has everything under control. He’s had my things brought over from my apartment, so I’m good.”
On cue, Ayden enters with a glass of white wine for Charlie and a glass of orange for me. “Here you
go, drinks for my two favourite ladies.” I detect the sarcasm and he gives me a playful wink. I try not
to smile too broadly and simply reach for my drink.
“Cheers.” I hold up my glass to Charlie.
“Where’s your wine?” she asks, taking a sip of what looks a like a delicious, thirst-quenching
liquid.
“I can’t have wine. It will make me vomit.”
Charlie gives me a strange look. “Vomit!” With total synchronicity we turn and face Ayden for an
explanation.
He seems as if he’s been caught out. “Yeah, it’s the meds.” He attempts to sidle off the bed but I
reach for his hand.
“Christ! How long will that last?” Once again we turn to Ayden.
“Until … until, she’s better.”
“Bummer! This is really good.” She’s savouring every sip.
I tug on Ayden’s hand. “Yes, Ayden’s quite the connoisseur.” I turn to him, release his hand and
stroke his hair, enjoying the feel of it. “I was just telling Charlie what a wonderful nurse you are.”
He faces me and gives me a ‘don’t you dare’ look but I continue anyway. “He flew back from Hong
Kong to be with me. Right in the middle of a very important meeting …”
He’s quick to interject.” Oh, it wasn’t that important. It was already a done deal when you called.”
He’s lying through his back teeth.
I take time to observe him in all his awkwardness; I’ve made him feel uncomfortable by exposing
his softer side but, this is a side of him I need Charlie to see and to acknowledge. Within these four
walls, he’s been attentive and loving; perfect in every way. Outside, he makes a point of appearing
cold and conceited. Sometimes I barely recognise him but, he’s here now and he deserves some credit
for his thoughtfulness. As Miss. Austen would say, “ There is no charm equal to tenderness of heart. ”
Regardless of everything that’s happened, I feel truly blessed.
“Ayden saved me,” I blurt out, unequivocally. “If he hadn’t told me what to do and Skyped me, this
horrible incident could have ended badly. As it is, I get to spend quality time with the man I love.”
I’m not sure who is more surprised, Charlie or Ayden; she is dumbstruck and takes a large gulp of
wine, having never heard me speak like that about anyone.
In response, Ayden scrambles across the bed, lowers my head and kisses my hair reverently. “I
love you more,” he whispers, without a fuss, unconcerned about Charlie’s presence or if she heard or
not. His words were not for her ears. He knows my motivation for drawing attention to his gallantry
and appreciates the gesture.
He stands. “I’ll leave you two to talk about whatever it is you two talk about.” He blows me a kiss
and nods in Charlie’s direction.
Not wanting to react too favourably to his subtle display of affection, she calls out after him.
“Alenka … we’ll be talking about Alenka.”
I swear I can hear him laughing. I’m pleased he finds Charlie amusing. I actually think they would
get along if they agreed to disagree about my lifestyle choices. Sometimes people who love you can be
so protective.
Charlie’s face cracks into a wide smile. “I don’t know what you see in that guy,” she teases.
“Me neither.” I grin, feeling as if some kind of unwritten agreement has been made about me. Can
the two most important people in my life learn to share me and play nice?
I think they’re about to …
Once the air settles after Charlie’s departure, Ayden returns. “That woman just lights up a room,”
he states sarcastically, pulling off his T-shirt and kicking off his cut-offs. Without another word he
slips into bed at my side. “I hate sharing you.”
Is he serious?
I inch my way around to face him. “You’re not sharing me. What I get from Charlie is different
from what I get from you. She’s my closest friend, my sister and I love her. She’s fun.”
He lifts up his right elbow and rests his chin on his upturned palm. “Are you saying you find me
tedious Miss Parker because, I can assure you, I’m more than prepared to add a little drama to your
life. Only … I think you’ve had quite enough for now.”
I construct a disappointed pout. “You’re no fun. I bet you have no idea what it is to be spontaneous
and dramatic …” I wait for him to wiggle on my hook.
He’s laughing softly. “Nice try. Your reverse psychology is wasted on me Missy. I won’t be
baited.” He rubs my nose with his. “Good effort though.”
I twist my hand from under the duvet and caress his face; even the filtered light of the bedside
lamps does little to conceal his sculptured features. I’m tracing the line of his firm jaw and stroking
his cheekbone, relaxing in the presence of beauty. He closes his eyes and I brush my lips across his
eyelids; these are the eyes that were filled with so much anguish at my suffering. Behind them are
secrets and experiences that can never be unseen, only kissed away.
“You’ve had your share of drama too Ayden. Poor baby.” I hear his breathing easing, he’s drifting
into unconsciousness. “Go to sleep. I’ll watch over you.” And I do, tracing the lines in his brow and
feeling the stubble on his chin, brushing back his hair reverently until his breathing is even and
shallow and the air is leaving his mouth in regular wisps. I could lie here all night simply watching
this man and take more from that than a thousand nights with anyone else. “I love you,” I whisper and,
as if christening my declaration, a single tear rolls across my nose, trickles down my cheek and lands
silently on the pillow.
