Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play

by Sydney Jamesson

  Crushing disappointment is etched on his face. Once again, the gloves are shredded and discarded. He takes his frustration out on the innocent chair now lying on its back on the sodden carpet, tearing at the candy striped material until it is no more than a tattered selection of colourful strips. They dangle from the aluminium frame like pieces of bunting, seeming to celebrate his failure: mocking him. Seething, he folds it up and leans it against the wall. Now it’s like a Hawaiian skirt beneath a square frame. It looks ridiculous, he feels ridiculous. He’s had enough.

  Like a petulant child, he throws the tea soaked paper into the toilet and storms off home, not relishing the 75 mile drive back to Ely. Getting her back is proving harder than he thought.

  Feeling an overwhelming sense of failure, he flicks in a cd, hoping the booming sound of heavy rock will improve his mood. It does. The famous words of one of his movie heroes comes to mind: “I’ll be back.”

  I take the North Circular Road and head over to Canary Wharf. Charlie’s new apartment is an ultra-modern, million pound, eighth floor investment which could easily be described as a party pad, except for the fact she’s not much of a party planner. She prefers to be out and about and, when she’s not socialising, she’s networking; sometimes she manages to do both at the same time. She’s everything I’m not. We’re like opposite sides of the same coin, inseparable. As much as I love her, I couldn’t live with her, and that’s why I plan on leaving no later than 10.30pm. It will take me an hour to get home and then I intend to spend the rest of my evening devoting myself to Ayden. I have a plan.

  Considering her birthday party will be taking place in just over a week, Charlie is pretty laid-back about everything. If it was me, I’d be counting down the days and dusting off wine glasses.

  ***

  After an hour of less than serious planning, she makes a decision about the theme, it comes as no surprise: it’s Film Heroes. Charlie is obsessed with film and music, believing she has missed her calling and should have been a screen siren. Throughout the nine years of our friendship, there have been times when I might have agreed: she can be a drama queen.

  She is itching to know about my love life, so I broach the subject and save her the hassle. “Ayden’s in L.A. on business. He wasn’t going to go, but after some subtle persuading I got him to fly out this afternoon. After our chat last night, I realised what was going on with him and asked him to come back to my apartment.”

  She’s quick to get involved. “I hope he apologised, for whatever he did!”

  I’m not in the mood to elaborate. “Yes, he did. Anyway, it was a misunderstanding. It’s all sorted now.”

  “I’m very pleased to hear it. And does he know how lucky he is?” She throws me an exaggerated smile.

  “Yes, he does, but I feel lucky too. He’s the only guy who really sees me, you know?”

  “Yes, I get that hon, but you’ve made yourself invisible; locked yourself away for years, and now you’re falling for the first guy who comes along?” She means well but she can’t appreciate the depth of our love. How could she?

  “I feel safe with him Char. Now we’ve opened up to each other, I know he won’t hurt me. I need to know that.”

  She pats my hand. “I’m pissed, and if you keep talking like that I’m going to start crying and make a fool of myself. You make it sound so beautiful. Is he that perfect?” Forever sceptical, that’s her style.

  “He’s as near to it as I’ll ever find,” I confess. “If we last until Christmas it will be worth it but, I’m sort of expecting we’ll last a lot longer than that.” I lean over and give her a hug. “Thanks for being such a good friend to me all these years. I know I’ve been a miserable bitch most of the time, but I’m happy now, so be happy for me. Ok?” I can see tears welling in her eyes.

  “Sure. But if he as much as steps a foot out of line, you’ve got to be strong. Don’t take any crap off him. Even if he is one of the sexiest guys I’ve ever had the pleasure of insulting.” She throws back the last drops of wine settling in the bottom of her glass.

  “Hey Beth, be honest with me now, does he fuck as good as he looks?”

  I know it’s the wine talking. “He’s good at everything Charlie, and that’s all I’m saying.” I give her a knowing look which, thankfully, she recognises as my final word on the subject.

