TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (14 page)

Regardless of everything that’s happened, I feel truly blessed.

“Ayden saved me,” I blurt out, unequivocally. “If he hadn’t told me what to do and Skyped me, this

horrible incident could have ended badly. As it is, I get to spend quality time with the man I love.”

I’m not sure who is more surprised, Charlie or Ayden; she is dumbstruck and takes a large gulp of

wine, having never heard me speak like that about anyone.

In response, Ayden scrambles across the bed, lowers my head and kisses my hair reverently. “I

love you more,” he whispers, without a fuss, unconcerned about Charlie’s presence or if she heard or

not. His words were not for her ears. He knows my motivation for drawing attention to his gallantry

and appreciates the gesture.

He stands. “I’ll leave you two to talk about whatever it is you two talk about.” He blows me a kiss

and nods in Charlie’s direction.

Not wanting to react too favourably to his subtle display of affection, she calls out after him.

“Alenka … we’ll be talking about Alenka.”

I swear I can hear him laughing. I’m pleased he finds Charlie amusing. I actually think they would

get along if they agreed to disagree about my lifestyle choices. Sometimes people who love you can be

so protective.

Charlie’s face cracks into a wide smile. “I don’t know what you see in that guy,” she teases.

“Me neither.” I grin, feeling as if some kind of unwritten agreement has been made about me. Can

the two most important people in my life learn to share me and play nice?

I think they’re about to …

Once the air settles after Charlie’s departure, Ayden returns. “That woman just lights up a room,”

he states sarcastically, pulling off his T-shirt and kicking off his cut-offs. Without another word he

slips into bed at my side. “I hate sharing you.”

Is he serious?

I inch my way around to face him. “You’re not sharing me. What I get from Charlie is different

from what I get from you. She’s my closest friend, my sister and I love her. She’s fun.”

He lifts up his right elbow and rests his chin on his upturned palm. “Are you saying you find me

tedious Miss Parker because, I can assure you, I’m more than prepared to add a little drama to your

life. Only … I think you’ve had quite enough for now.”

I construct a disappointed pout. “You’re no fun. I bet you have no idea what it is to be spontaneous

and dramatic …” I wait for him to wiggle on my hook.

He’s laughing softly. “Nice try. Your reverse psychology is wasted on me Missy. I won’t be

baited.” He rubs my nose with his. “Good effort though.”

I twist my hand from under the duvet and caress his face; even the filtered light of the bedside

lamps does little to conceal his sculptured features. I’m tracing the line of his firm jaw and stroking

his cheekbone, relaxing in the presence of beauty. He closes his eyes and I brush my lips across his

eyelids; these are the eyes that were filled with so much anguish at my suffering. Behind them are

secrets and experiences that can never be unseen, only kissed away.

“You’ve had your share of drama too Ayden. Poor baby.” I hear his breathing easing, he’s drifting

into unconsciousness. “Go to sleep. I’ll watch over you.” And I do, tracing the lines in his brow and

feeling the stubble on his chin, brushing back his hair reverently until his breathing is even and

shallow and the air is leaving his mouth in regular wisps. I could lie here all night simply watching

this man and take more from that than a thousand nights with anyone else. “I love you,” I whisper and,

as if christening my declaration, a single tear rolls across my nose, trickles down my cheek and lands

silently on the pillow.

After having only two and a half hours of tortuous sleep, Dan is driving to work like a man

possessed by pitiless thoughts. Even after two lots of pain relief, he is racked by the kind of pulsating

pain that sucks the colour from your face; he is drained of blood
and
colour.

At work, he struggles to change into his black trousers, barely managing to pull down the shirt

emblazoned with the Cambridge University badge. He has no inclination to wish
her
“Good morning.”

There she remains, unwanted and unloved in his locker, concealed beneath an out of date prospectus.

In frustration, he slams the locker door shut and sits down to tie his shoe laces but, realising he has

only one functional hand, he tucks the laces down the side of his boots and pulls his trousers down to

conceal the gap over his instep.

A bright and breezy Ernie appears. “Morning champ.” On seeing Dan’s ghostly visage, he takes a

step back. “What the bloody hell’s happened to you? You look terrible.”

Dan has to think on his feet. “Got jumped by half a dozen fuckers on Saturday night.” He holds up

his left hand and winces. “Cut my hand up pretty bad.”

Ernie is aghast. He sits down and pats Dan on the back. “I hope you got a couple of punches in.”

Dan gets into his stride and forces a smile. “What do
you
think?”

“I think they probably look worse than you do.” Ernie begins to undress and Dan turns away out of

politeness. “Is your hand broken?”

“No. One of the fuckers sliced it up with a bottle.” Dan takes a close look at the bandages, thankful

he was able to stem the bleeding.

Ernie points Dan in the direction of one handed duties, namely sweeping and cleaning jobs that will

keep him out of sight and out of the mind of his immediate boss, Mr. Crowther.

Making every attempt to suffer in silence, he soldiers on. No-one approaches him as he carries

supplies into the canteen or asks his opinion on Neo-Classical poetry as he uses a hand brush to clean

between the seats in one of the lecture theatres; although the mention of Alexander Pope and his poem

The Rape of the Lock does hold his attention momentarily.

Once his shift ends, he makes his weary way to his car. His feet appear heavier on the gravel,

noisier somehow. His arms feel as if they are dragging him down, causing his back to bow. The pain in

his hand is insufferable.

The 16 miles drive home gives Dan time to reflect on recent events. The Monday afternoon gloom

nips at his confidence, leaving him with an unaccustomed feeling that everything he has done has been

for nothing. When he opens up the front door to his ground floor apartment, he is greeted by open

space and unfamiliar shadows which have settled in the empty corners. Having cleared away piles of

newspapers and magazines, and stripped his cork board of any image of his girl, he feels truly alone.

