Ayden directs both waiters to the table by the comfortable chairs to the left of the terrace and follows them out. He allows the more senior of the two to pop the champagne cork and pour.
“Cheers,” Ayden whispers. “… To memorable days and unforgettable nights.”
I smile broadly. “I’ve heard that before somewhere.”
“And that’s why I’ve repeated it, it was apt then and it’s apt now.”
I sit beside him, sipping the creamy, gold coloured champagne. The minute it touches my tongue, there’s an explosion of flavour: it’s delicious. We chat about my final day at school before breaking up for half term; having to throw myself across my case to close it and other incidentals. Being around each other is easy. It feels like a weight has been lifted from us, freeing our hearts and minds to explore the nature of our love; giving us time to foster our fledgling affair, to nurture it and watch it grow into … I don’t know what. Not yet.
They say it takes a storm to clear the air and we’ve weathered our storm and come out the other side better for it. Sitting on this terrace, with the world at my feet I feel so blessed. Being here with this sexy, smart guy is beyond wonderful. He has no idea what he’s done: he’s come along and rescued me from a life of utter misery. He has never had or will ever have a white charger, that’s not his style, but he has me and my heart: it sits in the palm of his hand like a pocket watch.
I’m going to ring reception and ask them to book us a table at Ad Hoc on Via di Ripetta. It’s a quaint and romantic restaurant that is renowned for it typically Mediterranean cuisine: I found it on the internet and reviews were good. I know it’s not what Ayden would choose but I like the look of it.
Having wasted a day, Dan is taking no chances. He’s given his car a health check: oil, water, petrol, he’s even topped up the windscreen wash bottles and that’s something he never does. Having received some attention, his radiator is suffering in silence after its blow-out on the A1 yesterday; two hours wasted, waiting for the steam and heat to disperse from the metal casing and from his brain.
The journey home was mind-numbingly slow and he didn’t arrive home until 1800hrs with a sore head and sore hands. With every agonizing mile, the skin on his palms was becoming puffy and pink. He dug out some antiseptic cream from the bathroom cabinet, 18 months past its ‘use before’ date but it was better than nothing. He massaged it into his palms and flinched, watching the flesh deepened in colour from rose pink to the colour of over ripe raspberries.
Now, he holds them out in front of him, catches sight of himself in the mirror and laughs sardonically; he looks like a waiter without a tray or a saint, seeking divine intervention. Just the thought of it makes him smile. “I may be down, but I’m not out,” he tells his reflection, not waiting for a reply. That thought is enough to lift his spirits. That combined with a medicinal dose of lager.
Being unable to eat yesterday was down to loss of appetite; not eating it today is not the result of psychosomatic tension, but physical impairment. Even lifting up a spoon is painful.
“What kind of daft sod grabs a bloody car bonnet when there’s steam coming off it?” Ernie’s shaking his head in disbelief.
“That stupid sod would be me.”
“Didn’t you think you’d get burned, it must have hurt like hell?” His face pulls into a grimace.
“Not at the time, but now …” Dan overturns his hands and blows onto his glowing palms.
“It pains me to say it, but you’re not much use around here, if you can’t pick stuff up?”
Dan knows what’s coming and starts to shake his head, annoyed with himself, with his stupidity. “Yeah, I know.”
“We’ll have to find something else for you to do or Crowther will be handing you your P45. Thank God it’s Thursday, come Monday morning and we’ll be up to our eye-balls in it.”
“You’re not wrong.” Ernie’s right. Unless he can be seen to be working, he’ll be out on his ear.
Thinking out loud, Ernie comes to the rescue. “What about some painting? The gates could do with a touch-up. Can you hold a paintbrush?” It’s a serious look for a serious question.
“Sure! I’m not a fucking invalid. I’ll be as right as rain tomorrow.”
“Don’t count on it. I once over-filled a flask and it bubbled over onto my feet. Even though I had my socks on, it hurt like hell. Took the bloody skin off and blistered. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you.” He glances over to his feet and circles his ankles. “Alright now though.”
