TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy)

by Jamesson, Sydney

“Your bag? What do you need that for? We’ll only be gone a couple of hours.” He’s pressing

  something and opening the car door for me to climb inside.

  “I’m going back to my apartment later and I’ll need my toiletries and make-up and straighteners,

  you know … to get ready for Charlie’s party?”

  Maybe I should have mentioned this earlier?

  “No I don’t know. What do you have to go back there for? Aren’t you comfortable here?”

  “Of course I’m comfortable here but I haven’t been back to my apartment for three days and I’ll

  have mail and food rotting in the fridge. That kind of thing.”

  “I can have Lester pick up your mail for you and dispose of the contents of your fridge if that’s

  what’s bothering you.” Why is he standing there looking down at me like I’m a disobedient child?

  “Do we have to talk about it now?” I reach for my seatbelt, hoping this small gesture will end the

  conversation. Thankfully, it does and he slams the door and walks around the car.

  He squeezes into the low level bucket seat but before starting up, turns to me. “After what’s

  happened I want to keep you safe. So, listen to me. This is what’s going to happen. We’ll spend the

  day together and you can play the inquisitor and come to your own conclusions about me. Then I’ll

  take you to your apartment, check it out, show you how to use that fucking alarm and after that, I’ll

  leave you to get ready for Charlie’s party. Then Lester will pick you up, take you there, door to door.

  You can call him when you’re ready to leave and he’ll collect you and bring you here. How does that

  sound?” He’s totally serious.

  “Like a military operation.” I take a deep breath. “I know why you’re doing this and I appreciate it,

  but please don’t worry about me.” I squeeze his hand and place it on the gear stick. “Now, are you

  going to show me what this little box of tricks can do?”

  Gleefully, he raises his brows. “If you insist.” The garage door opens and the engine roars into life

  like a caged animal seeing sunlight for the first time; rampant and hungry for the taste of tarmac.

  “Wow! I feel like I’m sitting on a moving vibrator, it’s humming,” I say innocently.

  He begins to laugh softly. “As usual, you’re the mistress of the understatement.” Before

  accelerating, he flashes me a fun-loving smile that lights up his face; his eyes are reflective in the

  afternoon sunlight. He’s so happy and knowing that makes me happy too. “Ready to see what this baby

  can do?”

  “Only if you promise to be as adept with this as you are with the other vibrators you’ve

  manhandled.” I smile sweetly.

  “Can’t guarantee that baby, but I’ll see what I can do.” With complete self-assurance, he pulls out

  slowly into the road and joins the traffic. I settle into my seat, feeling more like a woman on a mission

  to Mars in my high-tech, cockpit style seat than a girl on her way to meet her boyfriend’s parents or,

  should I say, adoptive parents?

  The 65 mile journey from Belgravia to Brighton is made all the more pleasurable because of the

  music. We have the soundtrack to our love affair on random selection and each song resonates with a

  romantic reminder of how far we have come. They’re all there; from the sadness of our post book

  launch break-up and the heartfelt songs that told of unspoken love, to the late-night lullabies keeping

  our love alive and closing the miles between us with their promises. The sexy scenes in Rome are

  evoked by the music and I wonder how Ayden is managing to keep his hands on the wheel and his eyes

  on the road.

  “My spider song.” I place my hand over his on the gear stick and he folds his thumb over my little

  finger, letting me know he has the same recollection without the need for words. I shift our focus to

  the here and now. Paul McCartney’s Blackbird takes flight as the road opens up and we leave the

  urban landscape behind.

  He asked me earlier what I’d been doing all morning and I had forgotten to mention a surprising

  encounter. “Guess who I met this morning?”

  Using the button on the steering wheel he silences the music. He’s become very attentive. “Who?”

  “Bernice.”

  “Ah. Did she come to clean?”

  “Clean. Clean what?”

  “The lounge, the kitchen … whatever it is that needs cleaning.”

  “I didn’t know she took care of your house.” And there I was thinking I had news. “No. I went for a

  swim and she came out of the steam room wearing a towel. I didn’t know what to think.”

  I do believe his mouth is twitching. “That must have been quite a surprise for you?”

  “It was. I was skinny dipping!”

  For an instance, he takes his eyes off the road. “Why?”

  “I didn’t have a bikini and I assumed I would be on my own down there. So why not?”

  He’s driving and smirking at the same time.

  “Thank God I was in the pool at the time and she had the decency to be wearing a towel. But you

  could have told me that she might be there.”

  “It never crossed my mind. I’ve had more important things to think about than what Lester’s

  daughter gets up to in her free time.”

  “Well, she turned around and I put on my bathrobe and we sat and chatted for a while in the sauna.”

  I play with my engagement ring. “When did she have her accident?”

  It wasn’t until we had been talking for a couple of minutes that I noticed the terrible scar on the left

  side of her face; it stretched from her eye to her mouth. From its colour it didn’t appear to be recent

  and she probably wasn’t in any physical pain, but the emotional scarring must have been unbearable.

