Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (9 page)

I return to bed smiling from ear to ear. I think I did
pretty well under the circumstances: mission accomplished.

It’s 2.45, on a wet Wednesday afternoon,
Ernie is wiping his brow with an off-white handkerchief his daughter and that
less-than-useless son-in-law sent him for his birthday, with a book on wine
making.

He turns to Dan, “I’ve worked like a slave
today, if they stick a bloody brush up my arse I’ll sweep up!”

“You don’t have to tell me. I’ve split a
gut shifting and sweeping for this lot.” He’s done himself proud: stacked the
furniture into the warehouse out of three dorms, cleared the leaves from the
quad and carried over the stationary to the main office. “How much fucking
typing do they do in that office?” He asks Ernie. “There’s enough A4 to go
around the planet ten times over.”

He’s ready for his 3 o’clock tea break,
but Mr. Crowther, his immediate boss, has other plans. “Dan,” he calls out with
the kind of authoritative bite that has Dan grinding his teeth. He pretends
he’s not heard and keeps walking.

Ernie gives him a knowing look. “Better
see what he wants or he’ll only come after us with his bloody whip.”

Dan knows Ernie’s right, but there’s just
something about that guy. When he hears his name being called for a second
time, he chooses to acknowledge it.

“Yes, Mr. Crowther, what can I do for
you?”

“I’m hoping you can fill the breach
tonight and take the minibus down to Shaftesbury Avenue, you know off
Piccadilly Circus.”

“I know where Shaftesbury Avenue is.”
Inside, Dan is seething.
Does he think I’m fucking stupid.

Slightly out of breath, he explains in
more detail. “Leslie’s had to drive to Birmingham, apparently her father has
been taken into hospital with a heart attack and there really is no-one else
with your level of expertise.” From the way Mr. Crowther is massaging Dan’s
ego, it’s obvious he’s his last port of call.

“Why, what’s happening on Shaftesbury
Avenue?” Dan asks, as if he doesn’t know.
Not another bloody musical?
He
can’t stand all that prancing around. Just the thought of it makes him want to
strangle someone with their own fucking tights.

“No, no. It’s the English undergraduates,
they’re going to see a production of Romeo and Juliet at the Apollo; an
opportunity for them to see the Baird’s work up close, so to speak.”

His words leave Dan cold. “I did have
plans,” he says with a shrug. “But, I suppose I could help out if you’re
desperate.”

“That’s the spirit. You can always rely on
an army boy when there’s a crisis.”

Who the fuck is he calling a boy?

Ernie comes to his rescue. “It’s the
training you know, ‘Eris Optimus,’ Be the Best.”

“Yes, yes, well done Ernie.” His
patronising tone has Dan reconsidering his good deed. Sensing he has
overstepped the mark, his attention quickly shifts to the man of the hour.

“So Dan are you up for it, a trip into the
city with sixteen of our brightest freshmen and women?”

It all seems too much trouble until he
mentions ‘women.’ Something is stirring in him: the possibility of coming into
close-contact with some ‘pretty little things.’ Now, it’s turned into a
mission, he’s not putting himself out at all.

“It would be my pleasure Mr. Crowther.” He
seals the deal with a hand shake. “It won’t be as challenging as the infantry
but I’m your man.”

Mr. Crowther can’t believe his luck. For a
moment, he thought Dan was going to say no. “You certainly are.” With him on
side, he alters his approach. “Now you need to be at the Old Schools entrance
at 1800 hrs.” He gives himself a well done grin, believing he has got the
better of the big man. Both Ernie and the man himself know different.

“Yes Sir,” Dan answers, presenting an
exaggerated salute and turning it into an insulting example of face pulling by
pressing his thumb onto his nose and wiggling his fingers as if he’s playing a
flute.

“Yes, yes very funny Dan. Very
entertaining.” He walks away, shaking his head and feeling a little dispirited
by Dan’s impertinence.

“Ernie reaches up and pats Dan between his
shoulder blades. “Daft sod thought he was pulling the wool over your eyes.”

“Yeah, little shit.”

“Anyway, what did you have on tonight?”
Ernie asks, curious to hear what he gets up to on a Wednesday night.

