by Hayley White
Beyond The Black Curtain
by Hayley White
ISBN: 978-1-938897-75-7
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2014, All rights reserved
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.
For information contact:
Pink Flamingo Publications
www.pinkflamingo.com
P.O. Box 632 Richland, MI 49083
USA
Dedication
For he who escorted the dreamer
to the dream.
Chapter One
He might have been shocked if someone had pointed out that he was stalking the woman, but it was probably the truth. He stopped a short distance away when she paused at another counter to inspect an item displayed there.
He’d actually been watching her for some time as she prowled from table to table, display to display, looking at everything with simple, unabashed interest. Touching, her fingers sometimes lingering with thoughtless magnetism over a particularly attractive piece of craftsmanship. She touched cruder items as well, if more tentatively.
He’d noticed her because, like himself, she was different to every other individual at the exhibition, meandering solo through the leather and latex clad crowd, visible yet unseen in her long black woolen coat. Her brown hair was undyed, un-sprayed, un-set, and styled only in that it was brushed, the short layers falling into natural shapes around her head.
From that point, beginning with her upturned coat collar, the ensemble descended into pure black – trouser cuffs, socks, flat, black jazz oxfords. And, emerging from all this black, delicate white hands, extending from slender, fragile wrists. These hands, so quietly graceful, handling this rough, cruel intentioned equipment with surprising strength and assurance.
Now she was distracted by a small, simple item, not the first of its kind she had looked over, sort of frozen there, lost in some thought. She’d done the full circuit. This was the last counter. She could only make another circuit or leave. He wondered which she would do. She’d appraised everything and yet she had purchased nothing.
She was attractive and mysterious in the coat, although not in a way that would be described as glamorous. The tailored lines of the coat were strong and persuasive, lending her stature and authority, but he perceived a certain delicacy in her movements and in the items she chose to handle. A betrayal of the fawn inside the panther’s skin.
He found himself standing beside her, completely unwilling to let her leave without at least some word or indication of who or what she was.
“Some of these displays are a little bizarre,” he remarked.
She glanced up briefly, no doubt to make sure he wasn’t some freak or, perhaps, to be sure she wasn’t being taken for one. “Yes,” she said. She may have registered a mild surprise at his appearance, but it was difficult to tell since she looked immediately away again, back at the thing that had held her interest before he broke into her privacy.
“That’s beautiful craftsmanship,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed, straightening up and glancing around. “Some of the work here shows real class.”
Her face was fully visible now and across its regular planes he read intelligence and frankness. He was even more intrigued to see it was not the face of a woman just developing into adulthood but that of a woman of maturity. Someone close to his age.
It was quite likely she was married, although he’d noticed no rings on her hands. He saw, also, that she was not entirely clad in black. The gap in the open coat revealed a white tailored blouse, complete with pin tucks and lace, the collar of which stood up around her neck. It was buttoned right up to the top in classic Edwardian style. Her face was made up, although very lightly.
Yes. Attractive in a natural, uncluttered way, a stark contrast to the women he was used to, but she was quality. She spoke well in a dialect that defied categorization. Her eyes, although unremarkable in coloring, were clear and direct and, when they finally refocused on him, he felt a sudden heat.
“They’re the best craftsmen in the area,” he said.
“That’s apparent by the pricing,” she said and smiled, a reserved yet satiric smile.
He smiled back. “Did you come a long way to the exhibition?”
“I was in town for the evening,” she replied. “I just happened by.” She shrugged, her hands now sunk into the pockets of her coat.
“Those would look good on you,” he said softly, his eyes audaciously reading hers for a reaction.
She broke off with a swift, cursory glance at the brown leather manacles she’d been studying so intently.” That’s probably so. Well...” she murmured without really looking up and he knew she was about to leave.
“Please,” he said, almost fumbling into the pocket of his jacket. “My card...”
“I don’t think…”
“Please,” he said, proffering it.
She extracted one pale hand from her coat pocket to accept the card. Looked at it briefly. An understated, white linen card introducing ‘J. Stroud’ with a single phone number claiming to be neither business nor residence.
“Well, J. Stroud, nice meeting you—”
“A fair exchange?” he begged with his most charming smile.
“I don’t have a card,” she said flatly.
“But you have a name,” he persisted.
She glanced up once more with those questioning eyes, as if to find the evidence on which to base a decision.
“Ever,” she said softly.
“Beautiful name.”
“Thank you,” she said, tucking her hand and the card away in her pocket. There was a radiating flush of color in her cheeks.
“Call me,” he said.
“I don’t know—”
“We’ll have dinner.”
“Oh, well, I—”
“You eat dinner with a man occasionally, don’t you?”