“It’s not that bad. I’ve had worse sunburn that this and lived to tell the tale.”
“Maybe, but I’ll get you a pair of gloves and a couple of pads.”
“Cheers.” Dan throws down the last drops of his tea, holding onto the handle with the tips of his fingers like a Dickensian aunt.
They stand. Ernie pats Dan on his back. “No problem champ. We’ll soon have you fighting fit.”
“It’ll take more than a pair of gloves and a couple of pads for that.” Dan grins. “More like a fucking miracle.”
By lunchtime Dan is ready to punch the wall, so bad is the pain seeping from his hands. He cannot think to eat or to speak. Instead he takes himself off to his locker in search of two items: pain relief and light relief in the shape of Elizabeth Parker. He swallows two painkillers in one heavy gulp and checks for unwelcome bystanders. There are some habits that are hard to kick: one is smoking and two is jerking off to her image. He needs a couple of minutes alone with her to help him feel better.
He disappears into the cubicle and puts her picture on top of the cistern while he fiddles with his belt and his zip. It takes longer than usual and, before he can finish off what he’s started, he has unwelcome guests. A couple of familiar voices start up a conversation only a couple of feet from him about football matches and transfer fees, making it impossible for him to concentrate. Looking at her and having to listen to them … it just isn’t happening. He closes his eyes and tries again, but the minute she comes into view he’s forced to break off. Their laughter is too loud and their proximity is too distracting. He gives up. He dresses himself as quickly as he can and looks up the moment he hears his name being called. It’s Ernie.
“Are you in here champ, I’ve brought a sandwich over, in case you get peckish later. Dan?”
“Thanks. I’ll be right out.” For effect, he flushes the toilet and flicks back the lock.
“They only had ham salad, but it’s better than nothing.” Ernie places it on the bench. “Everything ok?”
Dan is close to breaking point. “Yeah, just fucking peachy.” He snatches the sandwich and heads towards the exit door, pushing past his twin interrupters and catching a shoulder on the way. There is no denying that he is feeling two sets of discomfort, one from his hands and the other from an perverse need to hit or fuck someone, preferably Elizabeth Parker and, not necessarily in that order.
As usual, his shift ends at 1400hrs and he manages to slip into his own clothes with as little help as possible from Ernie. Before placing his clothes inside his locker, he lifts up the prospectus to say a sarcastic, “see you later” to Ms. Parker but, when he reaches in to grab the photograph, it’s not there. In wild panic, he drags out the contents of his locker: old wage slips, letters, memos and his clothes fall onto the floor in an untidy pile. His thoughts leave his mouth in an involuntary yell. “Where the fuck are you?”
Ernie stands back and folds his arms. “Lost something champ?”
Dan doesn’t hear him. Instead, he’s rummaging around one on the tiled floor, using his fingertips to sift through the heap.
“Looking for this?” A guy wearing dark blue jeans holds the missing photograph so low down, it almost touches Dan’s nose.
He’s torn: does he say no and carry on looking for something, anything? Or does he say thank you and put her back where she belongs? He decides to play safe and carries on looking. He’s got plenty of other photos but … not that one. Not of her wearing that tight, bla
ck sweater.
“No, I had a lottery ticket and I think I had a tenner on it to collect. Put it in my locker this morning but, what with my fucking hands, I must have lost it.”
“Oh, this isn’t yours then?” Blue Jeans takes a look at the photo and instinctively both of Dan’s hands form into stony fists, making him wince with pain. He says nothing, but rises from the floor, holding the contents of his locker, unable to bear the thought of anyone looking at her, not that way.
“She’s a sweet little thing.”
Dan turns away and wrinkles his eyes, as if doing that will shut out the words and the image of him salivating over his girl. Yeah, that’s what she is, his girl. She’ll always be his girl. “Where did you find her?” He cannot bring himself to look at him.