“Not a bloody thing.” He grins more for his
own pleasure than for Ernie’s

“I didn’t think so.”

“No but he doesn’t know that. And now he
owes me.”

“That’s right Champ, keep your friends
close and your enemies closer.”

“Always do Ernie, always do. Come on,
let’s get that bloody kettle on, my mouth feels like a pair of whore’s drawers.”

***

At 1800hrs on the dot, Dan is handed the
keys to the sixteen-seater minibus. He checks his watch, knowing the passengers
should all be on board by a quarter to.

There are a couple of ‘pretty little
things’ who quite take his fancy and he keeps a close eye on one through his
rear view mirror. He knows she’s not a patch on
his
girl, but she’ll
serve as a ‘stand-in’ until he and she are reunited.

He takes stock; the ‘stand-in’ has a
similar body type, slim but shapely, easy to pin down and position with one
hand, leaving the other free for ... whatever. She even has that untouched look
about her he likes so much: she’s probably a virgin. Every time he stops, he
can see her lurching forward, her breasts are pert and rise to the occasion
like a couple of ice-cream cones. He’s thankful that the traffic is heavy and
it’s stop-go all the way.

When a cyclist pulls out in front of him,
forcing him to slam on the breaks and to curse, he calls out. “You stupid sod!
You nearly got yourself killed.”

Watching her eyes widen and her mouth
opening like that sends a rush of blood to his twitching cock. He savours the
feel of it and makes a silent promise to sort himself out later. He’ll press
rewind and mentally relive the moment, all it will take is a couple of hard
strokes and he’ll be as good as new.

He delivers the excited passengers at
their destination in plenty of time. They disembark and bask in the glow of the
Apollo’s after dinner light show. Romeo and Juliet are emblazoned across the
front of the building and the ‘star-crossed lovers’ invite them in for a
spectacular night of Shakespearian drama. He takes a sharp left and follows the
slowly moving traffic into the carpark.

With the heater turned up full and music
playing in the background, he’s feeling relaxed and proud of himself. He
was
the best man for the job and he’d make sure Mr. Crowther didn’t forget it.

By 2050hrs he’s feeling a little peckish
and beginning to wish he’d brought a snack or at least a packet of crisps. Having
not eaten, he prepares to go on the hunt for food. He steps from the mini bus
and gives a yawn, he’s feeling stiff and is rolling his neck clockwise and then
in an anti-clockwise direction to regain his flexibility. His hands find their
way into his pockets, he isn’t cold but the wind is starting to pick up and the
spitting rain is beginning to ride it in horizontal waves. His bare skin is
taking the brunt of it.

The theatre is quite a sight, all white
and formidable, illuminated in shades of red and gold; it reminds him of two
enormous pillars of salt with screw-off tops on either side of a sparkling,
chalk faced mansion.

He’s so busy looking down Shaftesbury
Avenue that the young couple holding hands, trotting down the theatre steps
have to swerve to avoid bumping into him. He turns, “Hey! Watch where you’re
...”

The air rushes into his lungs when he sees
her. She’s beautiful: every bit the princess in her little silver dress and
party shoes. Sure, she’s a little older and she’s changed her hair colour but
... there’s no mistaking her.

He pulls his hands out of his pockets and
takes a step in her direction, but thinks twice when the tall, well dressed guy
she’s with turns and gives him a condescending look. Is he squaring up to him?
Does he think he can take him? He wishes he’d try.

‘Fucking tosser,’ he’s thinking. ‘Got his
fucking hands on my girl.’ His lips are separating from his teeth in a kind of
snarl.

Thinking on his feet, he scans the street
for witnesses. There are too many people about. ‘I can’t deck him here and get
away with it,’ he realises. ‘But what choice do I have?’ He assesses the
situation. Holding back the impulse to hit him and grab her is agonising.

When the time is right and he’s mentally
prepared to act, a silver Rolls Royce pulls up sharpish at the curb. A big guy
in uniform is opening the door. The toff in the suit lets her get in first and
turns again in his direction and looks down his nose at him.

‘He’s getting in. She’s getting away.
Fuck!’

