“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.
Next stop her bed. He pulls back the duvet, revealing clean, white sheets. “Very nice,” he comments approving of the simple bedding. His hand glides along the bottom sheet, it’s cold to the touch but sensual nevertheless. With his eyes closed, he can picture her there, lying, waiting for him and reaching out. Better still tied and gagged, squirming on the sheet until it ripples beneath her like a wave of white foam. As he pictures the scene, an upwelling of something hot and powerful overcomes him. He cannot rid himself of it. In his mind’s eye there is not a shred of self-doubt: he will have her.
For the time being, he settles for masturbation. He drags her blouse from the rucksack and crushes it between his fingers; with his other hand, he wrestles with his belt and his fly, eager to act out his fantasy. Being careful not to put his feet on her bed, he lies across it and manhandles himself until he climaxes with a guttural roar. His semen is smeared across his jeans, over the sheets and has over-spilled onto the carpet, so forceful was his release.
“Fuck me. You sure know how to show a guy a good time.” He wipes himself off with the blouse. “That’s my girl.”
He arranges his clothes and flattens out the bedding, taking care to smooth out the duvet. “Looks as good as new,” he commends himself, smiling with self-gratification.
In the kitchen, he checks the contents of her fridge. He tuts and nods his head. “Oh dear. What have we here?” He closes it and continues his exploration of 53a.
He walks over to the French doors and doesn’t bother to open them, he already has the key. Thinking ahead, he pulls down the top bolt, just in case.
Before leaving, he sits himself down and acquaints himself with the layout of the place. The sofa is the most appropriate vantage point to take it all in. Feeling at home, he lifts out a cigarette and lights up, taking great delight in his accomplishments.
“We’re going to have a lot of fun here Beth, until we retire to your new home upstairs.” He crushes out the cigarette between his fingertips and rubs the fallen ash into the carpet. Has a prolonged look at the cosy space and pulls the front door shut behind him.
With a happy heart he tiptoes upstairs, feeling like a real contender.
17
When we arrive back at the Nijinsky Suite, I’m thrilled to see flowers in the room. Two enormous bouquets overflowing with pure white calla lilies and giant chincherinchee and philodendron leaves, expertly tied with a phormium leaf to create an extravagant indulgence for the senses. I look over to Ayden and mouth ‘thank you’ and he mouths back ‘you’re welcome’ and it’s enough. I feel tears forming and I’m not entirely sure why. A moment alone, sitting on the bed and it hits me: it’s attention overload. It’s so much more than I’m used to. We’ve come so far in such a short time and yet it feels as if we’ve been together forever: you know when it feels right, and this feels right. We’re at the stage where it’s almost too good to be true and now all I can do is wait for the bubble to burst. Tonight, there’s every possibility it may happen and that’s a very scary thought.
Ayden bounds into the bedroom looking like a cat on a hot tin roof, all fired up about something. “Do you mind if I have a quick shower before dinner, I’ve got some calls to make?”
“No, of course not you go straight ahead. I’ll check my emails if that’s ok and upload the photographs?”
“Fine.” He disappears, unbuttoning his shirt on route.
His laptop patiently waits in the study for his return. Along the task bar is his email counter: he has sixty seven emails waiting to be read, and something te
lls me at least fifty percent of them are urgent. By dedicating so much of his time to me, he has put himself under immeasurable pressure. I had no idea.
I check the thirty emails I have received over three days and dismiss ninety five percent of them. Charlie gets an update, I check my Twitter page and delete everything else. It takes five minutes. My finger hovers over Ayden’s email counter, I really want to take a look, but I think he’s out of the shower and I’m not about to be caught spying.
I occupy myself with the simple task of transferring photographs from his iPhone and from my camera onto his laptop, creating one long slideshow. I sit back and enjoy the visual memoir of our romantic holiday in Rome. I’m surprised at what I see: a catalogue of images, predominantly of me.
