She sits across from me and tucks here supermodel legs underneath her body in a kind of yoga
move that makes me suspect she’s double jointed on top of everything else.
“Why are you here?”
“I’d like to sort out a couple of things if that’s alright with you?” I’m getting into my stride.
There’s no stopping me now.
“Perfectly.”
Here she sits like a princess on her throne, so fucking perfect; even her voice is cultured and
refined. I hate her with a vengeance. Her glossy auburn hair is tied back into a loose pony tail; the
flyaway strands any other woman would sweep away, she has left hanging, giving off a kind of
untamed look that adds to her attractiveness. She’s only wearing a simple skirt and camisole top in
olive green to match her eyes and it’s tight enough to show her ample breasts, allowing them to press
up against the material provocatively. I daren’t even contemplate the lengths to which she must have
gone to seduce Ayden; he didn’t stand a chance.
“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Ask away.” She places her hands on her lap, totally unruffled and comfortable in her own skin.
I draw first blood. “Are you in love with Ayden?”
“Yes. Next question.”
What? I’m taken aback. “You are?”
“Yes, aren’t you?”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
Wait a minute. I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions.
“Well then.”
She’s smiling so sweetly, I honestly think I may have to hit her over the head with a blunt
instrument before I leave. Just to satisfy my need to knock that smug smile off her face.
“If you love him then why did you end the relationship in November?” I’ve had enough of her
games.
She looks crestfallen. “I had no choice.”
“What do you mean – no choice?”
Words do not come easy to her. “I ... I was not in a position to give him what he needed.”
“And what was that?”
I do believe she is finding these questions unsettling. She’s smoothing out the strands of hair that
have escaped the hair band and thinking very carefully about her words.
“I’m afraid I cannot tell you. This is something you will have to discover for yourself, Elizabeth.”
She uses my full name, a name only Ayden uses. It has connotations of intimacy and I hate the way
those four syllables leave her mouth. “You don’t know me?”
She sniggers and I want to slap her. “Oh, I think I do. You would be surprised what Ayden has told
me about you ...”
I hate myself for going along with this but she has me on the back foot. “Like what?”
Let’s hear it …
“Um … there’s your love of music.”
I shrug my shoulders, unimpressed.
“Your fear of flying.”
I dismiss that with a smug laugh. She’s guessing.
“And your willingness to be tied up and fucked by him.”
I manage to conceal my horror, even though I’m beginning to feel physically sick. Has Ayden
actually discussed what we get up to in the bedroom with her?
I won’t believe it. I can’t …
“I think you have a very active imagination, Alenka.” I shake my head from right to left, dispelling
the possibility of her actually knowing anything.
She smiles broadly, maybe thinking about something; a memory of Ayden and her together. I try to
banish that thought; allowing myself to fall into her trap will only cause me further distress.
“Unfortunately, I was not imaginative enough. If I had been, then maybe I would be the one
wearing that ring instead of you.”
“But you’re not and if you continue to stalk Ayden, if I catch sight of you again, I will have a
restraining order served against you.”
She looks genuinely mystified. “I have no idea what you are referring to. I’m not a stalker. I have
never been and do not intend to be. Take a look at me. Do you think with this body, I have a shortage
of admirers?”
Her eyes lock onto mine. I think she is quite insulted by my accusation.
Good.
“Then why were you in Rome on Friday? Are you going to tell me you happened to be in the same
place at the same time as Ayden and myself? Please...” I return the stare and confidently await her
reply
“I can’t explain. I would like to but I cannot.”
Her eyes edge away from mine and settle on the window, facing the light. I see her elegant features
for what they are: breath-stealing. Even without make-up she’s stunning. No wonder Ayden was drawn
to her. But, the fact remains. She cannot look me in the eye. What isn’t she telling me?
“Look Alenka, if you love Ayden as you say you do, then let him get on with his life. I can make
him happy. Don’t you want him to be happy?”
“I do and I would do anything for him, for his happiness.” There is definitely something she’s not
telling me.
“What have you done?” I may not get the answer I want to hear, but I have to ask the question.
She hesitates, before beginning her disclosure. “I will tell you, but promise me you will never tell
Ayden ...”
A simple nod is all it takes.
“As a special favour Ayden asked me to take the jet from Heathrow to Paris to pick up a ring from
Cartier; to fly from there to Rome and to be at the Spanish Steps at 2.15p.m.” She pauses and smiles
sardonically, noticing my astonishment.
This is definitely not the answer I was expecting.
“I saw you together, you were embracing. I saw the way he looked at you and I knew: he loves you.
So, as planned, when he was holding you close I came behind you and passed him the box with the
ring he had made for you. That’s why I was in Rome at that place at that time.”