The rays of sunlight that usually enter his gloomy flat like shards are nowhere to be seen. A kind of

muted monotony has filled the space. He needs to sleep.

Honey, his neglected cat, tiptoes through the cat flap, assessing his mood and approaching him with

caution. She zigzags around his ankles and weaves her spell. For the first time in, he can’t remember

when, he scoops her up with his good hand and holds her to his chest. Feeling the force of his grasp,

her body falls limp and she remains there, still and silent.

“Have you missed me Honey?” he asks, in need of a reassuring response. She makes no sound.

“We’ll have a quiet night in, just the two of us, had enough fucking drama for one day.” Carelessly he

casts her onto the carpet and heads over to the kitchen cupboard. There is no food for him and no food

for her, but the after effects of the painkillers have left him without an appetite and he slams the

cupboard door shut, thinking no more about feeding his stomach.

Using her sense of smell and sight, Honey detects the absence of food and sidles over to the cat

flap; she’ll be eating mice tonight.

Sitting in his easy chair, Dan looks a solitary figure. A single lamp with a low wattage bulb barely

illuminates the area within three feet of him, but that’s alright, he’s in no mood for scheming. Having

had little sleep, he tips back his head onto the cushion and rests his throbbing hand in his other,

making a supporting cradle before closing his eyes.

Usual practice ensues; his attention shifts to ‘Frances,’ but not tonight. Purposely, he turns his

attention from her, refuses to allow his brain to conjure up her image to entice him, to lead him on. All

his mental and muscular might has been drained from his body. It’s only his stubbornness which

makes him continue with his mission; he won’t stay down and he won’t be beat.

When he wakes, it’s as if the night has enveloped him. “What time is it?” he enquires, not

expecting an answer. It feels like three in the morning but, in fact, it’s only 1645hrs. It is not until he

pushes up on the arm of the chair that the recollection of the previous night’s abandoned mission

comes back to him with the stark realisation of his injury. So intense is the pain in his left hand that it

makes him call out and suck in a mouthful of air.

“Fuck! Time for drugs,” he states, throwing out the contents of his rucksack onto the sofa. He grabs

two tablets and strides over to the kitchen which, by now, is in total darkness; he fills a glass with

water and throws them back in one noisy gulp. For more time than necessary, he stays by the sink and

looks out into the yard. There are half a dozen black bin bags; they are full to the brim with food

waste, boxes, cartons, take-away wrappers and photos of young Frances Parker.

“If I had two good hands, I’d bring you back inside but, as you’ve caused me so much fucking

trouble, you can stay out there and freeze. You deserve to be punished princess.” He takes another

long, swig of water, puts down the glass and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now
you

know what it feels like to be left out in the cold.”

Still suffering, he returns to the comfort of his chair, stepping over his empty rucksack. He starts to

pile the contents back in and comes across a slip of paper: 07744463211. E. Even half insane with

pain, he still recollects who wrote it: Elise Richards.

He grapples with his trouser pocket and pulls out his phone, then stops to think through his

approach. He wants to seem casual and disinterested; it was obvious she wasn’t interested in him
that

way. So why was she hooking up with him?

He thinks back to the last time he saw her in the pub over lunch. CNN news came on, announcing

the engagement of Stone and his girl and they both called out “Fuck!” For a brief instance, he allows

himself to enjoy the memory. It makes him smile. What had she and Stone got up to? Had he double

crossed her or was it something else?

The only way he’d get answers would be to ask her, and to do that he’d have to arrange to meet her,

give her some info, loosen her tongue have her spit it out. He clears his throat and lets the call ring

out. “Elise? Dan, how’s things?”

“Oh, you know, so, so.”

“Look, about what we were talking about the other day, our joint problem. I was wondering if you

fancied getting together to pool our resources, share intelligence? What do you say?”

“I’m not sure. What
intelligence
do you have?”

What’s this bitch trying to say?

“More than you, I bet.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” she sniggers, harnessing his curiosity.

“You might be surprised …”

“Well, okay. Where do you want to meet?”

“Not in your wine bar, that’s for sure.” His mind goes back to his five badly wounded assailants.

He’s in no mood for a line-up.

“Oh, that was you, was it?”

“Me …?”

“Yes, taking out five unsuspecting customers in one fell swoop? I thought it had you written all

over it.”

“I’m saying nothing.”

“That’s probably best.”

“”What about tonight? I’ll pick you up outside work and drive us out of town.”

“Good idea, under the circumstances.”

“Yeah …”

“Alright, I’ve got to go. See you in an hour, around six?”

“I’ll be there.”

With that, she rings off. No farewell, no goodbye. Dan is left holding the dead phone to his ear.

“You’re a dark horse Miss Richards,” he announces. “We’ll make a hell of a team.”

7

I
am woken by the sensation of someone stoking my hair. When I peel back my eyelids, I’m face to

face with male perfection and that image of perfection is scrutinising me: it’s payback time.

“Enjoying the view?” I enquire, stifling a yawn.

“Always.” I feel his hand beneath the duvet, slipping under my chin, sliding under my ear and into

my hair. “Ready for a bath?”

That’s not what I was thinking …

“
If that’s all you’re offering,” I mutter, widening my eyes.

“I’m afraid so. It will help you sleep.”

“Last time you said that, you were offering much more than a bath.” I have a recollection of Rome

and broken sleep that he deftly restored with an unforgettable orgasm which had me confessing my

true desire.

“How could I forget?” I watch his mouth twitch at the memory.

He remembers the conversation well and so do I. Ten seconds away from an orgasm and I turn