“I would say they were.”
Now he has my attention. “They?”
“Yes. Catherine and Thomas Seymour came to rather unpleasant ends, as I recall.”
“What happened?”
“She died in childbirth, and he was beheaded,” he states, glancing at his watch, wearied by my questions.
I offer a smile. “Well, I didn’t know that.”
“I’m sure it’s well documented.” He takes my hand. “Shall we find a less depressing location?”
I pick up the pace to match his stride, then stop abruptly. “Where? Where can I take you in this historical city that you don’t already know more about than the tour guide?”
He takes a moment to consider. “That’s a very good question.”
“And …”
“I really can’t say. I have visited every part of the globe at some time or another.” He looks positively dejected.
I’m wracking my brain. “I know somewhere you haven’t been. Come with me.”
A smile forms slowly. “Lead on, Macduff …”
The Macbeth quote has me rolling my eyes.
Our taxi takes fifteen minutes to make the two mile journey across the city to Covent Garden. It’s bustling with activity; there’s nothing unusual about that, but what I want him to experience is the street performers. Directly in front of us is a man wearing no more than purple shorts; he’s juggling and telling jokes at the same time. People are laughing.
“Have you been here before?” I ask.
He nods slowly.
“But I bet you weren’t laughing then.”
He smiles and shakes his head. “No. I wasn’t laughing. As I recall, it was a red-light district in 1800’s, and didn’t regain some of its dignity until the beginning of twentieth century.” He looks around. “There are people here from around the world.”
“Yes, it’s a tourist attraction now. Let’s walk around.” I take his hand and lead him through the jostling crowd. I sense female heads turning and wonder if he can read their thoughts. I stretch up to speak into his ear. “You’re getting a lot of attention from the ladies,” I point out.
“You’re getting a lot of attention from the men,” he states.
I screw up my face into a grimace. “I think you’re imagining things.”
I lead him towards the red canopy advertising Balthazar Boulangerie and keep walking past the row of motorbikes to the restaurant next door. This is an all-day brasserie I have visited before with Charlie. It has a cosy atmosphere that I think he’ll like. “Let’s go eat something.”
He follows me inside and we are quickly seated by the waiter at a small table slotted into a row, partially concealed behind a glass divider. It’s a little noisy, but if we concentrate we’ll be able to hear each other speak.
“What do you think?” I ask, watching him scanning the room.
“It’s tastefully decorated but much too noisy. I can barely hear …”
I wrinkle my nose, not catching the last part of his sentence. “Pardon?”
Seeming perturbed by the rowdiness, he beckons me over. “I think we need a little quiet, don’t you?” He raises his left hand a clicks his fingers. Instantly the deafening chatter becomes a distant hum. He unfolds his napkin and lays it across his lap as if he’s done nothing at all.
I simply stare and look around the room; I’m watching a movie with the sound turned down. People are laughing and waving their hands about, but there is no sound.
“Another one of your party tricks?” I enquire, opening the menu. “You should join the street performers out there. You’d make a fortune.”
“I prefer to keep my tricks to ourselves, Beth.” He looks down checking the list of hors d’oeuvres but I can see a smirk forming. “After all, we don’t want to draw a crowd, do we?”
“No we don’t.” I look up. “You’ll have to try to fit in or people will notice the change. I’ll be able to help, but I can only do so much.”
His eyes meet mine. “I’m aware of that. But I’ll be able to modify my behaviour when necessary.”
“How?”
“By reading their thoughts and acting accordingly.”
“Oh yes. There’s always that.” I sigh resignedly.
“Does that bother you?”
“What? The fact I have no privacy around you? That I’m having to edit what I’m thinking, knowing you’re listening in? No, that doesn’t bother me.”
An eyebrow lifts disparagingly. “Do I detect sarcasm?”
“You do.”
He places down the menu. “Then I won’t read your thoughts. It will be more of challenge for me that way.”
I snicker to myself.
“I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t agreed to it now. What does that response signify?” he asks.
“It signifies nothing. Merely the unlikely idea that anything I say or do could be a challenge for you.” I fiddle with my knife. “A single click of your fingers and voila. You get exactly what you want.”
He clicks his fingers and the sound returns. It makes me squint.
“Would you prefer I didn’t?”
“No!” I shout. “Turn it off!”
Silence is restored.
“Now. What shall we eat?”
“What do you like?” I ask, making my own selection.
He places down the menu. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“The last time I was here was some time ago. The food selection was much more … rustic.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I will trust you to choose for me.” He scans the room for a waiter. “You make the selection and I will select a bottle of suitable wine.”
I look on, surprised. “You don’t know about food but you know about wine?”
“I’m using the prices on this wine list as an indicator of quality.”
I’m shaking my head. “That’s not a good idea.”
“No?”
“No. Some wines are overpriced, and some wines are better than you might think for the price.”
“Then I’ll select a wine somewhere in the middle and we’ll hope for the best.”
I begin to laugh.
“Clearly you are finding my ineptitude in this matter amusing, Mrs. Stone?”