  “Good to know. I’m happy for you hon. You deserve to be happy after what you’ve been through.”

  With that she snatches the empty bottle, from which she has drunk two thirds, and staggers off into the kitchen. I walk over to the enormous floor to ceiling windows and take-in the spectacular view of the O2 Arena and the London Skyline, illuminated against the cloudy night sky. I wonder what Ayden is doing now? It’s 10.30pm. In half and hour he’ll be landing, reliving the last seven hours again, five and a half thousand miles away. Is he missing me? I hope so.

  ***

  Coming home to an empty apartment is not as much fun as it used to be. It’s so quiet. I’d even welcome the tap, tap, tap, of laptop keys right now. I switch on mine, hoping for a message but expecting nothing, it’s almost midnight. Just as I’m pouring boiling water over a tea bag, I hear the familiar ping, signalling the arrival of an email. Quickly I open up the message: It’s a long one.

  From: a.s.mediainternational1@global.com

  To: songbirdBP@hotmail.co.uk

  Date 23rd October 16.50

  Subject: SWEET DREAMS!

  The Promise: Tracy Chapman

  I’ve just arrived at the hotel, it’s late afternoon here but you’ll be off to bed soon. I’ve been thinking, and I want to say thank you for taking the time to figure me out. I know I’m a head case, but I still haven’t explained ... I’d like to try.

  What you said was right, but I think my behaviour was a reflex response: for as long as I can remember, losing has not been an option, misjudging anything has seemed like failure and feeling has been something I’ve avoided. Because, if you let yourself feel then you can be hurt and there have been times when I could have been seriously hurt, emotionally and physically. Winning has been my coping mechanism, you’ve made me see that now.

  So, what happens next? I still need to win or be seen to be winning. Everything I’ve achieved has come from that single impulse; it’s made me self-reliant and I’d be an idiot to lose sight of that. But ... right now I feel as if my armour has been stripped from me, yet I’m still expected to go into battle and win. Knowing what makes me tick, has left me feeling exposed. Maybe I’m not your Mr. P after all?

  I’ve still got to fine-tune the speech I thought I wouldn’t have to write, thanks to some clever man-handling this morning. I’ll have to watch out for that!! You were right though, there was no power sharing - I didn’t stand a chance! You should come and work for me - with me - I can always use a good negotiator!

  During the flight, I had time to find a song for you. I can’t kiss you good night, but imagine these words leaving my lips and finding their way to your heart. It’s late, get to bed. Don’t email back, I’ve got work to do!

  Sweet dreams Beth.

  All my love.

  A. x

  After reading his email, I’m left with a terrible sense of foreboding. What have I done? Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so brutally honest, telling him things he’s not ready to hear, not now, not on the eve of one of the biggest corporate events he will ever have to open. I don’t care what he said, I have to email him.

  From: songbirdBP@hotmail.co.uk

  To: a.s.mediainternational1@global.com

  Date: 24th October 00.05

  Subject: ARMOUR PLATING

  Shine: Take That

  Thanks for your lovely song - there’s tears - it’s become one of my all-time favourites. I know you’re busy, but I have three points to make:

  1. What I said wasn’t an exercise in subjugation, it was my amateurish attempt to help you deal with feelings you couldn’t get your head around: I was desperate! I knew, if I couldn’t make you un
derstand, then you’d move on and we’d be over. I don’t want that and now I know you don’t want that either.

  2. Your fixation with winning has seriously fucked up your ‘love’ life, but I’m selfish enough to be glad that you were such a Playboy. As ridiculous as it sounds, being a player has brought you to me.

  3. As far as you and your company are concerned, nothing has changed. You should feel empowered not disarmed: now you can begin to channel your motivation. Not only that, you have someone in your camp 24/7.

  So … stop feeling sorry for yourself and finish that speech so you can blow their socks off tomorrow and get yourself on a plane back to me!