He watches the car eases into the traffic
and makes a mental note of the registration: ASMED1A. That’s easy enough to
remember. To make sure, he takes out the key to the minibus, rolls up his
sleeve and scratches it into his arm. It hurts like hell, but duty calls.

As the silver car disappears into the
night, the pavement moves beneath him, like he’s on an escalator. “What the
fuck’s going on?” he asks himself, unsure of exactly what he’s feeling:
anxiety, exhilaration, arousal?

In a second, the dizzy spell passes and he
puts it down to dehydration or hunger and checks his watch again. It’s only
2100hrs. Taking long, assertive strides he heads off in the direction of a food
source thinking, planning and feeling the accustomed ache in his groin.

“No time for that,” he whispers, censoring
sexual urges. He considers his game-plan: ‘A snack to keep me focused, get the
kids back to base and then ... I’m all yours. I’ve got your fancy boyfriend’s
number and ... he’ll lead me straight to you. ’

Thursday
is always a slow day in any school. It’s
better than Wednesday but you just can’t beat that Friday feeling. After a
brief assembly, it’s business as usual. More prose, plays and poetry: no
Chemistry. I think back and smirk. By anybody’s reckoning, that’s an impressive
line.

By lunchtime I’m pining for Ayden and, by
the end of the day, I’m crawling up the walls. I check the time in New York:
it’s not even lunch time and he’ll be involved a meeting. I’m consoled by that
thought.

Finding myself with some extra time on my
hands I decide to give Charlie a call. She’s quick to answer. “Hey Char, I’m on
my way home and just wondered if you’re still a size small?”

She’s confused, “Why, do you want to
borrow more clothes?”

“No, I’m thinking of getting you a French
maid’s outfit, you’ve done such a good job with my apartment.” I can’t contain
my laughter.

“Oh, I get it now, yes, very funny.”

“I can’t thank you enough. I was dreading
bringing him back, but everything was perfect. It must have taken you hours?”

“No, just over an hour but you’re going to
have to get some marigolds because I’ve had to have a manicure to get rid of
the smell of bloody polish.” I visualise her giving her nails the once over,
blowing on make-believe varnish.

“Sorry about that.”

“No probs honey, but you owe me. That’s
all I’m saying.” I detect a smile.

“Yes I do, I won’t forget.”

“So,
how
was it?” She puts emphasis
on the how and I know she’s itching to hear every sordid detail.

I think before I speak, and decide against
lying. I’ve got to tell someone before I explode. “Great. I think I’m going to
marry this guy.”

There’s a two second silence. “Frickin’
hell! That good, eh?”

“Not quite, not yet, but he has
potential.”

“Potential? That’s a good sign, especially
coming from you. Most of the dorks you’ve dated have had a lot going for them but
definitely no potential.” She gives a disgruntled moan and continues. “So when
do I get to meet Mr. P?”

“Mr. P?”

“P for potential, if you won’t tell me his
name then I’m going to have to call him something.”

“Right, Mr. P.” I like the sound of that.
“You’ll get your chance, but we’re still just getting to know each other, so I
think I’d like to keep him under wraps for now.”

“Ok, but you know by doing that you’re
just going to make me more curious, don’t you?” I sense a hand on a hip.

  “I do, but I think it’s for the best.”

“Suit yourself, it’s your call. But you
can at least tell me where he works, or is that top secret too?”

“He works in the city.”

“So he’s a banker?” I don’t reply. “I
broker?” I don’t reply. “An ad man? She’s getting exasperated and quickly
running out of professions. “What the hell is he then?

“He owns his own company, he’s the MD.” I
have to give her something or I know she’ll keep at it until I confess.

“
Nice
. Then he’s a keeper?”

“I think so.”

“Is he fat with bad breath and a limp?”

I have to laugh. “No, not quite.” In my
mind’s eye I see Ayden lying beneath me, tethered to my bedstead and I feel a
shudder of sexual yearning scattering through the length of my body. “Look,
I’ve got to go and I’ve loved the interrogation, maybe we can do it again
soon?”

“You can count on it.”

“Thanks again Char.”

“No probs honey, catch you later, bye.”

“Bye.” I end the call and put my phone
away: still no message and still no call.

