And what about you, you’re not the usual sort to attend these little soirees.”
“I’m here with someone.” Someone who is looking for me and at me, at this precise moment.
“Who?” He turns and looks around the room for a likely escort.
“Ayden Stone.” I smile. “Do you know him?”
He gives me a knowing look. “Do I know him? That’s an interesting question.” His eyes flick to the side as if he’s really thinking through his answer. “This is my third book and his marketing company Stonebridge handles all my PR, distribution etcetera, so no I don’t know him.”
He picks up the book I was reading, and it’s then I realise he’s the man of the hour, the writer himself. I feel very foolish. “Will you sign a copy of your book for me Mr. Bradley?”
“It would be my pleasure Miss ...”
“Parker, Elizabeth Parker.”
To Elizabeth, thanks for the critique. Let’s discuss it over dinner. Regards Max. 07983200881. He signs it and hands me the book.
“Thank you, you’re very charming Max.”
“Not at all, the pleasure’s all mine, but if I may be so bold. What the hell is a beautiful, intelligent woman like you doing with a bastard like Ayden Stone?”
I’m struck dumb by his directness. “I’m sorry!”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry, sorry no-one steered you away from him. Stone by name, Stone by nature.” He reaches out to shake my hand and I position the book under my left arm. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He scans the room and spots Ayden who is burning him to the ground with a razor-sharp stare; it cuts through him with the intensity of a high powered laser beam. “Something tells me your evening just took a turn for the worse, Miss Parker.”
I look over at Ayden and he’s adopted an unfamiliar pose, leaning up against a pillar; not exactly in public view but not concealed either. He has his arms folded; his right foot is crossed over his left ankle. He’s either sulking or seething, or both. If it wasn’t for the scowl, I’d describe it as a model pose.
“On a scale of one to ten, how would you describe that look?” I ask Max, as one lover of popular fiction to another.
“Oh, trust me it’s off the scale. I’d have to draw on some superlatives and maybe throw in some hyperbole to do it justice.”
“Then that’s my cue I think ... bye Max.” I walk directly over to Ayden, I do not stop, I do not pass go, I stay on a straight line until I’m stood in front of him. He has managed to unfold his arms from his chest and has slipped them into his pockets. If that’s not classic anger management, I don’t know what is. I face him square on and, with my heels I’m closer than usual to his face. You don’t have to be a mind reader to know how incensed he is: he can’t even speak.
“Do you think I’ve been too bold Mr. Stone?” I ask quietly, strategically placing my hands over his trouser pockets to immobilize his hands. “Ayden, don’t speak, just listen.”
He is looking anywhere but my face.
“I was discussing the literary merits of the book we have come here tonight to launch with the author.”
He tries to take his hands out of his pockets but I hold his wrists in place. I have to employ all my upper body strength just to contain him.
“Look at me Ayden.”
His eyes are flashing a wild, fiery indigo and the green flecks are like sparks circling a Catherine wheel.
“I would never do anything to hurt you or to embarrass you. You’re getting worked up because you’re jealous and you’re not used to feeling this way. But, you have nothing to be jealous about. I only want your hands on me Ayden. Remember the car.”
He’s becoming visibly calmer, his breathing is easing and even those flickering embers of rage are petering out. I release my white knuckled grip on his hands and he takes them out of his pockets.
Before I can get another word out, he spins me around so my back is against the pillar; his palms either side of my head on the upright surface, framing my face, anchoring me in place.
What the hell …
His formidable stance causes me to roll my eyes. “Now you have the use of your hands, maybe you should put them back in your pockets.”
“I don’t need my fucking han
ds. I’ve got this.”
He pins me to the pillar with his hips and I can’t help but feel his erection pressing into my stomach. My God, I’m so shocked and turned-on, I can barely speak. The fact I’m not wearing any underwear only adds to my arousal. I’m at my maximum height in stacked heels and still I’m looking up at him in awe. I’m holding my signed book and my clutch to my chest like a bullet proof vest, as if they will offer me some kind of protection against his overpowering sexual magnetism. They don’t.
“Should I give your panties to your new friend as a souvenir?”
“No.”
“Or maybe I should take you back to the little girls’ room and fuck you, because that’s all I can think of doing right now.”
He would, too.
“No.” I anchor his eyes to mine. “Ayden, you are behaving irrationally. I’ve done nothing wrong. In fact you’re causing a scene. We have an audience and all I can hear is ‘Get a room!’”
He eases off me a centimetre at a time, finding some semblance of self-awareness, before snatching the book from my grasp. He is actually holding it out of my reach so I can’t retrieve it. Why do I feel like I’m being reprimanded? Probably because I am.
“Do you want this?” I know he isn’t referring to the actual book.
“Yes,” I answer sharply. “I do. I want a copy of the book but not that copy of the book. I’ll go swap it for another.”
I take hold of the book but he keeps a firm grip on it.
“Oh for goodness sake Ayden, you can trust me to go walkabout without a leash. I’ll come back to you.”
In one split second he’s cupping my face. “I’ve never felt so fucking incensed before in my life, I wanted to hit that bastard.”
“I know.” I caress his face and it’s as if we are alone in an empty room. “I didn’t do it to make you jealous. I was bored hanging on your every word. I’m sorry, but I don’t make a very good accessory.”
He sniggers. “Oh you’ll never be that Beth.” The gentlest of kisses grazes my mouth and I see my lip gloss shining on his lips for the second time tonight. As I begin to wipe it away with the forefinger of my right hand, he pushes it into his mouth and sucks hard. It’s such a small thing but it’s intimate and so erotic: my insides clench.
“Be good Ayden. Remember the effect you have on me, you’re the one who’s let this genie out of the bottle.”
He gives me back my finger. “I don’t want you making anyone else’s wishes come true the way you have for me, that’s all.”
I chose my words carefully. “There’s no chance of that, you are my one and only master.” He likes the idea of being masterful. The smile that follows forms slowly and is so provocative it causes a longing in me that has me swooning. He sees that in me.
“Do you want to leave? We can go now and be at your apartment in twenty.”
I shake my head, appreciating the offer but decide against it. It’s a big night for him, he needs to circulate and I need to get my wear out of this ludicrously expensive dress.
“No, I want to stay. This is a new experience for me.” I arch backwards and pretend to straighten his tie. “Poor baby, you’re alright now. Go, do your thing. I’ll amuse myself somehow.”
I receive a wide eyed stare. “How?”
“I’ll go talk to people and eat canapés, sip champagne, watch you work the room and show off this fabulous frock.”
He ogles me from top to toe and back again. “You look good enough to eat.”
I decide not to dignify that comment with a response, instead I present him with a flat smile.
“But no more discussions about literature with aging authors ok?” He takes hold of my signed copy of Loss of Innocence and reads the note. Thankfully he has enough self-control to let it go. “The only thing this book has going for it is the title,” he comments, signifying something but saying nothing.
I pretend not to pick up on his intimation and give him a gentle push backwards. He doesn’t move.
“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?
Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play Page 19