Some of the shots I remember, but most I don’t. Ayden’s eyes had been on me the entire day, even at those times when I was consumed with jealousy and more so when I was left alone with my thoughts. Unselfconscious shots merge into playful poses, all lovingly framed in Rome’s eternal light but, more importantly, what the photographs have captured is our love; we are so undeniably into each other, of that there is no doubt.
Such is Ayden’s imposing beauty that he elevates the attractiveness of those around him, me included, and that’s something I hadn’t bargained for. He has taken me out of the darkness and has shown me what life can be like out of the shadows and there’s no going back. I copy all the photographs onto my pen drive for safe keeping and pop it into my bag. These are treasured images I will want to view again and again.
The terrace beckons me and I wander out to take my last breath of Rome’s early evening air. This time tomorrow I’ll be back in my minuscule apartment sipping tea and loading a washing machine. Ayden will be preparing for his trip to Hong Kong, taking my love with him.
He appears behind me, hair dripping down my neck and Calvin Klein’s Obsession filling my nostrils: what a titillating treat for the senses.
“Do you want to go and get ready, I have a table booked for seven and you might want to wear something special?”
I need no further encouragement and turn around to face him, tracing the grooves forming between his eyes with my forefinger. “If you have work to do, I can call room service later and we can eat here. I appreciate the time you’ve lavished on me, but life goes on for you outside these four walls.” I glance around at the open space. “Metaphorically speaking.”
He smiles and runs his hands through my hair. “I’m good. Give me an hour or so and I’ll be all yours.” He kisses my nose affectionately.
“It’s a date. Right here in sixty minutes. Dry your hair though, I don’t want you catching a chill.” I head back inside and blow him a kiss.
“Yes dear.”
He watches me leave and I swear I see the smile fade from his lips with every lengthening stride. What is he keeping from me? We’ve become so close but there are still so many secrets to be shared, not all of them pleasant and perhaps, not all of them worthy of forgiveness.
I select music from my iPod by the bed as a distraction. The familiar sound of Ellie Golding’s Stary Eyes fills the room and I sing along, effortlessly. My favourite Alexander McQueen dove grey gown draws my eye; it fits me beautifully and the oversized bow is a stunning accent to the bustline. I lay it across the golden duvet and it rests there like a dusting of snow on a rural landscape. I can’t wait to pour myself into it.
Showering and attending to my body is a lengthy process and, if I’m honest, I’m relishing spending time and money on myself.
Seventy minutes later and I’m dressed to impress: silver clutch and heels, simple platinum jewellery and I’m ready to face the world. When I stand before the full-length mirror, I barely recognise myself. I have been transformed into a vision of beauty, awoken from a great sleep, and it’s all thanks to the man in the next room. He has liberated me and I am forever indebted to him.
Straightening my dress and taking a deep breath, I open the bedroom door and make the short dash over to the lounge. A man in a waiter’s outfit moves across the corridor to my right and another appears out of the lounge. “Hello?” Ayden is nowhere to be seen until, that is, I walk out onto the terrace.
My mouth hits the floor.
The terrace has been turned into a wonderland; flickering tea-lights scented with jasmine frame the entire area and, centre stage is a table covered in a white table cloth, crystal wine glasses and tall white candles. It’s picture perfect.
Ayden turns to face me and, as if the whole romantic milieu wasn’t enough, he’s dressed in a black dinner suit, complete with bow tie. He makes my chest hurt and I reach for it with my right palm and try to take it all in. My tear filled eyes scan the area and I notice the string quartet patiently waiting for their cue to start-up. Ayden clicks his fingers and they begin. I cannot speak. I cannot move. I am awe struck.
“You look so beautiful Beth,” he states, taking my hand and twirling me around so the tiny train wraps around my ankles.
My spell of silence is broken. “Wow! This is amazing Ayden. I thought we were going out to dinner.” I brush his hand against my cheek and feel the early evening breeze in my hair.
“Isn’t this more romantic?” He captures me with a hopeful stare.
“Just a bit! How did you organise it in such a short time?” I pick up my dress and take his arm.
“I spoke to the Manager this morning and he sorted everything out. I did very little.” He pulls back my chair and I seat myself.
“Don’t make light of it Ayden, this is a grand gesture and I love it. Thank you.”