“She was sitting pretty on the cistern in there.” Blue Jeans points to the cubicle from where Dan emerged. “I expect she was keeping someone company, if you know what I mean …?” He gives Dan a wink, turns and makes his way out of the changing room. “I think I’ll take her home with me. I’ve got a bit of a sweet tooth myself.”
No fucking way!
The thought of his hands on her, him forcing her to do all kinds of things to him is simply too much to bear. Dan calls out after him, “That ain’t happening … give me the fucking picture.”
Blue Jeans stops dead in his tracks. Dan has not touched him, but the tenor of his voice resonates across the walls like the aftermath of a roar: it hits him like a body blow. Slowly, as if initiating a duel, he turns to face him. “I thought you said she wasn’t yours?”
Dan recognises a rival when he sees one. “Take a dive mate. She sure as fuck ain’t yours.” He watches him squirm
“And she’s not yours either mate, is she?”
“Yes. She is.” He approaches him and reaches out one inflamed hand for the photo. He’ll do anything to get it back and, from the menacing look on his face and the way his lips are welded together, there’s no doubting it.
“And what if I don’t, what if I want her to suck my dick? What will you do then, bust-up your fucking hands even more?” He takes hold of the photo and pretends to tear it in two, provoking Dan, goading him on; playing with fire.
Dan takes a menacing step forward.
“Here, take her.” He throws the photo onto the floor. “I prefer blondes anyway.” He shrugs his shoulders and leaves the room. Dan can hear him whistling, nonchalantly as he disappears down the corridor.
Ernie has been a silent onlooker. He stretches out a hand and places it on Dan’s arm but Dan flinches and he pulls it back and slips it into his trouser pocket. “Let it go champ. You got your photo back, no harm done. Best leave it for another day, eh?”
Dan is too enraged to speak; his heart is thumping out of his chest and flaming breath is leaving his body in waves. He retrieves the photo, blows on it, wipes it clean against his shirt and slips it back into his locker; slams the door shut and locks it. Says nothing.
Sensing his need for silence, Ernie escorts him to the carpark and they go their separate ways. Dan sits in his car, gripping the steering wheel with smouldering palms and catches sight of himself in the passenger window. “Nearly lost you princess, but you know I won’t let anyone take you away from me, don’t you?” He flinches and turns the ignition key, his face contorted with agonizing pain and indecent thoughts.
***
“Yes!” His heart leaps when he sees her black Fiesta parked up in its space on the cul-de-sac, and then he realizes the implications. She may come out at any moment and blow his cover, jeopardizing the whole operation. He needs to think it through.
His watch says 1600hrs. The late afternoon clouds are grouping and wrapping themselves around the insipid sun. Soon it will be dark. Feeling the need for reassurance, he takes out his wallet; tucked behind two five pound notes and a twenty is a battered, old photograph. He holds Beth Parker between his forefinger and thumb. Images of their time together begin to tilt his mind, inclining him towards dark and lecherous recollections.
The photograph slips easily into its hiding place but something in front of it holds his attention: it’s Elise Richard’s business card. That too fits nicely between his finger and thumb. He taps his chin with the edge, feeling it catch against his stubble. He had intended to give her a call but hadn’t got round to it. ‘Now’s as good a time as any,’ he reminds himself. ‘Besides, I’ve got nothing better to do.’
Miss. Richards answers the office phone on the third ring. “Hello, Taylor & Main, Elise speaking. Can I help you?”
“I hope so Miss Richards. It’s Dan Rizler from Elm Gardens.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Rizler. How are you settling into the apartment?”
“I’m getting there. It’s Dan by the way.”
“That’s good to know … Dan. What can I help you with?”
“Well I was wondering if I could buy you a thank you drink. You really pushed the boat out, getting me into the place in a couple of days?” He listens for her reply.
“Well, that’s very nice of you, but it isn’t necessary.”
“I know that, but I thought it might be nice to get together and have a chat. I don’t know anyone this side of the city and you seemed like such a lovely lady.” He rubs his aching hand across his mouth, holding back on a smirk.