I open my mouth to speak but no words come out other than, “Well ... thank you. That must have
been difficult for you?” I offer a sympathetic smile but she will have none of it. She’s too proud to
accept consolatory gestures from me.
“It was not easy but when someone you love asks you to do something for them, you cannot refuse.
This you will find this out for yourself, I think.”
At that moment it becomes apparent. For all her supermodel perfection, she’s just a 27 year old
woman like me who is in love with a wonderful man. The difference is she knows she can never have
him. That must be a crippling pain to ensure.
“Sometimes, devotion is painful and the love of someone like Ayden comes at a price.”
She faces me head on. I see a hazy mist overshadowing the diopside coloured flecks in her eyes.
She is near to shedding a tear.
“The last time we met I was quite rude I think and I apologise for that, but I tried to warn you. That
night, when I saw you leaving without him I thought you’d be able to stand up to him. Was I wrong?”
I cannot escape her stormy eyes. “No, you weren’t wrong.” I have no intentions of saying any more
and she knows it.
In the next room a phone rings. “Please excuse me. I have to take this call. Please feel free to look
around.”
I watch her glide into another room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a lawless impulse to
rifle through her things. Instead I tiptoe into the next room.
Along the far wall are rows of framed photographs of her
: she’s a vision of physical perfection,
elegance and beauty. What strikes me is her ability to transform into a different person thanks to
lights, costumes and skilled air brushing: she’s a changeling. No wonder Ayden had her by his side for
six months. What an unforgettable impression she must have made on his business associates and
friends.
I catch my own reflection in the glass, stand back and superimpose my body onto hers. There is no
comparison. I cannot fill the space with my slender frame and my blue eyes merely twinkle like stars,
swallowed up in a cloudy sky. I cannot compete with her. I feel my insecurities clinging to my T-shirt,
seeping through to my heart. What the hell does Ayden see in me?
Quickly, I step to my right in an attempt to leave the self-doubt behind and saunter into a side
room. Again it’s a shrine to Princess Alenka, only some of these photographs are not the kind you
would want to put on public display. The primary colours, the African prints and the monochrome has
been replaced by stark images of bondage and supplication. Alenka is either clad in what looks like a
leather bikini or naked. I suppose they are what could be called ‘artistic.’ I’m not sure what to think
but, before I can make my escape and return to the respectable covers of Vogue and Marie Clare,
Alenka appears behind me.
“For most of my photographs it’s my vanity that forces me to have them framed and displayed like
this. I was, what do you say, the ugly duckling in my family. I had intelligence but was always too tall
and too skinny to be considered attractive.”
I turn around and give her a disbelieving stare. Where have I heard that story before?
“You don’t believe me but it is true. I have most of them in this house to remind me that I am, in
fact, a swan.”
She tilts her chin up and strikes a graceful pose. I don’t know her well enough to be able to deduce
whether she is joking or exhibiting one of the most assured displays of arrogance I have ever seen.
“Well, no-one would ever doubt that Alenka.”
“But these photographs are here for a very different reason.” She stares up at them longingly, the
glow from the picture lights highlighting her features. “You cannot see it, but there is love here.”
I take a closer look. One depicts her on her knees, blindfolded and bound to the end of a bed with a
leather rope of some kind; head bent in a submissive pose, naked and exposed.
To the right of it is a photo of her holding a striking pose. Again blindfolded and standing, stretched
out. Her arms and legs are bound to a wooden structure and there she stands, in the shape of a human
cross; her legs go on for miles, her breasts are fighting to get out of a leather bikini.
Wow!
The third is the most outrageously erotic of the three. She is stretched out and handcuffed to the
four corners of the bed, blindfolded and totally naked, but there’s a serenity to her face that shocks
me.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I confess. “They’re very erotic and you look at peace in them,
not scared or as if you’re being tortured.” I turn to face her and shrug. What the hell do I know?
“Do they scare you?” She asks with such gentleness I feel the need to give her an honest answer.
“No. Scare is the wrong word. They’re provocative, intimate and very artistic.”
I hear a deep sigh. “They’re my favourite pictures in the house. That’s why they are in here and not
out there.” She tips her head in the direction of the lounge.
“They’re amazing photographs Alenka.” I turn to leave.
“Yes they are. Ayden took them.”
Three words. That’s all it takes to stop me from taking another step, another breath. My gasp must
have been audible as it causes her to take my arm.
I nail her to the spot with a seething stare. “Alenka, will you stop at nothing to get him back?” I
shrug off her arm and shake my head. This time she has gone too far.
“No. This is the truth,” she implores, with eyes resembling those of a frightened child. “They are all
I have of him, and you are the only person I can share them with. Look at the letters in the bottom. He
always signs his photos when he presents them as a gift.”