After having only two and a half hours of tortuous sleep, Dan is driving to work like a man
possessed by pitiless thoughts. Even after two lots of pain relief, he is racked by the kind of pulsating
pain that sucks the colour from your face; he is drained of blood and colour.
At work, he struggles to change into his black trousers, barely managing to pull down the shirt
emblazoned with the Cambridge University badge. He has no inclination to wish her “Good morning.”
There she remains, unwanted and unloved in his locker, concealed beneath an out of date prospectus.
In frustration, he slams the locker door shut and sits down to tie his shoe laces but, realising he has
only one functional hand, he tucks the laces down the side of his boots and pulls his trousers down to
conceal the gap over his instep.
A bright and breezy Ernie appears. “Morning champ.” On seeing Dan’s ghostly visage, he takes a
step back. “What the bloody hell’s happened to you? You look terrible.”
Dan has to think on his feet. “Got jumped by half a dozen fuckers on Saturday night.” He holds up
his left hand and winces. “Cut my hand up pretty bad.”
Ernie is aghast. He sits down and pats Dan on the back. “I hope you got a couple of punches in.”
Dan gets into his stride and forces a smile. “What do you think?”
“I think they probably look worse than you do.” Ernie begins to undress and Dan turns away out of
politeness. “Is your hand broken?”
“No. One of the fuckers sliced it up with a bottle.” Dan ta
kes a close look at the bandages, thankful
he was able to stem the bleeding.
Ernie points Dan in the direction of one handed duties, namely sweeping and cleaning jobs that will
keep him out of sight and out of the mind of his immediate boss, Mr. Crowther.
Making every attempt to suffer in silence, he soldiers on. No-one approaches him as he carries
supplies into the canteen or asks his opinion on Neo-Classical poetry as he uses a hand brush to clean
between the seats in one of the lecture theatres; although the mention of Alexander Pope and his poem
The Rape of the Lock does hold his attention momentarily.
Once his shift ends, he makes his weary way to his car. His feet appear heavier on the gravel,
noisier somehow. His arms feel as if they are dragging him down, causing his back to bow. The pain in
his hand is insufferable.
The 16 miles drive home gives Dan time to reflect on recent events. The Monday afternoon gloom
nips at his confidence, leaving him with an unaccustomed feeling that everything he has done has been
for nothing. When he opens up the front door to his ground floor apartment, he is greeted by open
space and unfamiliar shadows which have settled in the empty corners. Having cleared away piles of
newspapers and magazines, and stripped his cork board of any image of his girl, he feels truly alone.
The rays of sunlight that usually enter his gloomy flat like shards are nowhere to be seen. A kind of
muted monotony has filled the space. He needs to sleep.
Honey, his neglected cat, tiptoes through the cat flap, assessing his mood and approaching him with
caution. She zigzags around his ankles and weaves her spell. For the first time in, he can’t remember
when, he scoops her up with his good hand and holds her to his chest. Feeling the force of his grasp,
her body falls limp and she remains there, still and silent.
“Have you missed me Honey?” he asks, in need of a reassuring response. She makes no sound.
“We’ll have a quiet night in, just the two of us, had enough fucking drama for one day.” Carelessly he
casts her onto the carpet and heads over to the kitchen cupboard. There is no food for him and no food
for her, but the after effects of the painkillers have left him without an appetite and he slams the
cupboard door shut, thinking no more about feeding his stomach.
Using her sense of smell and sight, Honey detects the absence of food and sidles over to the cat
flap; she’ll be eating mice tonight.
Sitting in his easy chair, Dan looks a solitary figure. A single lamp with a low wattage bulb barely
illuminates the area within three feet of him, but that’s alright, he’s in no mood for scheming. Having
had little sleep, he tips back his head onto the cushion and rests his throbbing hand in his other,
making a supporting cradle before closing his eyes.
Usual practice ensues; his attention shifts to ‘Frances,’ but not tonight. Purposely, he turns his
attention from her, refuses to allow his brain to conjure up her image to entice him, to lead him on. All
his mental and muscular might has been drained from his body. It’s only his stubbornness which
makes him continue with his mission; he won’t stay down and he won’t be beat.
When he wakes, it’s as if the night has enveloped him. “What time is it?” he enquires, not
expecting an answer. It feels like three in the morning but, in fact, it’s only 1645hrs. It is not until he
pushes up on the arm of the chair that the recollection of the previous night’s abandoned mission
comes back to him with the stark realisation of his injury. So intense is the pain in his left hand that it
makes him call out and suck in a mouthful of air.
