TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy)

by Sydney Jamesson

  I nod in agreement then face him squarely “And you think I am now?”

  “You’ve rationalised what’s happened and can process the information. Before, you would have broken down and run away screaming.”

  I lighten the mood. “I’m not a screamer.”

  He taps my nose. “I didn’t mean it literally.”

  “So you have seen thousands and thousands of people pass over. Do you remember them all?”

  “Not all, but I do have my favourites. Some I was unhappy to become acquainted with, in a professional capacity.”

  “You make it sound as if you cared.”

  “It’s still possible to collect a soul and to care. There have been incredible thinkers, warriors, artists, inventors, philanthropists and poets who I have come to admire long after their departure from this earth.”

  “Anyone I might have heard of …”

  “There are so many.” He arches a brow. “Mr. Shakespeare was an outrageously bad actor but a wordsmith of the highest order.”

  “You knew him?” I ask incredulously.

  “To say I knew him would be an exaggeration. I did meet him several times and, of course, I was with him at the end.”

  “So you can recite a sonnet then?”

  “Several … would you like me to regale you with my recital skills?” He’s grinning.

  “Why of course …”

  He clears his throat:

  “Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

  Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

  Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

  And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

  Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

  And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

  And every fair from fair sometime declines,

  By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;

  But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

  Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,

  Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,

  When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st …”

  I look away and he stops reciting. Realising there’s something wrong, he stretches forward and gently kisses my forehead. It’s a paternal gesture that moves me to tears; tears for the loved ones I have lost and the lover who recited that very poem on our very first meeting. I pull my arms in close and snuggle into him for warmth and comfort.

  “Why are you saddened by it?” he asks quietly.

  “I was teaching that poem when Ayden found me.”

  “I see.”

  “You wouldn’t have known.”

  He pulls up the sheet around me and rests his chin on top of my head. But for the hum of the turbines there is only the sound of our breathing. I fight to contain my thoughts, not to send them out or to share them. I want to suffer in silence. His chest rises and falls in even breaths against my cheek.

  “Ayden,” I whisper.

  “Yes,” he answers. “I’m still here.”

  “You’re very quiet.”

  “I’m scrolling through,” he says as if it’s a perfectly natural thing to do. “I need to know everything if I’m to be the husband you deserve and that means going back to …” He pauses. “…Back to school.”

  “It seems the logical place to start.”

  “It does indeed. I should have done this days ago,” he confesses.

  Leaving him to his flashbacks I begin to snooze, thinking only of Hong Kong nights and sun soaked days spent stretched out on golden sand; a veritable feast of sweet and sour moments. My eyelids begin to flutter…

  I am roused from my slumber by the shocking realisation that I’m not in my own bed. The steady rumbling of this fragile piece of metal forcing its way through turbulent air is enough to wake me with a start. Ayden is sleeping next to me and so princely is he in his majestic pose, I dare not wake him. I peel myself from his heated skin and move slowly from the bed to the bathroom, using the glow from the mirror as a guiding light. The bathrobe is fluffy against my skin, keeping me snug as I tip-toe over to my laptop that’s quietly hibernating on the table by the window. I lift up the shutter and look out at the night sky, wrapping my hands around my face and touching the glass with my nose, but all I see is a blanket of blackness dotted with stars.

  Refusing to dwell on my screensaver, I open the scrapbook page.

  November #3

  “Such is my love, to thee I so belong,

  That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.”

  William Shakespeare: Sonnet 88

  Today has been one of those days when my emotions have been thrown this way and that. It started with Elise’s funeral this morning. Jake met us at the crematorium and we sat through a service interrupted by her mother’s mournful cries. Before we could leave she vented some of her anger on you; it was uncalled for and your cheek took the brunt of her despair. I’m sorry you had to experience that, Ayden. No one knows the lengths you’ve gone to protecting Elise as a child and as a grown woman.

  Being the media savvy man you are, you suggested we meet the press. (Video below) Now they have something to write about. I’m not sure Bowker will be deterred quite as easily; he seems to have it in for both of us.

  We had fun with your Lancelot costume this afternoon!! (Laughing) The handcuffs fit quite nicely around your wrists …

  I stop typing to dust away tears; they formed silently, leaving me with damp cheeks. Once again I slip in the earphones and play back his announcement to the press. He’s every inch the man I married, confident and cultured. His refined English accent transcends the realms of the ordinary, hypnotising me, taking me back to happier days.

  I’m astounded by my performance too. I actually look as if I belong by his side; I appear confident and poised in my role. We actually complement each other in a dark and dainty kind of way. I listen to Katy Be and feel somewhat reassured as she sings, I’m Crying For No Reason.

  I return to my entry.

  Right now we’re on our way to Hong Kong in your enormous jet. Yes, you know the one you didn’t tell me about. (Tutting!) I think I might just have it refuelled and spend the rest of my life in it, up here in the clouds, alone with you.

  You’re making my every dream come true, Ayden, and not a day goes by when I don’t thank my lucky stars for you. We belong to each other, baby. I love you so much.