***

When I arrive home I can see a parcel on
the kitchen table. I imagine it being full of all things relating to our
‘special’ relationship but, when I open it, I’m wrong. Wrapped in purple tissue
paper is a lamp with a delicately cut glass shade, a perfect match to my
bedroom decor. I lift it out of the box carefully, letting the lead unravels
itself. I see the attachment: it’s a dimmer switch. How thoughtful.

I reach down and there’s a book. ‘The
Beginners Guide to Seduction.’ It makes me smile. Ayden seems to have spent
some time thinking about my amateurish attempt at seduction, and that’s not a
bad thing.

Next out of the box are two first class
tickets to Rome. I gasp and hold them to my chest, excited at the prospect of
strolling hand in hand down The Spanish Steps with the most attractive man I
have ever seen.

I delve further into the box, wondering
what untold treasures are tucked away inside the crisp tissue paper. I grapple
with what feels like a box of some sort. When I open it, I’m aghast. It’s a
platinum chain and the pendant is a small cross, a kiss; a reminder of that
first encounter. It’s so delicate and so exquisite: it’s perfect.

Just when I think my day can’t get any
better, my fingers stumble across a leather item; it’s soft to the touch and
I’m curious to check it out. I lift the wrapping and it’s a small, leather
wallet. I flip it back and inside, is a velum business card with embossed print
in midnight blue: it’s Ayden’s. I turn it over and there is his hand written
mobile number and email address. That’s a nice touch. I like the idea I can get
hold of him at a moment’s notice.

I’m about the push the card back into its
snug little pocket when I see another card underneath it. I slide it out to
take a closer look. It’s a black visa card in my name. It’s rather unimpressive
to look at but that’s the point, isn’t it? People who have money, don’t make a
song and dance about it: they just spend it.

I’m taken by surprise. I love everything
in my box, but this takes the edge off what is a very thoughtful surprise. My
joy is mitigated by the feeling I’m being paid for my services, maybe not by
the hour but it feels like that somehow. He won’t see it that way but, what we
feel, or what we’re starting to feel has been soiled by its association with
money.

I walk away from the table and turn on the
TV, still trying to fathom why he should give me such a thing. Does he think
I’m impoverished? I scan my apartment. Granted it’s not five star accommodation
but it’s comfortable and … it’s my home. The TV draws by attention away from my
reflection. It’s the news.

There’s talk of another terrorist bombing
in Iraq and the Euro crisis, then a piece on Anglo American trading and special
friendships. A Bill Gates look-alike called Ryan Stadler is shaking Ayden’s
hand and together they’re smiling for the camera.

I draw the platinum kiss to my mouth and
feel where his soft kisses were. It’s hard to put our past and his present
together. He’s smiling, but it’s uncharacteristically broad and exaggerated and
he’s simply not conveying any genuine emotion: he’s under pressure, going through
the motions. But, for all that, the camera loves him and I know, if I allow
myself, I will too.

I have a plan. I won’t confront him about
the visa card, not now, but I will disturb the order in his life with some very
sexy thoughts. He looks like he could do with a distraction. He said he wanted
to ‘gift’ himself to me, well he’ll be my final gift of the day.

I lift out his business card and punch in
the number of his London office. I clear my throat and prepare for my
performance.

A smartly spoken woman answers my call.
“A.S Media International, good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, I’m trying to get hold of
Mr. Stone, can you tell me what time you expect him to complete his meeting in
New York?”

“Of course, can I ask whose speaking
please?”

“It’s Elizabeth Parker.”

“Ah, yes Miss Parker.” I’m momentarily
stunned that she knows my name. “If you can bear with me for a moment I will
check his schedule for you.” There’s a brief pause. “His meeting is scheduled
to end at 3pm and then he is planning to return to the Carlton to do some work
before attending a charity dinner at 7.30. Can I get a message to him from
you?”

“No thank you ...”

“Charlotte, Miss Parker.”

“No thank you Charlotte, I’ll contact him
myself later. Thank you for your help.”

“My pleasure, please  feel  free  to 
contact  me  again  if you require any further assistance.”

“I certainly will.”