  “It happened about eight years ago. She was in a car accident, her mother was killed and she was in

  a bad way. Some drunk driver took them out on the M25.”

  I hold my hand to my mouth. “That’s horrific.”

  “It was. By all accounts her mother was a real do-gooder; she worked with a close-friend of mine

  and, after this happened, Lester was recalled from Iraq. The poor bastard came home to a dead wife

  and a fourteen year old daughter he couldn’t recognise.”

  “What a terrible thing for anyone to have to go through.” I turn to him for more information. “And

  how did you get involved?”

  “I offered him a job and accommodation where they could live comfortably together. He took it

  badly and needed something quick to take his mind off what had happened. He was a member of

  Special Forces, so it’s worked out well for us both.” He checks the mirror, signals and pulls out into

  the outside lane before rocketing off at what feels like the speed of sound.

  I lurch back into my seat. “Hold on there, Captain Kirk. What warp factor is this?”

  “Only warp factor 2. I’d be arrested for speeding if I really put my foot down. This little baby can

  reach speeds of up to 170. We’re only cruising.”

  “Well, I’m happy to cruise, thank you very much. If I decide to go low flying I’ll charter your jet.”

  He’s grinning and shaking his head. “You can let go of the door handle now. This is our exit.”

  I do, noticing the sign for Hove. I’m about to turn up the music but hesitate. “Do you think Sylvia

  and …”

  “ … Patrick,” he interjects, with his ‘father’s’ name.

  “Do you think they will be expecting me to be, you
know … taller?” I mean more model like but

  taller will do.

  Why is he looking at me that way? As if I’ve grown another head. “Taller? Why would you think

  that? You’re perfect.” He gives my knee a gentle squeeze.

  “Haven’t all your other girlfriends been taller?” I enquire casually.

  “Ah. I get it. You think they’ll expect me to bring home a six foot, Amazonian beauty straight off

  the catwalk. Is that it?”

  “Not quite,” I huff, feeling mildly offended.

  “No. They won’t be expecting someone taller. Anyway, I’ve told them about you and your reduced

  height and they said they’d try to overlook it in view of the fact I love you more than life itself.”

  “Oh.” I grin, admiring his strong profile. “That’s alright then.” I feel a wave of self-confidence

  coming over me.

  More than life itself … I can live with that.

  I must have dozed. Ayden calling my name wakes me from my sleep induced daze.

  “We’re here Beth.” He takes a tight left turn and pulls up outside a large, detached house with

  leaded windows and a small drive, surrounded by lots of leafless trees and a single conifer in the

  center. It’s large but not ostentatious, leaving me under no illusions that this is not an ivory tower, it’s

  a family home.

  He climbs out first and comes to my side to drag me out; it’s one of the most unladylike exits I

  have ever made but these bucket seats are low and my dress is a little short. I stretch out a leg and my

  high heel scrapes along the pebbled drive. Ayden whistles and I pull down my dress.

  “You bastard. You knew I’d struggle in a short dress in a car like this, didn’t you?” I clamber out

  with him holding onto my hands.

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” He grins and kisses my fingertip, one hand after another.

  “Liar. I’m just grateful your parents aren’t here to see this bloody pantomime.” I peek around his

  shoulder and there I see a smiling woman, probably wondering who the hell this uncoordinated misfit

  is her son loves more than life itself …

  Only one word comes to mind. “Shit!”

  “Be that as it may, we’re going inside. Take my hand, you look beautiful.” He places a soft, whisper

  like kiss on my cheek. “A little short, but beautiful nevertheless.”

  I hear them approaching and I try to dilute a much too sensual smile. “I’ll get you back for this.”

  The door opens, “Oh! I do hope so …”

  How right Ayden is; Sylvia is not as I would have imagined her to be. She’s in her mid-fifties with

  that kind of post-menopausal figure that is hard to get to grips with. He auburn hair is tied back in a

  black bobble that clearly is intended to match her knee length skirt and her colourfully patterned

  blouse. What strikes me about her is her warm welcome and her soft hazel eyes; eyes that, I suspect,

  have shed a thousand tears over my maddening escort.

  “Sylvia, this is Beth. Beth, this is Sylvia.” He leans into her and kisses her on the cheek as you

  would a casual acquaintance and, even though there isn’t a discernible look of disappointment in her

  eyes. I sense it’s there.

  “Hello Beth, come inside. We’ve heard so much about you.” I feel her arms around me and,

  instinctively, I hug her back, feeling the lovable roll of flesh around her middle.

  “I wish I could say the same Sylvia, but you know what he’s like. You have to get the thumbscrews

  out just to find out what he ate for lunch.”

  She throws back her head and laughs out loud. “I hope you’re listening to this Ayden. This young

  lady knows you so well.”

  He pulls me to him and kisses my hair. “She likes to think so.”

  We make our way into the enormous kitchen; it’s in a kind of coffee cream colour and it goes on

  and on. As we enter, there’s an oversized breakfast bar and at the far end, floor to ceiling patio doors

  through which we can see a well-tended garden with two greenhouses and a birdbath. Inside one of the

  greenhouses is a man. I assume it’s Patrick.