There’s no denying it. I am. “If Ayden were here he’d be fussing around with food options and selecting wine like a connoisseur. But …“I look down, unable to conceal my sadness. “But he isn’t, so we’ll hope for the best.”
“I think not.” He turns his head to his right and scopes the room until his eyes come level with mine. He casts a knowing eye over the wine list again. “If you choose the fish we’ll have the Pavillon Blanc du Château Margaux and if you select a meat dish, we’ll have the Château Branaire-Ducru ’05.”
I’m astonished. “So what did you do, read through a set of wine reviews in record time?”
“No, I accessed Ayden’s knowledge about wines to inform my selection.”
“You did what?!” I fall back into my chair. “How can you do that?” I don’t give him time to reply. “No, let me guess. Because you can?”
He smirks ever so slightly. “Yes.”
“Please don’t do that. It’s bad enough you have his body. Please don’t take his memories too,” I implore, taking hold of his hand across the table. “I’ve told you I’ll do this, as best I can. It’s my love you want, and the whole experience of love in its many forms. You don’t need Ayden’s recollections for that. You have to discover it for yourself.”
“I may need his knowledge on occasions with regard to his business. How else will I be able to operate without prior knowledge?” He’s totally serious.
“Business knowledge and personal knowledge are two different things entirely. You’re forgetting we are man and wife, we have said and done things that are not meant to be shared, especially not with you.”
He grips my hand. “Are you asking me not to read his th
oughts too?”
Slowly I nod, but say nothing.
“In that case we must create our own set of memories of a public, personal and private nature. Don’t you agree?”
He has me boxed in. “Yes.”
“Still hungry?” he asks, like a swimmer testing the water.
“Starving,” I reply. “I think we should both have the Fillet De Boeuf Au Poivre, don’t you?”
“The perfect choice. The Château Branaire-Ducru ’05 it is then.”
With my lesson learned, I make lively conversation. As delicious as the beef is, it sticks in my throat and requires a hard swallow to force it down; the pomme frites go untouched on my plate. Knowing my thoughts are my own, I’m listening attentively, but my mind is drifting to better days. To an afternoon meal in Rome; the castagnaccioa, chestnut cake for dessert, and “due cucchiai.” Just one solitary memory taken from so many that led to even more happy days.
We toast to the creating of new memories and I smile, taking his cheek in the palm of my hand as I have done so many times before. “Cin cin, Ayden.”
“Cin cin, Beth”
***
Mack has dressed quickly. He’s slipped into a comfortable pair of Sunday slacks and a grey sweater that has become a little frayed at the cuffs. He has seen to his chores and is setting up his Sat Nav. It’s a straightforward route; north on the M25 until he reaches the Harrow turnoff.
Even though it’s a Sunday the motorway is still packed with cars and a caravan of haulage vehicles advertising well-known supermarkets and delivery services. Mack sticks to the speed limit and cruises at 70 miles per hour, forcing impatient drivers to overtake him in the outside lane.
It’s 10.15 a.m. He’s listening to the Archers, enjoying the watery sunlight and the scenery; it makes a pleasant change from crime scene stills and paperwork. It’s good to be out of the office.
Feeling a little envious of the neighbourhood, he looks up a Miss. Richard’s third floor apartment. It looks much like any other from the outside, but it’s the inside that interests him.
Using the key from her possessions box he enters, closes the door behind him and looks around; he’s in no rush. He steps inside the lounge and remains motionless just inside the door, taking it all in: the furniture, the boxes, the photographs scattered on the floor like autumn leaves, crisp and curling around the edges.
His eyes are drawn to the Whiskey bottle minus a top, the glass covered in lipstick and dirty fingerprints. He makes an instant deduction. “Something upset you, Elise. I’m here. Show me what it was.”
He takes a long look at the three boxes in turn, drawing his finger along the open tops and running it against his thumb until the black soot coats his skin like fingerprint powder. He closes his eyes and sees her gripping the wheel of the modified Shelby Mustang GT 500, threatening the life of the driver and herself; the act of a desperate woman.
Moving on, he rummages around in each box but finds nothing of value. Each one appears to be storing up memories of no particular significance; none more so than the one ripped open. It’s full of photographs. He pieces clues together, taking his time, massaging his chin between his finger and thumb. As his eyes dart from left to right he is drawn to the photos on the floor, wondering why such a woman would become so distraught over a photograph. Upon a closer inspection, he thinks he may have found out why. One of the photographs is a newspaper cutting of Mr. and Mrs. Stone. It documents their engagement: two beautiful people in evening dress, obviously in love.
Weaving his way through the debris, he stands above the photograph torn from the newspaper, looking down upon it like a scientist through a microscope. But, as with every scientific investigation, his must reorganise his focus and zoom out if he is to make sense of it. “Come on, Elise. Talk to me,” he mumbles. “Show me what brought you to your knees.”
He closes his eyes and waits to hear her voice. It comes to him slowly, making him smile for the first time in quite a while. He follows the line of sight immediately above the engagement photograph and sees a torn photograph of group of people, University types. To the left of the group stands a shy, dark haired young woman. She looks familiar. It’s cold and she is turning into her male companion; her hand is positioned close to her mouth, coquettishly. There’s nothing strange about that.
