Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play

by Sydney Jamesson

  “Night Dan.”

  He can barely bring himself to open the front door. The place is costing him £600 a month and four days in he’s got nothing to show for his investment other than a broken chair and two fucked-up hands. Inside the sparsely furnished apartment, there’s the smell of emptiness; no-one home to throw out the welcome mat, not even Honey to meet and greet him by the door. Exhausted from emotional torment and physical pain, he checks his watch. It’s 1650hrs. Just time to make a brew, freshen up and hit the road, but not before he’s got the name and address of a key cutting shop in town.

  While the kettle boils, he flicks through the yellow pages left on the floor by the front door. ‘Keys … locksmiths … cutting.’ Quickly he makes a note of the telephone number and address and prepares two mugs of tea. The sensation of hot water on his prickly palms is excruciating but he’s way past caring about something as insignificant as that. Meeting his reflection, he smiles through it: ‘Got her keys, got a date. You’re boxing clever Danny boy.’

  He slams his door behind him and descends two flights. “Here we are, two teas. I’ve got to shoot out for a couple of hours. Looks like you’ll be here for a while, do you want a sandwich or anything?” He’s role playing the kindly neighbour.

  “No thanks mate. The lady upstairs made us a sandwich a couple of hours ago, so we’re alright for now.” They sip on the tea and glance around the apartment. “Cosy, isn’t it?”

  Yes, it’s just how you’d expect my girl to live …

  “If you like that sort of thing?” Dan replies, turning up his nose. He leaves them to their beverages. “See you later.”

  ***

  The drive into the city centre takes twenty minutes with the traffic. Dan parks adjacent to the small shop on St. Anne’s Road. While dodging cars he’s turning the keys over and over in his hand; he’s become desensitized to the pain and is riding on a wave of adrenalin and opportunism.

  The keys to the front door and the French doors are cut in less than twenty minutes, leaving him ample time to get across town to meet Elise Richards.

  The minute the fingers on his watch stretch out into a vertical line, Dan takes the key from the ignition and prepares to climb out of his car. The Taylor and Main office is only four doors down from the lay-by, making it possible for him to see Ms. Richards in his rear view mirror. He hopes she’s not late, of the many things that tick him off, tardiness comes top of the list. That and a smart mouth.

  Right on time, she appears, carrying an oversized bag, looking as if she’s about to spend a weekend away at a spa resort. Her blonde hair is swept back behind her ears, her jeans are a tight fit and she’s made an effort to look her best. The light from the window display illuminates her face. Dan hadn’t paid her much attention before but, from this distance she’s quite pretty, but limp wristed. Dan to the rescue.

  “Miss Richards, let me help you, you look like you have your hands full.”

  She’s flustered but happy to let him pull the door to and struggle with the lock. “Hello Mr. Rizler. Thank you.”

  He hands her back the keys. “No problem, it’s Dan remember? Where do you want to go for a drink?”

  “There’s a wine bar around the corner?”

  Wine? I had you as more of a lager girl.

  “Great.”

  She looks at him from under her fringe. “I need to put this bag in my car first.” Her car alarm flashes next to his recovering BMW.

  “Nice car.” Dan nods towards the black Golf GTI, less than a year old. “Jeez. You must have sold a lot of houses?”

  She seems a little embarrassed and flushes the colour of a sugar coated pear drop. “Not really, it was a birthday present from a friend.”

  “I wish I had a friend like that,” Dan declares, expecting to hear more. He waits in vain

  She slams down the boot and turns to him. “I’m ready for that drink now.”

  “Then lead the way.” He stretches out his hand and allows it to remain behind her, not touching, just making it clear to anyone watching, they are a together.

  The wine bar is only 100 yards away, past the row of shops. It’s the kind of establishment he would go out of his way to avoid, normally; all canvases, candles and cushions. The pretty barmaid looks scarcely old enough to be serving drinks and the young man opening up a bottle of Pinot Gregio has barely the muscular strength to extract the cork. Dan is a fish out of water.

