“Do you have the lock of hair I gave you?” Please let him have it.
“Yes, it’s in my pocket.”
“Well it’s no good in there is it! Take it out and wrap it around the fingers of your left hand.” I swear I can hear him breathing, his chest sounds tight and that’s not good. “Wrap it really tight and close your eyes.” I give him a couple of seconds.
“It’s done?”
“Tell me what the lock represents, breath slowly and tell me.”
He breaths in, out, in, out. “It’s you next to me, holding me keeping me safe. It’s tight and it’s like being inside you.”
“And how do you feel when you’re inside me?”
“I feel safe, invincible and powerful.” There’s a noticeable change in his voice, the timbre has altered: he’s becoming more assertive, more imposing. He’s becoming my Mr. P.
“Read the next paragraph. At the end of each sentence feel the lock, see how it centres you and makes you focus? The words will come to you.” I nibble my thumb nail and wait for his reply with trepidation.
He starts to read. “Yes. You’re right.”
Thank God! “Now you’re ready. You only have to read the speech through, slowly, breath and feel the lock tight on your hand. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” There’s the exhaling of breath down the line. “I’m good.” He pauses.
“So, what are you waiting for?” I hold my hand to my mouth, preventing an emotional gasp from escaping. “Go be Mr. P.”
“I will.” Now that’s the man I love. “Watch the speech. The wink will be for you.”
I sense a grateful smile. I’ve accessed CNN coverage of his press conference which must have taken place earlier this morning.
“I’m watching you at the press conference earlier. Straighten your tie and take that ‘fuck-me’ look off your face. This isn’t the Playboy channel Ayden: it’s business. Now go out there and shine, like the star you are.” My voice is not my own.
“Yes Elizabeth.”
“Are we done?”
“We’re done.”
I end the call and leave him hanging. He’s ready.
I sink into my chair visibly shaking, sweating: what just happened? I keep watching the coverage. It’s live. An overweight counterpart with a skin-tight waistcoat has introduced Ayden and is inviting him to the podium. He’s approaching, shaking hands, checking his tie, looking confident and serious: he means business.
Oh dear God please let him be brilliant.
Quickly the distinguished members of the audience settle and he positions himself, back straight, hands either side of the lectern, head held high. I wipe my hands on my skirt. I’m perspiring and having to make a conscious effort to breathe.
Ayden thanks them for their kind introduction and launches into a cohesive dialogue, pausing only to acknowledge applause. He speaks of a ‘defining moment.’ and stresses the importance of ‘global integration.’ Every new sentence is shaped; ‘commercial innovation’ is juxtaposed with ‘consumer application.’ He concludes with a directive, ‘If we are to expand our geographic reach we’ll need to work smarter, creating new pathways through expansive leadership and by offering transparency, reliability and affordability. Let us not forget this is a small planet, we are all connected.’
Applause reverberates around the auditorium. The camera moves in for a close-up, I watch him discreetly slip the lock of hair into his jacket pocket. Looking directly into the lens he winks. I smile. We connect.
I want to call him but I can see he’s surrounded by his peers. I let him be, let him have his moment in the spotlight. He’s had his chance to shine and so dazzling is his brilliance it hurts my eyes. A glossy tear streams down my cheek. How I love this man.
Driving home is an exercise in patience and good grace. I know Ayden will not call until I get home, but every traffic light is against me and I want to speak to him before he boards his return flight. He’ll be exhausted, having added an extra seven hours to his day and sleep is the only thing he should be thinking about at 40,000 feet above the Atlantic.
I’m listening to classic Fleetwood Mac on my iPod and I’m singing, ‘I want to be with you everywhere,’ and never a truer word has been spoken. I break, envisage what tomorrow will bring, accelerate and picture him coming to whisk me off to the Eternal City. When I park up, my excitement is discernible; the skip in my step is a dead giveaway.
Having consumed a tuna salad, I set about the unenviable task of packing, but not before I flick through my post. All my bills are paid via direct debit so I know I’m debt free and most of the junk mail goes straight into the bin. I take hold of a small parcel, give its contents a gentle rattle and fondle it. I think I’ve seen this discreet wrapping before.
With eager fingers, I tear off the brown paper and open the black box. Something tells me it’s not a bracelet. I lift the lid and sneak a peek. It’s a kind of silicone ring with an attachment at the top. Oh!
This is one toy I won’t be using in the privacy of my own home, not alone anyway. Does this actually count as a gift for me? Shouldn’t this have been sent to Stone Heath, it has Ayden Stone written all over it?
***
Usually, I hate packing but tonight there’s nothing I would rather do. Thankfully Celine has simplified the task by matching clothes and accessories; getting a collection together to take account of the weather is my problem.
I’m planning on throwing my faded suitcase away, but not before I have inspected its contents. It’s collecting dust under my bed and my dad’s small treasure chest is keeping it company. I must move one to get at the other. The case weighs as much as I do and I soon realise why, it’s full of books. When I flip open the lid, I’m reminded of a former, solo pursuit and I lift up a couple of paperbacks, realising instantly what drew me to them: escapism, pure escapism.
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: 25th 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.
Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play Page 27