Sensing there is more to this than meets the eye, he takes out his notebook and begins jotting things down excitedly, spurred on by the prospect of having stumbled upon something meaningful. But there is more …
Directly above the group photograph is a picture of three children. In the middle is a tall, handsome boy; to his left is a blond girl with a fierce stare that he has seen before. To his right is a little girl with a dark hair and an oversized pink bow. As in the photo below it, she has her hand to her mouth and is turning into him for protection. Mack balances his weight on the balls of his feet and bends to inspect the photograph close-up.
All it takes is a minute for the pieces to fall into place. The three of them have a history together. He’s shaking his head. “Well, fancy that. I think we may have stumbled across a secret you might not be able to sweep under the carpet, Mr. Stone.”
Mack takes a clear plastic bag from his pocket and placed the three photographs into it; then seals it up and slips it back into his pocket. Dusting himself off, he stands and tiptoes back towards the door. He presses a familiar number into his phone, clears his throat and prepares to issue an order.
“Yeah, Sam, it’s Mack. I’m at the Richards’s place in Hatch End. Tell forensics to come over here and give it a sweep. I’d like to know who’s been here and what we’re dealing with.” He doesn’t wait for a reply.
“Good. I’ll drop the key off at 1p.m. I want them here today.” He nods “That’s right. The full Monty. I think we’ve got some investigating to do with this one.” He returns his mobile to his inside pocket, taking a preparatory breath. “Alright Elise, let’s see what else you’ve left for me. You’ve got my attention.”
10
We are home by 4.30 p.m. As it turns out, the red Bordeaux was an excellent choice; the zing of pepper tickles my tongue and the cherry aftertaste lingers on my taste buds, adding to a feeling of intoxication. In my nervous state I must have consumed over half the bottle and, even though it was soaked up with steak and crème brûlée, it has numbed my natural instinct to bolt.
“Coffee?” I call out flouncing over to the kitchen. “Or do you want more wine?” When I turn to observe his response, he’s is by my side.
“Wine would be good but I think coffee would be the more sensible option at the moment.” He smiles and eyes me as a teacher might a pupil. “Is this how you spend your Sundays? Eating rich food and drinking overpriced wine?”
“It’s only overpriced when you can’t afford it!” I remind him happily, snapping a cupboard door shut. “Ayden signed everything over to me in Vegas, so I can afford the occasional bottle of overpriced wine.”
He folds his arms and leans back against the counter, looking more like my husband by the second.
“Is that so? And there I was thinking that had run its course and you only had Power of Attorney until yesterday.” He tips his head to the side, anticipating a tirade of insults.
Refusing to look at him I pour coffee into two cups. “I suppose you knew that and never thought to tell me?”
He shrugs. “What would have been the point? I’m better equipped to handle your husband’s affairs than you, surely?”
I meet him head-on. “At home and at work it would seem.”
“Precisely.”
Without a single sip of coffee, I feel the effects of the wine diminishing; him taking control of Ayden’s business interests is a very sobering thought. I push past him on my way over to the sofa. “I hope you know more about business than you know about wine or we’re fucked.”
He holds up his hand and I am stopped in my tracks. I cannot physically move. “Stop it! Release me.” My body jerks forward. “I get it. Y
ou’re in charge. You can do whatever you want, whenever you want. You’re omnipotent, and I’m scared of you.” Jerking forward, released from his grip, I place down my coffee cup and turn to face him. “Isn’t that what you want to hear?”
He takes a lingering look at me, his eyes softening. “Not at all.”
I flop down into the leather sofa, at a loss, cornered. “You talk of love and yet you haven’t the faintest idea what it is. Everything you do is for yourself and that’s not what love is about.”
“Then tell me. Paint me a picture of love that I might see it for myself.”
I smile mockingly. “You see, you want me to spell it out for you, as if the answer lies in a sonnet; to paint you a picture … assuming the answer can be found in colours on canvas.” I reach for my coffee. “Love is more complex than that.”
“Forgive me but you fell in love quickly. You met and made love and married in a month; is that not what is referred to as a whirlwind romance?”
Affronted, I stand. “You don’t know me. You’ve visited me four times in my whole life and yet you presume to know me and make judgements about my love life. I don’t care who or what you are. You don’t have the right to do that!”
I’m about to walk away and he raises his hand.
“Go ahead, stop me. Make me stay. We both know you can.”
He lowers his hand and I’m able to keep walking. Before I reach the lift I turn to him. “You should never raise your hand to those you love. You know that, right?”
He says nothing.
Close to tears, I come face to face with myself in the mirror in the en-suite bathroom, enveloped in Ayden’s cologne; my eyes are drawn to our bed. Bernie has made it and every surface is gleaming. She must wait for us to vacate the premises and slip in covertly like an undercover agent. I must thank her.
As I return to the bedroom, feeling in a better frame of mind, Ayden is standing by the window looking out over a tidy stretch of green. He turns when I approach.
“Forgive my insensitivity, Beth. I have been alone for too long. One forgets what it is to consider others when there is so much to do.”
TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy) Page 9