  They settle themselves on a curved red, tapestry seat to the left of the doorway; far enough away to avoid the autumn chill but close enough to the bar to suggest a lack of romantic involvement.

  “What do you want to drink?”

  “Do they serve lager?”

  I knew it!

  “I hope so.” Dan whips up an agreeable smile.

  “Then that’s what I’ll have.”

  A couple of minutes later, he returns with two tall, decorative glasses of lager that are golden and iridescent against the flickering tea light on the mosaic table. He wants to say, “Do you know how much they charged me for these?” Instead all he says is, “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  An observer would easily pick-up on the newness of their relationship. They are virtually strangers and that’s exactly how they look: awkward and uncomfortable. Neither of them wanting to prompt conversation for fear they may say they wrong thing.

  Dan bites the bullet; “I didn’t think you’d say yes when I invited you for a drink.”

  Sensing an approaching compliment, Elise responds by putting down her heavy glass and turning to him. “Why not?”

  “You must get hit on all the time and I’m not what you’d call dating material.”

  “I’m flattered you think that, but you’re wrong, on both counts.” She reaches into her bag and checks her phone. He’s surprised by her directness. He’d under-estimated her, she’s not a woman to be messed with. He likes that.

  “Thanks. I’m not much of a socialiser, you might have guessed that?”

  “Socialising is over-rated. I don’t get out much either. I used to, but not anymore.” Her words take her attention away from the conversation to another dimension. Her devil-may-care past perhaps?

  “How long have you worked at the estate agents?” He focuses on his lager, taking a long, refreshing gulp and enjoying the coolness of the glass against his right palm.

  “For almost eight years, I’m hoping to have my own branch soon. I’ve attended lots of courses and they say I have a great future ahead of me.” She seems genuinely excited at the prospect and then, realising how animated she had become, looks down and settles her hands on her lap.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. You sorted me out quick enough.” Dan lifts up his glass. “Thanks.” She does the same and gives him a ‘you’re welcome’ smile.

  “What about you. You must have had an interesting life?”

  What the fuck does that mean?

  “If you mean as a boxer, then yes. I s’pose I have.”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.” She focuses on his features, at a nose that has been broken and mended four times and the small scars around his eye-brows. “Were you any good?”

  Well yeah …

  “I had my moments … fought at Wembley stadium and sparred with Mike Tyson once.” He throws her a wink and picks up his half empty glass. “Didn’t make enough money to retire on, but I don’t complain.”

  “At least you had a go.” Her mouth curves into a half smile. “Most people accept their lot without so much as a whimper. You stepped into the ring and fought back.” She smiles quickly and returns to her drink.

  You’re right about that …

  He accepts the compliment. “I s’pose.”

  She checks her phone again and, visibly disappointed, throws it into her bag.

  “Expecting a call?” Dan enquires casually.

  “Not exactly. I texted a friend and haven’t heard back from them yet.” Realising her rudeness, she pulls down her blouse and angles her
body in his direction. “Ever had a friend who let you down?”

  What the fuck?

  “Sure … that’s why I keep myself to myself, I roll with the punches.” He does a kind of sparring move, fists close to his chest.

  She sniggers and shakes her head from left to right, finding him comical in a friendly sort of way. “I’ll leave you to your memories. I’m going to powder my nose.”

  He follows her with his eyes all the way to the end of the bar, sees her squeeze between four young men, throwing back shots and laughing out loud. Left alone with his thoughts, he’s replaying their conversation; he’s good at that, remembering words and faces.

  As a rule, Dan Rizler doesn’t rile easily, not as far as fighting is concerned; his ‘weapons of mass destruction’ could cause serious damage if he let them fly. Better to keep them under wraps, under-control. Usually, his size is deterrent enough, but these fuckers by the bar are seriously pushing his buttons. He’s come for a quiet drink. If he’d wanted rowdy, he’d have gone to a bar with big screens and a karaoke machine.

