Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play

by Sydney Jamesson

  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

  10

  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: songbirdBP@hotmail.co.uk

  To: a.s.mediainternational1@global.com

  Date: 21st 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 th
e 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: a.s.mediainternational1@global.com

  To: songbirdBP@hotmail.co.uk

  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: songbirdBP@hotmail.co.uk

  To: a.s.mediainternational1@global.com

  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: a.s.mediainternational1@global.com

  To: songbirdBP@hotmail.co.uk

  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: a.s.mediainternational1@global.com

  To: songbirdBP@hotmail.co.uk

  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 wh
at 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.”