  Have a pleasant evening Ayden.

  All my love

  B. x

  P.S. Enjoy the song x

  Before I have time to turn out the lights, I receive a reply. I thought I might.

  From: a.s.mediainternational1@global.com

  To: songbirdBP@hotmail.co.uk

  Date: October 23rd 17.12

  Subject: WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ROMANCE?

  Thank you for the précis…

  I send you my heart in a song and you send me a fucking sing-a-long - THANKS!

  DON’T email me! If I don’t finish this speech I’ll be too busy SHITTING myself to SHINE!

  Get to bed!

  All my love

  A. x

  Oh, he’s such a romantic …

  From: songbirdBP@hotmail.co.uk

  To: a.s.mediainternational1@global.com

  Date: 24th October 00.17

  Subject: GOING TO BED HAPPY

  That’s more like it! Welcome back!

  I’m going to bed now, with a smile on my face ;-)

  I love you.

  B. x

  He’s found his voice and his armour plating too by the sound of it. There’s an instant reply.

  From: a.s.mediainternational1@global.com

  To: songbirdBP@hotmail.co.uk

  Date: 23rd October 17.19

  Subject: SWEET DREAMS!

  I’ve got a smile on my face too. J You have such a good heart Beth. To have your love is such a special gift. I treasure it.

  Thanks for the wake-up call. I know why you sent the song. I’m good.

  I love you more

  A x

  I shut down the laptop and make my way to my lonely bed, safe in the knowledge that Mr. P is back. One more day to get through and then our romantic city break to the Eternal City. The thought of it makes me want to jump up and down on my bed. Instead, I throw on Ayden’s cotton T-shirt and slip between the sheets. The drama of the last few days seems to be catching up with me. In the blink of a very tired eye, I feel myself falling into a deep sleep.

  13

  After last night’s disappointment Dan is finding it difficult to conceal his frustration. He feels nothing but contempt for the students and the staff at the University and, anyone taking the time to look him in the eye would see that. Ernie’s good natured attempts to initiate friendly banter are met with lack-luster, single syllable responses and disinterest. Why? The big man is consumed by thoughts of ‘Beth’ Parker, to the point of distraction. He’s had to abort two attempts at extraction and is beginning to feel that, in spite of all the planning, the expense and his best efforts, it’s never going to happen.

  Worst of all, he cannot tell a soul; hope and fear are eating away at him like cancerous growths. No amount of medical attention will cure him of his aliment. There’s no cure for lust. Twice during his shift he’s had to pay a visit to his locker to see her, to find release from carnal cravings that threaten to erupt from him like paint from an aerosol.

  Knowing how close he came has only intensified his craving for sexual communion. Not only can he visualize her with her cute blond air, he can smell her, hear her voice, feel her breath on his skin. She’s become too close for comfort: she’s real, tangible, a temptress.

  For the first time in his life, he can’t face lunch. The free meal sits on the tray in the crowded dining hall, untouched. Ernie assumes he’s unwell.

  “You must be sickening for something.”

  He’s not wrong.

  “Got no appetite.”

  “You want to get yourself off to the doctors. P’raps you’ve got a bug.”

  “Yeah, must have. Been doing too much.”

  Too much planning and driving and wanking…

  “Not too chatty either.”

  “No.”

  “Tell Crowther, see if he’ll let you leave early.”

  “No. I’ll finish the shift and deal with it later.”

  “Ok. Just take it easy champ.”

  “I intend to.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Ernie slides over his dessert. “Can I tempt you with a blackberry muffin?”

  “No thanks, I’ll pass. Got to watch my figure.”

  “It’s a bit late for that! Better keep your strength up. Don’t want you wasting away. Who’s going to lug all that furniture around if you turn into a ten stone weakling?”

  “Some other dumb fucker.”

  “Exactly. Eat your muffin and stop moping about. Looking at your miserable mush is giving me a bloody headache.”