“Oh, thank you.”
As he suspected, she’s not used to receiving compliments. “So what do you say?” He knows it would be unwise to rush her. She has to decide for herself. That’s all part of the game.
“Well … I suppose I could meet you for a drink after work.”
“Great. I know where your office is. I’ll meet you there in an hour at 6 o’clock ok? Don’t want you walking around the city centre on your own at night do we?”
“That’s very considerate of you … Dan.”
I’m a considerate guy.
“I look forward to seeing you then.”
“See you in an hour.”
“Bye Miss Richards.” The card slips snugly back into his wallet. He pulls down the sun visor to check himself out.
“And there you were thinking you’d lost your touch?” He’s tipping his head from left to right checking his profile, feeling the bristles on his chin with his fingertips. “A bit of spit and polish and you’ll be as good as new.”
He takes a lingering look at the three story apartment block. She’s in there, she’s within his reach and … who the fuck are the two guys in blue overalls walking in and out of the building? It’s then he notices the white transit van; it’s open at the rear and inside are shelves organised one on top of the other, rows and rows of electronic equipment.
With his rucksack over his shoulder and his clothes and toiletries stuffed into a shopping bag, he saunters over. A young guy is up a small ladder fixing a box to the wall. Another, older man is inside 53a by the window, pulling wires and cables through.
One word comes to mind. ‘Alarm!’ He seizes the moment. “Hey, what you putting in, satellite TV?”
The younger of the two men looks across to him dismissively. “No, it’s an alarm system. Or it will be if we can get these bloody wires through.”
“Oh right. You can never be too careful these days.” Casually, he slips his hand into the pocket of his jeans. “I’m upstairs in 53c.”
Knowing that puts the young man at ease. “Oh right, sorry for the noise. We’re under strict orders to get it done pronto; had to put everything else on the back burner to sort this out.”
“No pressure then?”
“Not much. It’s got to be installed today and that means we’ll be here until the job’s done.” He shakes his head despairingly.
“I’m going to put the kettle on, do you want a brew?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
“What about your mate?” Dan pokes his head through the front door of 53a. “Cup of tea?” In the time it takes for the distracted technician to answer, he’s given the apartment the once over.
It’s just the
way he expected it to be, tidy and inviting; cushions are strewn over a comfortable cream sofa and a marble fireplace is decorated with crystal candle holders and expensive ornaments. Above the fire is an enormous mirror in a gilded frame into which her world is reflected. For a couple of seconds, he’s dumbstruck.
“That would be great, thanks. No sugar.”
“No problem.” He turns to leave and is stopped dead. In a tray, by the door is a set of keys. Noticing that both men are engrossed in their work, he snatches them from the tray, makes for the stairs and keeps walking. The cold, hard metal digs into his pulsating palm, but that’s ok. It’s a small price to pay for having access to her private world.
Just as he’s about to turn and take a step towards his apartment, he becomes aware of the presence of someone behind him. Does he turn or keep on walking?
“Good evening Dan, I saw you park up.”
He decides to throw her a bone. “Sorry, can’t stop to chat, got a phone call from an old girlfriend, meeting her at six for a drink.” He smiles over his shoulder, hoping that morsel of gossip will give her something to gnaw on.
“That’s nice. Everyone seems to be meeting friends and going places at the moment.” She laughs.
Everyone?
“How’s that?”
“Well you’re having a drink with a lady friend and Beth downstairs has gone off to Rome with her handsome gentleman friend. Oh what it is to be young. You’re a very lucky man Dan.”
“Yes I am,” he answers sarcastically.
Who the fuck goes to Rome on a Thursday afternoon?
Fearing she may have picked up on the sarcasm, he softens it. “Although, I’ve never been to Rome either.”
“Haven’t you?”
He nods no.
“Well she’s only gone for a couple of days, she’ll be back on Saturday. Maybe you can meet her then?”
“I hope so.” He isn’t lying. “Night Pat.”
Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play Page 30