  When Elise returns from the bathroom, the noisy foursome are ready for her; they block her path and ensnare her with their crude suggestions. Dan gives them time to back-off and to see how she handles herself. She eyes them with disdain and tries to push her way through, but one of them takes hold of her arm. That’s it!

  Dan steps from his seat, knocking a chair over in his wake and approaches the boisterous crowd. Without a word, he takes hold of the hand on Elise’s arm, removes it and slowly crushes it in his oversized paw. “I don’t think the lady wants to play boys.”

  Crouching, his victim calls out in agony.

  “Now is there anything you’d like to say to this lovely lady before you leave?” The timbre of his voice is chilling and, when it’s coupled with a flat smile that doesn’t even touch his eyes, they have no misgivings about his malevolence: he’s capable of anything.

  Not surprisingly, they apologise, drink up and make a speedy exit. One of them nursing a hand which will probably be useless for several days.

  Elise sits herself down, unruffled by the incident. “I didn’t need rescuing you know. I was perfectly capable of handling them myself.”

  Dan didn’t doubt that for a minute. “I could see that, but I was getting lonely over here and they were taking up too much of your time.”

  “Then you should learn to be more patient Dan – it’s a virtue you know?”

  Tell me about it!

  “I’ll bear that in mind next time, Elise.”

  “Next time?” She feigns surprise.

  “Yeah, Saturday, you eat lunch don’t you?”

  “Was that an invitation?”

  He nods and empties his glass. “Don’t you shut-up shop at 2 o’clock? I’ll pick you up and take you for something to eat, be your bodyguard.”

  She cannot hide her amusement. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

  “Well you’ve got one anyway.”

  Elsie places her hand on his arm feeling the hard sinews beneath her fingers. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Come on, I need a smoke. I’ll walk you back to your fancy car.” Once again, he holds the door open for her, detecting a grateful smile.

  It’s a short walk to the lay-by where their cars are parked and Dan edges away from her, not wanting to shake hands. He’s managed to keep his infirmity under-wraps but his palms are super-sensitive. As soft as her hands may be, even the slightest touch will cause him to grimace and the last thing he wants is to be the wounded bodyguard. That just wouldn’t do. He watches her shoot off into the night, brakes squealing, wheels blazing.

  When Dan returns to Elm Gardens, the two technicians are at the bottom of the stairs chatting with Pat. He’s less than surprised to see her there, she must have been itching to strike up a conversation. He greets the bunch with a friendly smile.

  “All done?”

  The younger of the two lifts his mug of tea. “Just stopping for a tea break, still got loads to do. Expect we’ll be here ‘till bloody midnight at this rate.”

  “Whatever it takes eh? Did you manage to pull the wires through?”

  “Eventually. Got to leave it tidy though. Orders from the top.” The experienced technician raises his head to the heavens. “Looks ok though.” He wanders into the apartment, proud of his handy work.

  Nonchalantly, Dan follows him, hands in pockets, yawning. He looks up at the neatly positioned box to the right hand side of the window frame, tucked away behind the curtain. “What’s happened to the window?” Dan asks, watching as the guy nearly chokes on his tea.

  “Shit! I’ve not cracked the glass?”

  As he walks over to the window, Dan slips the keys into the tray by the door and steps backwards laughing. “Just messing around.”

  “You had me going there, had visions of having to fit a bloody window as well as an alarm. Would have meant pulling an all-nighter.” He exhales long and hard and scratches his head. “Back to work.”

  “I’ve leave you to it. Give me a knock if you want a brew.” He collects the two empty mugs and trots off upstairs. From the back, it’s impossible to see the width of his smile and the roguish sparkle that has returned to his eyes, but it’s there.

  It’s seven o’clock, I’ve taken too long showering and getting ready, but I’m pleased with the result. I’ve selected a little black dress by Donna Karan, it’s a lovely fit and the off the shoulder design helps to create a flattering silhouette with my hair up. Black Jimmy Choos, black clutch and I’m done. My new platinum jewellery completes the ensemble. I’m a little light-headed after the champagne but in a happy way. Once I’ve eaten I’ll feel fine.