  Dan forces a contrite smile.

  “That’s better.” Ernie, licks his thumb and flicks over the page to the football results.

  ***

  By 2.15 Dan’s mood has improved and he is southbound. His BMW has never been so mechanically challenged; a distressed sound is coming from somewhere under the bonnet. He turns down the cd player and listens, checking dashboard gauges for signs of mechanical failure. Under sufferance, he pulls over onto the hard shoulder and clicks open the bonnet.

  Even before he opens it, he can smell the dreaded odour of burning rubber. When he tries to open the bonnet, he flinches: it’s hot, too hot to handle.

  “Fuck!”

  He pulls down the cuffs of his jacket over his palms and lifts it tentatively, keeping the scorching metal away from his skin. Settling over the engine is a cloud of steam and sizzling droplets of water. He’s no mechanic, but even he recognizes an over-heated radiator. He checks his watch, time is against him. It’s 1500hrs. He’s over forty miles from home and less than thirty miles from Elm Gardens. His hands are tied. If he chances the drive to Elm Gardens he may not be able to get back. If he heads home, then he’ll have to go another night without her. That thought hits him like a body blow.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” He roars to the heavens, but no words can convey the tormented nature of his ferocious anger. So profound is his misery that he slams down the bonnet of the car again and again, ignoring the scorching pain in his hands as the hot metal sears his flesh.

  Like a man drunk on despair, he staggers along the hard shoulder; heavy boots on gravel, eyes smarting in the autumn wind. There are no bars but, to the passing motorists, he looks like a caged animal, unable to escape, unwilling to accept his fate.

  ‘Operation Snatch Back’ will have to be put back another night.

  Every half term ends the same way: excited teenagers wearing their own clothes, lesson plans being filed, films being projected onto whiteboards. The perfect reward for seven weeks of hard labour.

  By 4.15 pm the natives are off school premises, leaving me to focus on marking and planning. First stop the photocopier. As the worksheets mount, my thoughts shift to Ayden’s emails last night. I haven’t needed to worry all day, the time difference has meant he’s been preoccupied with speech writing or sleeping. Now, 45 minutes before his conference opens, I’m anxious.

  Margaret from the office bounds into the staff room, “Oh great you’re still here Beth. I’ve just had an urgent phone call for you.”

  My pulse starts to race and I clutch my chest. What’s happened, is it Charlie? Is it Ayden? Oh dear God no!

  “A gentleman rang and insisted I find you. Apparently your phone is turned off and he needs to speak with you urgently.” She searches the note for a name. “He said his name was Mr. P? “ She gives me
a capricious look and I take the note from her.

  “Thank you, Margaret.”

  After snatching my pile of photocopying from the machine, I dash off to my classroom for some privacy. I turn on my phone, silently scolding myself for turning it off on such an important day. What was I thinking? I press Speedial1 and he picks up on the first ring.

  “Elizabeth?” I’m about to speak but the fact he’s addressing me as Elizabeth stops me in my tracks. “Elizabeth?”

  “Yes Ayden, I’m here.” I want to speak softly but I sense he needs more than that. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s ... it’s this fucking speech, I don’t think I can pull it off.”

  Fuck!

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “I can’t seem to get my shit together.” I barely recognise his voice, it’s a nervous whisper.

  “Where are you?” I boot up my laptop and access the CNN website. They’re bound to be covering the conference. “Can you talk?”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “… Be quiet and listen.” I nibble my thumb nail and contemplate my words very carefully. “You can do this blindfolded with your hands tied behind your back, I should know.” I think I can hear a snigger of sorts at the other end of the phone. “Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes Elizabeth.”

  I need his full attention. “Take out your final draft.” I hear paper rustling. “How does it begin?”

  “Good morning ...” He starts to read it out, it’s disjointed, rushed.

  “It’s a good speech Ayden.” I lie. “You need to read it through and centre yourself.”

  “How?”