“Goodbye Miss Parker. Have a pleasant
evening”.

“Thank you. You too. Goodbye.”

That has got to be one of the strangest
conversations I’ve ever had with a complete stranger.  What had Ayden said to
her to make her so ... helpful? I check the clock, it’s 6.30pm, I’ve got a
couple of hours to kill before I take to the stage.

After a bite to eat I settle for a long
soak in a hot bath, listening to the Sugar Babes singing
Press The Button
.
My sentiment exactly. The combination of steam and scheming leaves me feeling
dozy and ready for bed but I’m resolute and so prepare myself for Act 1 Scene
One. I turn down my iPod and pick up Ayden’s business card and dial the number
on the back. On the third ring, he picks up.

“Yes!” He snaps, not recognising my
number.

I find my most innocent of voices. “Hi
Ayden, it’s Beth.”

“Oh! Beth! Hello. This is a pleasant
surprise.”

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but
I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“… Really … no, I’m back at the hotel.
What are you up to?”

“I was about to get into a bubble bath but
all I can smell is you. You left your boxers in my wash basket and your smell
has got me feeling … well …” I can sense his surprise. I actually believe he is
lost for words.

“W... ell, I’m sorry about that. What do
you want me to do about it? I’m three thousand miles away.”

I’m sure you’ll come up with something
.

“I just thought, after what you offered
last night that you might be able to help me out.” I pause, giving him time to
assess the situation. “But, if you’re busy … it’s just that, I’m stood here
wearing your lovely platinum necklace and kiss pendant and … by the way, thank
you for all my presents. It isn’t even my birthday.”

“It doesn’t have to be your birthday, I
can buy you gifts any time,” he says, briskly.

“I realise that, but it was very
thoughtful of you. I’m just so hot and wet … but I can always go to bed.”

“Whoa, just take it easy Beth. You don’t
want to go rushing off.”

At last, I think the penny has dropped. I
hear him swallowing and taking a couple of extra breaths. “Alright, what should
I do?”

“What you usually do.”

“I usually go to bed and sleep it off.”
I’m enjoying this so much I pull up a chair and make myself comfortable.

“That’s never a good thing to do. We can’t
have that now can we?”

I hear something or someone in his room
and I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror: I stand.

“Wait a minute. Room Service is here.”
There’s a pause and I sit myself down again. “
Yes ok, just bring it in.
Right, take the money. No I don’t want you to pour. No thank you. Can’t you see
I’m on the fucking phone here.
” There’s the sound of a door being slammed.
He’s back.

“Sorry, that was room service, some arse
hole wanted to pour wine.” For some reason he seems a little agitated and out
of breath.

“I’m still here Ayden.”

“I have an idea.”
I thought you might.
“We can have phone sex. How would that be?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” I contain my
amusement.

“Take off your clothes and put me on
speaker phone. I’ll talk you through it.”

I place down the phone and wait. He
actually believes
he’s
initiating this. “Ok, I’m wearing my panties.”

“Now lick your fingers.”

“Which hand?”

“I don’t know either hand, you decide.
Whichever you think will do the job.”

I purposely take a couple of seconds to
add a little drama. “OK, now what?”

“Slide you fingers down your panties, so you’re
touching yourself. What can you feel?”

For some reason, this game is getting
serious. I don’t believe it, I’m starting to tingle. It’s getting so I really
do
want to follow his directions. I lower my right hand until it’s between my
legs, seeking out my clitoris. Through gentle gasps I answer, “I’m warm and wet
… I’m sort of aching inside.”

“Fuck! Take it easy Beth ...” I think I
can hear the sound of a zipper coming down and the fact he’s masturbating to
the sound of my voice is a massive turn-on.

I start to moan. “Talk to me Ayden, I need
to hear your voice.”

“I’m here Beth, I’m feeling you.” His
breathing is ragged and his words are broken into syllables. “I’m right here
with you. I’m hard for you, baby.”

“Ayden.” I feel the room stating to spin
and there’s a burning sensation which is mounting and overpowering me. Maybe,
I’m recalling the way he looked last night, tied to my bed, coming apart … but
my breathing is frantic and my heart is pounding in my chest.