I slip his hand into mine across the table for the second time today and reignite that spark of sensual longing between us: this wonderful man moves me in so many ways. “Ayden, you look insanely handsome.” I make no excuses for gushing.
“Insanely handsome, I like that.” He gives me a broad smile and I reciprocate with a playful pout.
Before beginning the meal, Ayden ushers over a tall, blonde haired gentleman of around 25 who is carrying an array of cameras around his neck.
“This is Josh, I’ve flown him in to take a couple of photographs.” Ayden reaches for my hand and I stand, unsure of exactly what I’m supposed to do or where I supposed to stand.
Thankfully, Josh is a consummate professional. He drags over a powerful light, tilts it in our direction and positions us in such a way I know we’ll look perfect together. Sensing my nervousness, Ayden, touches my waist with his fingers, making me smile broadly and I gaze up at him. I must look like a love-sick teenager but, what the hell. I’m deliriously happy and I don’t care who knows.
After twenty minutes, he leaves us to our meal, we talk quietly until the waiter arrives with the first course and, even then, I find it difficult to stop smiling. Being crazy happy can do that to a person.
Our musicians leave at around 8.15 and the plates and coffee cups are cleared by 8.30. We take our glasses of champagne over to the sofa and sit back, gazing up at the heavens. The night sky has descended and turned into a rich, midnight blue; sharp, little stars are piercing the velvet clouds, twinkling above our head. Ayden has his bow tie undone, resting around his collar and hanging seductively around his open necked shirt: casually coiffed and composed in his dinner suit, he strikes a princely pose. What more can I ask for?
“This has been a wonderful break Ayden, I can’t remember ever being this happy.”
“It’s not over yet.” He knows something but isn’t telling. The only clues I have are a knowing look and a coy smile.
“Oh no! What have you arranged, a meteor shower, fireworks?”
“No but there’s an idea, let me write that down.” He pretends to pat his jacket, as if looking for a pen and paper.
“Oh stop. You can’t top this, so don’t even try.” I take hold of his left bicep and wrap both my arms around it. “To think I ever doubted you.” I begin to laugh at myself.
He’s intrigued. “Whatever do you mean?”
“When we
met, you said you were, I quote ‘a Romantics man’ and I said ‘I doubt that.’ Do you remember?”
“All I remember is wanting to take you in my arms there and then. And you saying I didn’t win. That’s what I remember.” His tone is clipped but it’s merely for effect.
“That’s close enough,” I concede. “Anyway, it’s been a trip of a lifetime and I want to make one last toast to memorable days ...”
“… And unforgettable nights.”
Oh yes, especially those.
The thought of his hands on me, makes me fizz all over. “Cheers.”
Our glasses touch and the sound of them chinking echoes into the night. “Cheers.”
Ayden inhales deeply, for some reason his chest feels a little tight and, even though his eyes are overflowing with green gorgeousness, he’s preoccupied. I wonder why.
He gazes at the night sky and back down at me. “You know Beth, of all the stars I have ever looked upon, you are by far the brightest and the most precious.”
Wow!
“Listen to you! Waxing lyrical. We’ll make a poet out of you yet,” I tease. “That’s a lovely thing to say.”
But there’s more. “I’ve not done my party piece yet.”
Allowing him to see the depth of my love for him, I raise my head. Can he see it in my eyes?
“O first and fairest of the starry choir,
O loveliest 'mid the daughters of the night,
Must not the maid I love like thee inspire
Pure joy and calm Delight?”
I know this poem. “Samuel Taylor Coleridge?” He nods.
“It’s a much longer poem but that’s the part I like the best, that’s the part that reminds me of you.”
I snuggle up even tighter. “Thank you, it’s beautiful. You’re a romantic at heart Ayden. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
Right here, right now, there’s no place I would rather be. In a single heartbeat, I’d trade every night spent alone for this. My destiny has been decided for me and I’ll willingly continue to follow my fateful star wherever it leads me. I break the silence. “We packed a lot in today, don’t you think? I had fun.”
Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play Page 37