Her blush deepened.
“Call,” he reaffirmed. “Please.”
She made a half nod and stepped off and, as she walked away, he was already convinced he would never see her again.
***
That evening Ever dined with friends who lived in town. A writer and his wife. There were other people there. Old friends. Comfortable connections. People who enjoyed moderate success in fields looked upon by outsiders as glamorous.
Ever could not afford to come to the city often and it was largely an unknown quantity to her. The territory of the rich, the famous and the desperate. A city she may have dreamed of conquering when she was young and starry eyed but, although she still cherished a small desire for success in a creative field, this particular city had long since lost its luster and allure for her.
Her ambition had withered into a silent dream pursued with inconsistent determination in the privacy of her own mind and the one bedroom ground floor apartment that had become her solitary haven. Spending even limited time in this circle of people gave her a sense of hope and affirmation but it also increased her sense of alienation. They were stimulating and fun to be around, but she was not one of them.
The evening passed in a flash of defocused images and disconnected conversations. Ever hardly recalled what they ate or a word that was said. Dinner was a blur, but she remembered the exhibition. She remembered every detail about it, especially meeting a certain J. Stroud. A man among leather freaks dressed in a cashmere jacket, looking like he’d just stepped off the estate.
No man like him had ever approached her bef
ore. She certainly didn’t expect to meet a man of his caliber at an exhibition of bondage equipment. But then, she was really no judge of such things. She’d never been to an exhibition of that kind before in her life. Damned near forty and that was her first.
She hadn’t lied. She did happen in by chance. She’d traveled a long way to the city via public transport and made her rendezvous an hour early, sometimes as much an inconvenience as running late. This time it happened lucky. She stepped off the bus into the chilly evening air, looked at the clock, saw the sign for the exhibition and stepped through the black curtained door. That was it.
As she sat in the back seat of the darkened cab on the $40 journey back to her life near but not on the shore, she knew it was not really chance that took her through that door. It was merely a natural instinct she followed without thought. She was alone. She wanted to go. She went.
And now there was this card burning a hole in her pocket. This J. Stroud, who had insinuated his card into her hand, and now her pocket, the only thing in the world of which she was fully aware. That card would be there forever. In her pocket, every morning and every evening. It occupied the space reserved for her bus pass.
What on earth had happened? Did it really happen? The card was physical evidence. Perhaps it was a joke. By one stranger on another? Not likely. So, if he really wanted her, what did he want her for? What had he seen in her? Why had he been there?
These were questions she could take nowhere for help with answers. This was something so personal, so intimate; she could not take it anywhere. It was the kind of thing you could only ask a stranger. Like the driver of this car.
Driver – a man invited me to dinner. Should I go?
Simple question. Obvious answer.
But it wasn’t simple and not obvious at all. Not the sort of thing any ordinary person would take seriously. But Ever was pretty certain it was serious. That was what perplexed her. She was frightened, and yet, although she sat stock still for the entire journey home, inside she felt enlivened. About as excited as she’d ever felt in her life.
Chapter Two
Ever moved the phone to the floor next to the warm glow of the gas heater, as was her habit during winter months, and sat down as though to stay a while. She dialed the number which was by now committed to memory. One ring, two, three, and the machine picked up. The outgoing message was committed to memory, also.
“I’m unable to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I’ll call back...”
That was all. She anticipated the beep, already prepared to set down the receiver, but the beep did not sound. The OGM continued.
“Ever, if it’s you, please don’t hang up. Leave a phone number and we’ll talk...”
The personalized message scared her and she hung up immediately.
***
One week later, out of nothing more than curiosity, she called again to see if the message had been changed or augmented. To see if he’d given up on her. It picked up on the second ring, but it wasn’t the machine.
“Hello?”
Ever hesitated and hung up, her heart lodged somewhere in her throat. His voice was so unexpected after all this time and the comfortable anonymity of the machine. She didn’t actually want to TALK to the man. Did that mean she wanted to talk to a machine? That was absurd...but no more absurd than repeatedly calling to listen to the recorded message. No more absurd than dialing the man’s number and hanging up in his ear simply because he answered.
It was childish behavior and she knew it. Why had she kept dialing his number? She probably really did want to talk to him. Dinner. That was all he’d proposed. There was no one in her life. No reason not to accept a dinner invitation. Well, certainly no reason she couldn’t at least hold a telephone conversation with the man. Hanging up on him was plainly rude. She should stop this nonsense, call back immediately and apologize.
Yes. That’s why she was now on her feet, clear across the room, staring at the phone as though it might somehow sprout legs and pursue her. That’s why she turned her back and went to the kitchen for a suddenly much needed glass of wine. She was sipping from the glass as she returned to the living room in search of her cigarettes, having already made a firm, if unconscious, decision not to call him again.