“What!”
My brain will not process the information. I’m trembling and sick with an agonising pain that sears
into my chest, making me queasy. She reaches out and softly takes my left hand. I move in slow
motion, fearing my legs will not carry me over to the other photographs. I stare at each one in turn.
They look even more erotic than the others. I see the AS in the bottom right hand corner. Goosebumps
speckle my arms, leaving me with icy, fevered skin.
Dear God. She’s telling the truth!
“There is one for every month, see ...” I turn to my right and there they are: three more photos,
equally as sexual and even more provocative. In one she is bound, blindfolded and gagged. I hold my
hand to my mouth, remembering Ayden’s fixation with silencing me; his words, ‘tonight I’m going to
take away your power of speech’ and me silencing myself, willingly without the need for a gag.
The penultimate photo is less disturbing, I turn to assess Alenka’s reaction. Whilst I’m coming
apart at the seams, she’s smiling, her eyes glossy with private tears. There is no vengeance there, only
a desperate need to confide in someone who understands exactly what she is feeling: undeniable love
for my Ayden.
The photograph depicts a scene of total obedience. Alenka is wearing a black leather collar and a
black bikini which accentuates her curves; she is hanging from the bed frame by leather bondage cuffs
and her ankles are attached to what looks like a bar of about four feet in width. She is looking
adoringly into the camera and happy to exhibit herself, craving attention. My insides hurt and my
heart rate is increasing. What’s happening to me?
Before I can leave, I know I have to view the final photograph. From Alenka’s expression she has a
lot of affection for it. I force down a swallow that sticks in my throat like phlegm.
“Are these photographs in order? Is this the last one?”
She nods.
“This means a lot to you?”
“It means everything to me.” She glances up at it wistfully. “This was the last time Ayden laid his
hands on me.”
I’m beginning to feel for her. I know what it’s like to be apart from him; to relive those intimate
moments. How can she endure this suffering with these images as constant reminders?
“Look Alenka, I know you want me to believe Ayden took these photographs of you but A.S. could
be anyone.”
I rest my eyes on the image inside the final frame. My blood is boiling in my veins, entering my
heart then coursing through my body like lava. It’s a long shot from further away, capturing Alenka
lying flat on the bed in all her naked glory; across her eyes is a soft blindfold, her wrists are tied to the
top of the bedframe by a piece of cord, similar to the one having left its mark on my wrists ... a
whimper leaves my mouth.
Holding onto the bed post nearest to the camera is a man’s hand. It’s a strong, powerful hand with
oval shaped nails that are filed short, perfect for probing and exploring. On the middle finger rests a
band of broad platinum that is never removed. I recognise tha
t hand and forget to breathe. Only when I
feel Alenka’s hand on my shoulder am I roused into some kind of realisation. That realisation has me
gasping for air.
“Now you know you must take care. Things are not always what they seem Elizabeth.”
No shit!
I turn slowly until we are face to face; she is barefoot and I’m standing in heels and still she has a
couple of inches on me, but it doesn’t matter. We are no longer combatants but kindred spirits. I can
empathise with her suffering. While she mourns the loss of a lover, I mourn the loss of innocence. I
reach out to shake her hand and she looks down, maybe cloaking tears beneath long eyelashes but, as
my sleeve lifts she catches sight of the pale pink ring around the wrist of my right hand. She lifts up
my left and up-turns my palms, stroking the narrow pink bands gently with her thumbs.
“He has left his mark on you,” she states, forcing me to pull away.
She says no more. Her knowing look is enough. I feel ashamed, not by the temporary scars but by
my own naivety. Her hand slips something into mine. It’s one of her business cards off the table.
“You need not concern yourself. Ayden is a secret I intend to keep in my heart and in this room, but
there is one other who will not allow you to exist in his secret world.” She pauses to scrutinize every
inch of my face.
“I saw how he followed your every move at the book launch, as if he could not bear to be parted
from you. I watched you subdue him with your words, how attentive he was, holding your hand even
though there was not a photographer within range.”
Her eyes don’t leave mine.
“I was there when he took you in his arms at the foot of the Spanish Steps, with a single thought on
his mind: to propose to you.”
I follow her out of the side room and watch her lock the door behind us.
“Don’t judge him too harshly, Elizabeth. Underneath that heart of stone, there is a beautiful boy
waiting to be rescued. But … you know that already, I think.”
“I do.” What else can I say?
We consider the significance of her words and present matching smiles; smiles that reflect a shared
understanding. In a very European gesture of thanks, I kiss her on both cheeks. “Thank you Alenka. I
have a feeling you and I may be seeing a lot more of each other.”
TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) Page 5