  Yours, Beth. X

  I save and shutdown; return to bed and fold my body into Ayden’s, dragging his lifeless left arm across me like a seatbelt. I hold onto it for dear life, close my watery eyes to shut out the memories and prepare for a hard landing.

  ***

  Under the glare of fluorescent lights, D.I. Bowker is inspecting the contents of a safety deposit box belonging to Elise Richards. Mr. Taylor stands quietly overseeing his inspection, curious as to the actual contents.

  As described in her file there is a large brown envelope; inside it are documents pertaining to the purchase of her apartment in Hatch End. There is nothing strange about that: the name of the vendor is documented and Miss. Richards is named as the buyer. What strikes Mack as odd is the fact there is no reference to a mortgage. From the legal document pertaining to the transaction, it appears that the property was paid for in cash. The purchase price was £465,000.

  Mack is writing down information in shorthand, but even the smallest letters and figures can’t diminish the impact of this discovery.

  Next he flips through four valuations for two rings, a bracelet and a necklace amounting to £11,000. Once again, this is a significant amount of money for a woman of her standing.

  Keeping his thoughts to himself he takes out the envelope upon which is typed:

  THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ELISE RICHARDS

  He holds it up against the light, spying the formal print of letter headed stationery but returns it to the box, preparing to leave it to the scrutiny of her family’s solicitor. Just as he’s about to close the lid, he notices a two sma
ll white envelopes. Feeling a flurry of excitement, he lifts out the first between his finger and thumb, turns it over and reads the name written upon it;

  Mr. Ayden Stone.

  MOD ASMI

  The envelope sits on the metal table like a sheet of ice, its contents a mystery but its addressee well-known to Mackenzie Bowker.

  Finally he delves into the bottom of the empty box and lifts out an envelope that is not new and not sealed. As he lifts it out, the contents fall. He picks up the formal looking document, dismissing the suggestion that he might be acting inappropriately. What he sees surprises him. Saying nothing, he jots down some names and the date of Miss. Richards’s adoption sixteen years ago, when she was fourteen years old and her maiden name was Kilbride.

  He prepares to close the lid on her past but something small and easy to miss catches his eye. He chases it around the bottom of the metal case with fat fingers, flips it up and lifts it out between his finger and thumb. It’s an SD card in a small transparent case, not much bigger than a postage stamp.

  “I’ll take these two items and make sure they get to the right people,” he assures his witness, holding up the SD card and the envelope addresses to Mr. Stone. Once they are nestled snugly against the notebook in his breast pocket, he reaches out to shake Mr. Taylor’s hand. “I’ll pass on the information I’ve uncovered today to the family’s solicitor. They’ll be in touch in due course, no doubt.”

  “I’m sure they will, Detective. Good luck with your enquiries. I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of this sordid affair.”

  Mack will not allow him to speak disparagingly of the dead. “There’s nothing sordid about love, Mr. Taylor,” he declares. “Not when it results in the tragic death of a troubled young woman. Thank you for your cooperation. Good day.”

  17

  We weave our way through a web of flashing lights and masonry, crossing intersections and bridges as if on a magical mystery tour. Hong Kong harbour is a myriad of buildings vying for position on the skyline. I have never seen anything like it.

  I turn away from Ayden and edge across the leather seat in the limousine to get a closer look. “Ayden look! It’s spectacular!”

  He’s nodding, taken with my enthusiasm. “Wait until we reach our hotel. You’ll have a better view from there.”

  It’s almost midnight here but I feel as if I have just awakened; how will I ever sleep?

  We arrive at our destination. I step from the car, feeling miniscule and insignificant beneath the International Commerce Building. The gold capital lettering across the entrance catches my eye: The Ritz Carlton. I turn to look out across the bay in one long, drawn out sweep, taking in the panorama, saying nothing.

  Ayden reaches for my hand. “Shall we go inside?”

  Excitedly, I nod and take his hand, tilting my head to take in the magnificence of this wondrous building.

  As if he has done it a hundred times before, he hands a business card to the petite young lady in a back suit who comes to greet us. She reads it, checks him out and immediately responds. “Mr. and Mrs. Stone, please come this way; the Presidential Suite has been prepared for you.”

  I tug at his hand. ”Presidential Suite?”

  “Why not? It’s all tax deductible,” he states, shrugging his shoulders. “I told Charlotte the highest and the most expensive suite there is, and …” He holds out his right hand for me to enter the lift. “This is it.”

  In the confined space of the lift, I stand on my tiptoes and whisper, “But why …”

  He pushes back my hair and nuzzles into my right ear. The sensation of his hot breath on my skin makes me feel a twinge of something sensual. I can’t help myself; I tip my head into him and sway a little.

  “Because I can, darling,” he mutters a split second before placing a soft kiss beneath my ear.

  All I can do is lick the lip-gloss from my lips, maintain my equilibrium, and watch the blue luminous buttons click through the floors. We stop at 117.

  The key card slides into the slot and the green light releases the door but I’m totally unprepared for what I see.