“Fuck! Time for drugs,” he states, throwing out the contents of his rucksack onto the sofa. He grabs
two tablets and strides over to the kitchen which, by now, is in total darkness; he fills a glass with
water and throws them back in one noisy gulp. For more time than necessary, he stays by the sink and
looks out into the yard. There are half a dozen black bin bags; they are full to the brim with food
waste, boxes, cartons, take-away wrappers and photos of young Frances Parker.
“If I had two good hands, I’d bring you back inside but, as you’ve caused me so much fucking
trouble, you can stay out there and freeze. You deserve to be punished princess.” He takes another
long, swig of water, puts down the glass and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now you
know what it feels like to be left out in the cold.”
Still suffering, he returns to the comfort of his chair, stepping over his empty rucksack. He starts to
pile the contents back in and comes across a slip of paper: 07744463211. E. Even half insane with
pain, he still recollects who wrote it: Elise Richards.
He grapples with his trouser pocket and pulls out his phone, then stops to think through his
approach. He wants to seem casual and disinterested; it was obvious she wasn’t interested in him that
way. So why was she hooking up with him?
He thinks back to the last time he saw her in the pub over lunch. CNN news came on, announcing
the engagement of Stone and his girl and they both called out “Fuck!” For a brief instance, he allows
himself to enjoy the memory. It makes him smile. What had she and Stone got up to? Had he double
crossed her or was it something else?
The only way he’d get answers would be to ask her, and to do that he’d have to arrange to meet her,
give her some info, loosen her tongue have her spit it out. He clears his throat and lets the call ring
out. “Elise? Dan, how’s things?”
“Oh, you know, so, so.”
“Look, about what we were talking about the other day, our joint problem. I was wondering if you
fancied getting together to pool our resources, share intelligence? What do you say?”
“I’m not sure. What intelligence do you have?”
What’s this bitch trying to say?
“More than you, I bet.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” she sniggers, harnessing his curiosity.
“You might be surprised …”
“Well, okay. Where do you want to meet?”
“Not in your wine bar, that’s for sure.” His mind goes back to his five badly wounded assailants.
He’s in no mood for a line-up.
“Oh, that was you, was it?”
“Me …?”
“Yes, taking out five unsuspecting customers in one fell swoop? I thought it had you written all
over it.”
“I’m saying nothing.”
“That’s probably best.”
“”What about tonight? I’ll pick you up outside work and drive us out of town.”
“Good idea, under the circumstances.”
“Yeah …”
“Alright, I’ve got to go. See you in an hour, around six?”
“I’ll be there.”
With that, she rings off. No farewell, no goodbye. Dan is left holding the dead phone to his ear.
“You’re a dark horse Miss Richards,” he announces. “We’ll make a hell of a team.”
7
I am woken by the sensation of someone stoking my hair. When I peel back my eyelids, I’m face to
face with male perfection and that image of perfection is scrutinising me: it’s payback time.
“Enjoying the view?” I enquire, stifling a yawn.
“Always.” I feel his hand beneath the duvet, slipping under my chin, sliding under my ear and into
my hair. “Ready for a bath?�
�
That’s not what I was thinking …
“ If that’s all you’re offering,” I mutter, widening my eyes.
“I’m afraid so. It will help you sleep.”
“Last time you said that, you were offering much more than a bath.” I have a recollection of Rome
and broken sleep that he deftly restored with an unforgettable orgasm which had me confessing my
true desire.
“How could I forget?” I watch his mouth twitch at the memory.
He remembers the conversation well and so do I. Ten seconds away from an orgasm and I turn
down all worldly possessions for a baby; after him, that’s all I wanted and still want now, nothing’s
changed. But, I sense a change in him; he seems to have little interest in me. Have I lost my allure and
been tainted by some kind of vulnerability?
I ask the question that scares me the most. “Don’t you want me?”
Instinctively, he pulls my head to his breast and enfolds me in his arms. His grip is nearly too
painful to endure. “Oh, baby. You have no idea.” His breath is hot on my hair. “You’re all I think
about. All I want to do is to make love to you, to make you forget.”
With what little strength I have, I pull back “Then why don’t you?”
“I’m scared I might hurt you. I’ve done that emotionally too many times already and I just …”
I kiss his lips and his words dissolve into a kiss. I’m the one with the bruises but he has his own
scars too, that have come from wrestling with his conscience. He needs time to heal.
He nods and edges off the bed. “I’ll go put some bubbles in it.”
For the first time, I sit on the edge of the bed and try to stand. Through the bandages, I feel pain,
something like having too many stones in your shoes or sandals full of sand. I pacify myself with that
thought and attempt to manage the dizziness and maintain my balance without holding onto
something.
“Whoa! What are you doing?” Ayden rushes over and sweeps me off my feet. “You’ve got to learn
to walk before you can run.”
I look into his concerned face. “I wasn’t running …”
“No, you weren’t walking either.” He has a point.
He settles me down on the bathroom stool and sits cross-legged on the floor; with my feet between
TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) Page 11