The phone rang just as she raised the lighter to her cigarette. Her thumb slipped off the lever, suffocating the flame. The phone rang again, as though in defiance of Ever’s accusing stare.
Of course, it was ridiculous to suspect it could be him. He did not have her number. Actually, hardly anyone had her number. She led the most anonymous of lives and phone calls were rare – except from telemarketers. They all had her number, even if they did call her by a name that was no longer really hers. But that was one of the hazards of calling from old lists. She ought to know. After all, she was one of their breed. The phone rang again.
Oh well. The diversion would be perfect just now. The sound of another human voice. She took a moment to light her cigarette before crossing back to the phone, now on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” she said, half hopeful it was someone familiar who had remembered her, and half fearful it was a stranger encroaching on her private existence.
There was a minute pause. “Is this Ever?”
Ever’s heart jumped into her throat again.
“Hello?”
“Yes,” she said in a near whisper.
“This is Stroud.”
“Stroud,” she repeated, knowing yet not quite comprehending.
“You’ve been calling me.”
The ash from her cigarette was getting dangerously long. She glanced around. The ashtray was on the dining table. If she hung up now, she could probably reach it in time.
“Please don’t hang up.”
“I never gave you my number,” Ever said, more to herself than Stroud.
“I have Caller ID,” he said.
Caller ID. She’d heard about that, but it wasn’t a thing that people actually used, was it? Apparently it was. Perhaps she should have her phone disconnected altogether. Or at least find a way to afford an answering machine.
“I hope you’ll forgive the presumption,” he continued, “but this mysterious number has appeared repeatedly. I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t sure. When you called just now and hung up, I decided to take the initiative.”
“I see,” Ever muttered. She had to move now, or clean up the mess later. She wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder and walked the phone over to the dining table.
She missed the ashtray by one inch, depositing a small column of ash on the oak table top. She stared at it in muted distress then realized she’d left her wine glass on the floor by the heater.
“It’s probably better this way,” Stroud was saying as Ever carried the phone, ashtray, lighter and cigarettes back to the wine, wondering if her instincts about the implications of his remark were correct. She sat down on the floor near the warmth of the blue/gold flames, her security blankets around her like a protective wall. She swallowed some wine and cleared her throat.
“Are you there?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
“I wasn’t sure if you’d call,” he admitted.
“Well, you gave me your card.”
“I’m glad you kept it.”
Ever sighed softly. “I confess, I did call before.”
“There were no messages.”
“I didn’t leave any.”
“You’re one of those people who hate message machines,” he guessed.
“No. That’s not it. I just...”
There was a pause.
“You were reluctant to contact me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You’re a complete stranger.”
Stroud chuckled softly. “I’d like to change that.”
Ever didn’t know what to say. Her hand was damp around the receiver.
“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he said.
“Y
es. You mentioned that.”
“Would you like to?”
“I suppose dinner would be alright.”
He laughed again. “Well, I hope we can converse a little, too.”
Ever huffed softly, relaxing slightly. “I know it seems like I’m being a little...”
“Cautious?”
“Yes.”
“What woman in this society cannot afford to be cautious these days?”
“None,” Ever answered.
“I understand. It seems a little abrupt. A strange man accosts you under unusual circumstances.”
“Not so strange,” Ever allowed.
“Well, thank you for that.”
Ever smiled slightly.
“It’s just that sometimes, when an opportunity presents itself, one must simply seize the moment.”
You are so very right, Ever was thinking.
“Are you free Friday night?”
“I think so,” she said, knowing so.
“We can meet for a drink. Then, if we feel like it, we can go somewhere to eat.”
“Alright,” she heard herself say.
“Good. Perhaps you can suggest somewhere convenient for you.”
It would have to be somewhere very convenient. Ever didn’t own a car and she seldom ventured out alone after dark. But somewhere local would mean inviting him into her territory. She had no idea where he lived, but it was safe to assume it was nowhere near her neighborhood. Of course she didn’t have to give him her address if they were going to meet somewhere. But where? What kind of place nearby would be suitable to meet a man like J. Stroud?
She mentioned the name of a place downtown she’d seen but never been to. There was a bar and, as it turned out, a restaurant.
“That sounds fine,” he said.
“Is it too far for you to come?”
“No. Give me the address.”
Ever paged quickly through the phone book for the address and read it to Stroud.
“Seven o’clock?” he suggested.
“Seven thirty,” Ever said.
“Fine. I’ll see you then.”
“Yes,” Ever said, feeling suddenly weak.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Stroud said.
“I realize I don’t know your first name,” Ever said suddenly.