  Ayden showered quickly, probably so he could get some work done before I appeared. I’m getting attuned to his little ways; he likes to give the illusion of care-free leadership but I’ve never known a more committed individual.

  My instincts were right; he’s back in the study having a heated conversation with someone. “For fuck’s sake Jake. Get on it, what do you mean where am I? I’m in Rome with Beth ... so just take care of it. OK? No, I won’t be taking calls, we’re going out to dinner. Text me when you have news.”

  Rather than disturb him I tiptoe onto the terrace, wrapping my shawl around my shoulders to keep the evening chill from my skin. The sky is Ayden’s signature colour. Unlike his suits and my sapphire charm, it’s peppered with pin pricks of light. There’s too much light pollution to pick out any constellations but I know they’re up there somewhere. I hear music and turn to see where it’s coming from.

  Ayden is carrying his iPad, playing is Michael Buble singing Feeling Good. I have a choking sensation in my throat, I’m fighting back emotion. I inspect my beau from head to toe; he looks princely in his slate grey suit, black shirt and silver grey tie; right hand in his pocket, left hand holding the iPad. He sets it down on the table and approaches me. I feel my chest inflating and my bosoms heaving at the sight of him.

  “May I have this dance?” He takes my hand and draws me to him, takes my hand in his and spins me around and around before pulling me in close and sweeping me around the terrace. He whispers in my ear. “You don’t have to say what this is Beth, I know.” He reads my thoughts: this is another Titanic moment, the best so far.

  He steps back and studies my face, my hair even my dress before smiling proudly. “I’m a very lucky man. You look amazing. I’m looking forward to getting you out of that dress.”

  Those seductive words cause my breath to catch. “Then you’ll have to wait.” I smile shyly. “You look so handsome Ayden, I’m a lucky lady too.” I mirror his playful smile and stroke his face with the back of my hand.

  “If you say so Miss Parker, then it must be true. Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s go eat.”

  The limousine is waiting for us outside reception. As we manoeuvre ourselves onto the back seat I offer our driver a greeting, “Buona sera.” He does the same a
nd makes his way through the one way system to the restaurant.

  He pulls up outside an innocuous looking building on a narrow street just over five minutes later. “Dov’e il ristorante,” I ask him.

  “L’aggiu,” he answers pointing.

  I reply with “Grazie tanto,” and we step out of the car and make our way inside.

  Ayden takes my arm and leans in to me. “You speak French and Italian?”

  “Only when I have to,” is my reply. “That’s what becomes of having too much time on your hands and keeping your head down for six years: you attend lots of night school classes. You should see my flower arranging.”

  He offers me a down-turned smile, a solitary nod and I assume that means he’s impressed, but who knows?

  When we enter I scrutinize Ayden’s face, knowing the venue is a little rustic for his taste but, when in Rome ...

  We receive a warm welcome and are quickly seated in a private booth. Two minutes in and it’s a feast for the senses: wine bottles are arranged along the walls and inside cabinets, they’re everywhere. Crimson red table cloths drape intimate tables covered with pungent food and contented diners. It all looks very civilised, but it’s not the Ritz.

  The menu is in English, thank God. My night school Italian will only get me so far. Even before Ayden utters a word I know he’ll be trouble. Why is it he never orders straight off a menu? The waiter arrives, pad and pencil in hand. I should have suggested he sharpen it first. He’ll be taking copious notes.

  With little fuss, I order the beef fillet carpaccio, followed by sea bass with honey and mushrooms. Then, it’s Ayden’s turn; he opts for the house speciality and the title of the dish should be a clue as to its quality, but no. He wants the pan fried pumpkin flowers with asparagus and black truffle without the asparagus, but he will have any other green vegetable. Then it’s the Fillet of Tuscany beef and fondue cheese served with Italian salad and toasted pine nuts. It sounds delicious, but no, the cheese must be low fat, the beef well done on the outside, very pink in the middle and he doesn’t want the pine nuts. Five minutes later with the order placed, he starts to peruse the wine list.