TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (3 page)

“I’ll text you when I land ...”

What a relief to see him so vibrant, so invigorated. My words have given him the strength to carry

on, safe in the knowledge it will only be a matter of time until we become inseparable.

“Remember I’ll be seven hours in front, just in case you need me.”

“Okay.”

He kisses me softly, deliberately, no tongue, no breathless sigh, simple reverence and it’s the

perfect way to say goodbye.

“Bye Ayden. Have a safe flight.”

“I will, bye.”

He bounds off down the path to the waiting Rolls, not stopping to wave or for a farewell glance: his

company beckons and
she
isn’t one to be kept waiting.

2

Even
before Ayden’s Rolls becomes a fading streak of silver, I miss him. It’s not an actual pain, as

such, but it’s a kind of dull ache that will stay with me every minute of every day, like the aftermath

of a monumental migraine. The silence of my apartment is crushing down on me with the weight of a

thousand solitary nights. Just me and my music; what a lonesome couple we have been.

I drag my case past the sofa and into my bedroom, catching the scent of something unpleasant:

cigarettes maybe? The door pushes back and bangs against the wall with a thud. I take a look at the

damage caused by a sturdy bolt.

That wasn’t there when I left ...

On the other side of my bedroom window I catch sight of leaves bundled together in piles whipped

up by autumn winds, but the view is obscured by the wrought iron grilling that matches every other

window. I laugh to myself; when Ayden talks of security he means it. Having said that, I’m not

entirely convinced about the grilling, as decorative as it is. Is it there to keep would-be intruders out or

to keep me in?

The downside: I feel imprisoned in my own home. The upside: I feel safe. So, they’ll stay put for

now.

My bathroom light flickers into life and I instinctively reach for the cold water tap, eager to feel a

refreshing splash of water on a face still dappled with dried tears. I pat it with a towel and look about

the small space. How empty it seems minus my cosmetics and favourite perfumes; how very plain it is

compared to the splendour of our 5* hotel suite. Even this towel lacks the crisp freshness of hotel

linen. I toss it into the wash basket standing by the door. Not in its usual position but a little to the left.

I must have moved it. Who knows what I did in my eagerness to prepare myself for Rome?

On the kitchen table, there’s a manual for the alarm; it’s twenty pages of diagrams and step by step

instructions, allowing me to select and deselect zones etcetera. I’ll keep it by my bedside. It’s the

perfect cure for insomnia.

The contents of the fridge are equally as uninspiring, hardly a range of healthy options: a withered

bag of salad and a couple of tomatoes, a tub of butter and out-of-date yoghurt. Not the fine dining I’ve

become accustomed to. I take a loaf, some bacon and a plastic container full to the brim with Chinese

food out of the freezer. At least I won’t starve.

I switch on the heating, the kettle and my iPod deck before sitting down, considering what to do

first. It’s been a while since I had to make a conscious decision to do anything. Being whisked off to a

European destination, eating out, sleeping in … you appreciate it more when it’s yesterday’s news.

The idea of news has curiosity coursing through my veins. What about the press release? I made

such a fuss about it at the time but now, just the thought of it fills my stomach with soaring butterflies

and causes my smile to widen at the prospect of telling the world about our secret affair. What will

they say at school? More to the point, what will Charlie say?

I have to call her, if only to tell her I’m back, although that’s barely touching the surface. We need

to talk. I need to talk. So much has happened in such a short time, I have to confide in someone before

my head explodes. I press Speed-dial 2 and she picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, if it isn’t my ex-best friend …”

“Hi Char, I’m back!”

“Great! And where’s the Billion Dollar Man? Is he there?”

“No, he’s flown out to Hong Kong for a business meeting.”

“And he didn’t invite you to go with? Bastard!”

If only she knew. “He did invite me but I think I would only have been in the way. He’s got a lot on

his plate at the moment. The last thing he needs is to babysit me.”

“Sounds like fun to me.”

“Maybe next time. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is to invite you over to help me sort out a photo

album. Are you free tonight?”

“Saturday night honey! What do
you
think?”

“I think you are …” I smile into the phone.

“Then you’d be right.” We laugh at the banality of it. She continues. “But I’ll warn you now, I may

be a little distracted. I’ve my new personal trainer coming around tomorrow morning at 9 a.m to, how

should I put it, give me a work-out.

I try to stifle laughter. “Oh really, and does he know?”

“Not yet, hon, but I’m hoping he’s got some brains to go with all that brawn or it’s going to be a

friggin’ long morning.”

Our laughter fades. “Okay then, it’s five o’clock now. Why don’t you come over in an hour and

we’ll have a couple of drinks. I’ll throw some Chinese food in the microwave and we’ll have a catch-

up.”

“Yippee! Does that mean I get to hear all the sordid details?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that ....” I can’t possibly tell her or anyone else what we’ve been up to.

Why? Firstly, I’d be too embarrassed and secondly, Charlie wouldn’t believe a word of it. She once

told me that compared to her I’m a twenty first century
ingénue.
That is most certainly
not
the case

now.

“I hope you’re playing hard to get because you know I’ll badger you until you give in?”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I admit cheerfully. “I’m going to have a quick soak and then

we’ll get started on the photographs.”

“Fine. What’s with the bath?” Now she’s being mischievous.

I smile to myself. “No reason. Just thought I might like to pamper myself, that’s all.”

“That’s choice, coming from someone who didn’t even bother to shave her legs a fortnight ago.

Nothing to do with you being involved in a shag-fest then?”

I can’t help but laugh. “You have a dirty mind Charlie.”

“But I’m right though. You’re playing it way too cool. He must be good in bed or you’d be

complaining right off the bat and I’d be saying I told you so.”