  “Welcome to the Presidential Suite Mr. and Mrs. Stone,” our escort announces, opening the door into Wonderland. If ever there was a time to feel small and overwhelmed, that time is now. I take my time moving forward, feigning indifference when all I want to do is scream, take my camera and start clicking away.

  On my left is a huge dining table in mahogany and reflected in it is an enormous chandelier, simply hanging there like a billowing cloud of light. On my right is the lounge, decorated in rich ebony shades; beneath my feet is a beautifully crafted floor, the colour of a sandy beach daubed with streaks of the bluest ocean. But all that pales into insignificance once I become aware of the view. Victoria Harbour is visible through the enormous glass windows. My jaw drops. I cannot speak.

  “Beth … Beth!”

  Somewhere behind me Ayden is calling my name but I’m so transfixed I can’t tear myself away. I feel his presence behind me and take in his provocative scent.

  “Let’s take a look around.” His hand slips into mine and he lifts it to his mouth. “The view will still be here in five minutes time.”

  Hand in hand we continue to explore an unpretentious bedroom with a king sized bed and sofas in a kind of muted grey; the walls are adorned with mother of pearl inlay. Gorgeous.

  Next we make our way to the bathroom where a sunken, square bath takes pride of place; turquoise bubbles cling to the far wall, ready to burst. Luxury toiletries wait to be sampled on the vanity unit, a compendium of polished wooden surfaces with gold trim.

  All I can do is shake my head. “Ayden, this is too much.”

  “There’s more,” he says, arching a brow.

  “I feel as if I’ve fallen into a treasure chest; the ornaments, the furniture … everything.”

  I follow him into the fully equipped office, past a sauna, into another en-suite bedroom and a kitchen.

  “We can have a private dinner for two prepared right here then sit and watch the sunrise. What do you think?”

  Is he after my approval?

  “I think it’s all very beautiful but much too extravagant. I don’t need to experience all this to feel loved.” I turn and make my way to the lounge, back to my view.

  In a matter of seconds he’s behind me. He turns me around to face him, trying unsuccessfully to conceal his disapproval. “You may not need to experience all of this because you have the rest of your life to do it. I do not.” Stalling, he brushes away an invisible strand of hair from my cheek and takes a moment to regulate the tenor of his voice. “I choose to do this, first because I can and second because I choose to experience it with you. Is that so difficult for you to understand?”

  He’s seeking validation.

  “Last night while you were sleeping and we were airborne, I went back to school; to the theatre, to Rome, and all those private places in between. I discovered many things, not the least of which was your love of music and of your desire to fly; to escape the confines of your daily life and to soar…” He tips his head to the right, contemplating his next sentence. “We will reach great heights together, my darling. Just you wait and see.”

  Bewitched by his sincerity I gaze longingly into his eyes; the midnight sky is besieged by slivers of colour and lights reflecting the landscape. It seems as if the man behind those eyes is lost in that myriad of colour.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t understand the reason for us coming here.” I take his face in my hands and brush away the lines forming above his cheekbones with my thumbs. “I didn’t mean to sound unappreciative; I can’t begin to imagine the things you’ve seen and done in your lifetime.” I tilt up my head until our noses are touching and place the softest of kisses on his lips. “Tell me why we’re here.”

  He inhales deeply, raises his eyes to the ceiling and returns his focus to me. Sensing the shift in mood, he clicks his fingers and light gradually returns to the room, filling the glass wall
with a mirror image of the furnishings and us. “Do you want the sugar-coated version or the truth?”

  I take a couple of seconds to consider my answer. “The truth. Always the truth,” I assert curiously.

  “Very well. This is the highest hotel in the world; it provides us with a vantage point to look down upon humanity in all its glory, in comfort. It’s also a reputable hotel where I have stayed several times.”

  I move away from the window and sit on the sofa. “I know that.”

  “Yes, but what you don’t know is my secondary reason for being here. Funds from ASMI are being embezzled. It would be remiss of me to discover that and not to do something about it.”

  Shit!

  He has me riveted to the spot. “What does that mean exactly?”

  “It means someone in a position of trust is misappropriating funds.”

  “You mean stealing from the company?”

  He’s nodding. ”That’s what I just said.”

  “How do you know?” I ask eager to hear every sordid detail.

  He sits down next to me, lifts up his right leg and rests it on his left knee seeming totally at home in this palace in the sky. “Purely by accident. When we were in the boardroom I read Mr. Cheung’s thoughts and tucked behind the things he wanted to tell me, were things he assumed I knew nothing about.”

  “Have you told Jake?”

  “No,” he answers sharply.

  “Why not?

  “Because he may be masterminding it,” he states coolly.

  I am almost too shocked to speak. “What … what? Jake wouldn’t steal from the company. He just wouldn’t.” I fall back onto the cushion, trying to take it all in.

  “He just returned from negotiating a manufacturing agreement over here and it seems very odd that he didn’t pick up on some irregularities.”

  I offer some kind of excuse for Jake’s ineptitude. “Maybe they were hidden from him. He doesn’t speak Chinese.”

  He’s laughing at me. “I believe negotiations are carried out in English, Beth. Jake’s inability to speak the indigenous language is irrelevant.”