  “Come and take a seat Beth while I put the kettle on. It’s so nice to meet you at last. Ayden never

  tells us about any of his lady friends …”

  I hear Ayden huffing behind me and I turn to him, and give a look that says, ‘Be good.’ He merely

  shrugs his shoulders and heads off towards the garden.

  “I have to check the newspapers to find out who he’s dating. So you … well, you’re a lovely

  surprise.”

  “Thank you, I’m pleased to be here too.” I look around the open space. “You have a lovely home,

  Sylvia. How long have you lived here?”

  “Twelve years. Ayden bought the house for us once his company got off the ground. We didn’t ask

  him to, of course, but, well … you know. He does what he wants. And he wanted to buy us a house.”

  “Well, it’s beautiful and in such a pretty location too.”

  “Yes, isn’t it? We were quite happy to have something smaller but, no, he said go ahead, chose

  what you want, don’t look at the price tag. So we chose this.” She glances around, still caught up in the

  splendour of it all. “Now, how do you take your tea?”

  “Milk, no sugar please.” She passes me the cup and saucer and I know she’s forgone the mugs,

  making the occasion seem all the more special. I feel very privileged to be sipping tea out of one of

  her best china tea cups.

  Having heard enough, Ayden pulls the patio door back and calls out, “I’m going outside to see what

  Patrick’s up to. I’ll leave you two ladies alone to talk about me.” He disappears out of view and out of

  earshot.

  Sylvia leans across the counter conspiratorially. “Has he told you that he’s adopted?”

  I nod, wide eyed and unsure of what’s coming next.

  “Would you like to see his things?” I nod again, not daring to speak and break our collusion. “You

  can bring your tea with you if you want, he’ll be ages out there.”

  After throwing down a couple of gulps, I trail behind her across the solid oak hallway and up the

  staircase, every other stair creaking and giving away our whereabouts. What can be so compelling that

  she’s this eager to show it to me? What has Ayden said to her?

  We enter a good sized bedroom that’s light and airy, with a red bed settee set against a wall, with a

  print of poppies hung above it. Opposite, there’s an over-sized wardrobe with pine sliding doors and

  on the other wall, a large desk and a chair with a couple of books stacked on it: a dictionary, thesaurus,

  a couple of hard backed media reference books and a stapler; a clueless arrangements of random

  items.

  “It’s a good sized room.” I offer a friendly smile. “I’m wondering Sylvia, has Ayden said anything

  to you about me coming here today?”

  Her eyes flicker and she looks nervously from left to right, before looking at me. “Why, Beth, he

  said to tell you everything and to show you his things.”

  “Oh.” I’m not prepared for that and sit myself down on the narrow settee, crossing my feet at the

  ankles, counting the seconds. “Shall we take a look?”

  She slides back the wardrobe doors and, in the deep recess behind are rows and rows of books,

  manuals and folders. It’s like a secret office has been concealed behind a layer of paint and pine.

  Knowing exactly what she’s looking for, she takes out a large box and
places it on the floor in front of

  me. I stand, readying myself for what’s inside but, before removing the lid, she takes a step back and

  faces me, preparing to preface her session of show and tell with some contextual details.

  She sits herself down and I mirror her thoughtful stance. “He was such an angry boy. He made it so

  difficult for people to love him but we’ve never stopped trying. Even now.” She pauses to take a

  handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt. “His old room was not as big as this and he would spend days

  in it, not playing on computer games like other twelve year olds but reading and making notes. I’d ask

  him, ‘What are you reading?’ and he’d say ‘Stuff for school.’ But I knew it wasn’t true.

  At night sometimes, I’d creep in and check his school bag and there would be plays and novels and

  poetry. It was like he was making up for lost time, thirsty for knowledge. And here you are …” She

  takes my hand between hers and pats it softly. “An English teacher, a kindred spirit.”

  Leaving my hand where it is, I smile weakly. “I suspected as much. He likes to pretend to be living

  on his wits but he’s very well read.”

  “No-one knows. And that’s the way he wants it. All through his life, people have under-estimated

  him, at their peril.”

  I’m nodding. “He has so many qualities. I can’t begin to count them.

  “This is true.”

  I chuckle and Sylvia gazes at me curiously. I have to explain. “He says that. He must have got the

  phrase from you.”

  She sniggers, to camouflage the hurt. “It must be the only thing. He wants for nothing from me or

  anyone else for that matter. There was a time when that thought kept me awake at night; we all want to

  be needed, especially by our children.”

  I return her kind gesture and overlap her hands with mine. “I’m sure he needs you in his way.

  Maybe not as much now but there was a time when he needed you more than you know.”

  She pats away an emotional tear. “Yes, you’re right Beth. There was a time but even then he would

  not accept sympathy or charity, everything had to be earned and deserved. Even that ring he wears was

  a reward for something or other. He said he would not take it off until he had found the woman he was

  going to marry. What a strange boy.”