“Oh, I have nothing to complain about in the bedroom department ...”

“That’s because you haven’t anyone to compare him to.”

If only she knew. “Do you think we can have this conversation when you get here? I’ve got a bath to

run.”

“Sure. You go soak your genitalia and I’ll bring champagne.” I can hear her laughing at her own

joke.

“What’s the occasion?”

“I’m not going to tell you
now,
am I? That would ruin the surprise and you know how I
love

surprises.” She draws out the word ‘love’ for effect.

“I do.” I pause, “I have a surprise of my own too.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not saying. I’ll see you when you get here.”

“OK. See you soon honey.”

“I’ll be here.”

I’m debating whether to run my bath or download the photos from my memory stick. There’s one

specific photograph I really want to check out. The one Ayden paused on and quickly removed when I

appeared behind him. My bath can wait.

In less than a minute, 500 photos appear on my laptop screen. Resisting the urge to set up a slide

show, depicting our tour of the Eternal City, I scan through them, tracing our movements from our

starting point, the Coliseum. The Spanish Steps materialise out of the flickering images and I lean in,

enlarging each frame.

I recollect handing my camera to a fellow Brit to take a couple of photos, and she has. Lots. Each

one is a faithful representation of our love; wide smiles and eyes only for each other; every

consecutive image more memorable than the one before it.

I think I’ve found it. From what I remember, we’re embracing. Ayden is lifting me off my feet and

I’m gazing into the camera but, for some reason, he’s not. I zoom in to take a closer look.

Whilst I’m turning to the photographer, he’s turning away. Something has caught his eye. Up close

his expression is bordering on anxious; he looks as if he has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Mentally, he’s left me for something or someone else. How could I have missed that?

I follow his line of sight and what I see causes me to gasp and push back on my chair.

It’s Alenka!

Because of her height and stunning beauty, she stands out in the crowd. In fact, she looks out of

place surrounded by mere mortals carrying cameras and cornets overflowing with ice-cream. What the

fuck is she doing there?

I zoom out to scrutinise the photo in its entirety. Is Ayden actually looking at her? Is she looking at

him? What’s going on?

I reach for my mobile and text Charlie:

If you’ve not left bring your laptop with you. I need your eyes. CU soon. B.x

I get an immediate reply:

Will do. C.x

The idea of taking a bath seems redundant now. I’m too preoccupied to relax and I don’t think even

a layer of foaming bubbles will calm my nerves. A ten minute shower will have to do.

Wearing a long sleeved T-shirt, unflattering sweat pants and a head of wet hair, I return to my

laptop. I take a swig of white wine and prepare to face my darkest fear.

To begin with, I Google search images of ‘model Alenka’ and up she comes; over a thousand

photographs of her in different poses, outfits, at various functions and with an array of handsome men.

One of which left my apartment only an hour ago.

Bypassing her biography, I click on the first photograph of her and Ayden, nibbling on my thumb

nail nervously, unsure of what I’ll find.

What a surprise. A lesser known annual event: the Cannes Film Festival. How handsome Ayden

looks in his signature suit, grey shirt and maroon tie; she’s matched to him in a claret gown. What a

stunningly attractive couple they make. Two of the world’s beautiful people striking a pose and

stealing the limelight. I cannot take my eyes off her, holding onto his arm as if she belongs by his

side. Why the hell didn’t I think to find out about her before now?

I refuse to read the article. The caption says it all. “Media Magnate Stone with supermodel

girlfriend Alenka.’ The fact she doesn’t even have a Surname pisses me off, but not as much as the

word ‘supermodel’: it sticks in my throat like a chicken bone.

I move on.

Picture number two: the U.S Open Tennis Tournament in Flushing Meadows, New York. The

championship winner Novak Djokovic is shaking Ayden’s hand and, once again, there stands Alenka

close at hand, looking every inch the catwalk queen. How can anyone look that good in a plain, yellow

dress?

Picture number three, the Belgian Grand Prix; the pair of them casually dressed, standing with the

winner Jenson Button, hand in hand.

Fuck!!

I can take no more. There are things in this world I will never understand but of this, I have no

doubt. For at least six months last year Ayden and Alenka were an item; sharing flights, sharing

experiences, sharing his bed. I recall his words: ‘
I like to fuck beautiful women who want to be fucked

by me.’
That would be you, Alenka. But what makes a woman like you, with the world at your feet,

turn into a stalker, I wonder?

The doorbell sounds, here’s Charlie. The cavalry has arrived. She bounds in like an excited red

setter, fussing and breaking the silence with her enthusiasm for life. She’ll burst a blood vessel when I

regale her with my news.

“Let’s get the bubbly poured out so we can toast our successes,” she calls out, heading into the

kitchen to grab a couple of champagne flutes. Personally, I think that’s a little premature.

“What are we celebrating?” I ask curiously, lifting my effervescent liquid up to the light.

“You nailing the most eligible bachelor in the country, if not the planet, and my promotion.” She

winks and sips the golden contents of her fluted glass. ”You’re now looking at the Associate Manager

for European Investment and Development.”

“I am?” I grin warmly. “Well done, you. Let’s toast to that.” The rims of our glasses touch and the

high pitched sound they make resonates around the room. “I’ve got some work to do. Want to help?”

Sipping slowly, she nods. “Sure, why not? What else would I be doing at six thirty on a Saturday

night? “

I shrug my shoulders, pretending not to have an answer. “I think Ayden has a problem and it looks

like that.” I point to a picture of Alenka posing in her underwear, looking good enough to turn a

heterosexual female.

“Fuck! Most guys would give their right arm for a problem like that,” she sniggers, taking a closer