Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (30 page)

By 1600hrs, he’s pulling up outside Elm
Gardens, checking the parking area for a black Fiesta, he assumes that’s her
car. He gives himself the ‘all clear’ and makes a run for it: in through the
door, straight up the stairs and into his apartment. A little breathless, he
leans against the front door, his eyes are darting from left to right. He has
his thinking face on. Last night’s events were a setback, that’s for sure, but
he won’t be deterred. He’s ready to take it on the chin and move on.

He strategically places a folding chairs
by the window. Standing, waiting and watching plays havoc with his back. He
learned that seven years ago and ended up having to take painkillers around the
clock but, it was a small price to pay. Some of his best photographs were taken
as a result of dedicated surveillance.

Earlier than he had anticipated, a black
Fiesta parks up at the end of the cul-de-sac and out she steps looking all
business like and lovely. The tripod holds the camera steady and the zoom lens
captures her, unguarded and alone. Dan cannot conceal his joy, he rubs his
hands together with tenacious swipes: there’s no stopping him now. In his
eagerness to get to her, he kicks the lightweight chair away and a half empty
cup of tea spills over the carpet.

“Shit!” He calls out seeing the mocha
coloured stain forming on the plush, fibres. Cursing all the way, he by-passes
the bedroom and heads for the bathroom. He tugs at the toilet roll and wraps
waves and waves of it around his hand.

The paper absorbs the seeping liquid and
quickly turns into a sickly, brown mush. His feeble attempt at clearing up his
mess has flustered him. He had not planned for that and a little detail he
could not have anticipated has become a costly distraction.

He takes a minute to calm down and to
mentally prepare for what he has to do. Once again, he slips on the latex
gloves, he’s done it before and this time he has no trouble sliding in his
fingers. They fit like a second skin. He checks his watch: 1700hrs.

Time to face the music.

With no more than his physical strength
and the element of surprise on his side, he prepares to move onto the next
stage of ‘Operation Snatch Back.’ He slips his keys into his back pocket and
heads out of the apartment, but halts on pulling the door to. There are voices
on the stairs.

“I’m off to see a friend in Canary Wharf.”

“Oh that’s nice. You won’t have met the
new tenant upstairs then?”

Not yet, but you will …

“No, I’ve been busy.”

Busy fighting off that fucking poser Stone
…

“He’s called Daniel, I think.”

“Really? I’m sure we’ll meet at some
point.”

You can count on it princess …

“
Bye Pat.”

“Bye Beth, have fun.”

Beth?

The sound of the security door closing
hits him hard. Quickly, before the lady downstairs gets to her apartment, he
nips inside and pulls his door shut with the softest of clicks. He sprints over
to the window only to witness the Fiesta disappearing out of sight.

Crushing disappointment is etched on his
face. Once again, the gloves are shredded and discarded. He takes his
frustration out on the innocent chair now lying on its back on the sodden
carpet, tearing at the candy striped material until it is no more than a
tattered selection of colourful strips. They dangle from the aluminium frame
like pieces of bunting, seeming to celebrate his failure: mocking him.
Seething, he folds it up and leans it against the wall. Now it’s like a
Hawaiian skirt beneath a square frame. It looks ridiculous, he feels
ridiculous. He’s had enough.

Like a petulant child, he throws the tea
soaked paper into the toilet and storms off home, not relishing the 75 mile
drive back to Ely. Getting her back is proving harder than he thought.

Feeling an overwhelming sense of failure,
he flicks in a cd, hoping the booming sound of heavy rock will improve his
mood. It does. The famous words of one of his movie heroes comes to mind: “I’ll
be back.”

I take the North Circular Road and head
over to Canary Wharf. Charlie’s new apartment is an ultra-modern, million
pound, eighth floor investment which could easily be described as a party pad,
except for the fact she’s not much of a party planner. She prefers to be out
and about and, when she’s not socialising, she’s networking; sometimes she
manages to do both at the same time. She’s everything I’m not. We’re like
opposite sides of the same coin, inseparable. As much as I love her, I couldn’t
live
with
her, and that’s why I plan on leaving no later than 10.30pm.
It will take me an hour to get home and then I intend to spend the rest of my
evening devoting myself to Ayden. I have a plan.

Considering her birthday party will be
taking place in just over a week, Charlie is pretty laid-back about everything.
If it was me, I’d be counting down the days and dusting off wine glasses.

***

After an hour of less than serious
planning, she makes a decision about the theme, it comes as no surprise: it’s Film
Heroes. Charlie is obsessed with film and music, believing she has missed her
calling and should have been a screen siren. Throughout the nine years of our
friendship, there have been times when I might have agreed: she can be a drama
queen.

She is itching to know about my love life,
so I broach the subject and save her the hassle. “Ayden’s in L.A. on business.
He wasn’t going to go, but after some subtle persuading I got him to fly out
this afternoon. After our chat last night, I realised what was going on with
him and asked him to come back to my apartment.”

She’s quick to get involved. “I hope he
apologised, for whatever he did!”

I’m not in the mood to elaborate. “Yes, he
did. Anyway, it was a misunderstanding. It’s all sorted now.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it. And does he
know how lucky he is?” She throws me an exaggerated smile.

“Yes, he does, but I feel lucky too. He’s
the only guy who really sees me, you know?”

“Yes, I get that hon, but you’ve made
yourself
invisible; locked yourself away for years, and now you’re falling for the first
guy who comes along?” She means well but she can’t appreciate the depth of our
love. How could she?

“I feel safe with him Char. Now we’ve
opened up to each other, I know he won’t hurt me. I need to know that.”

She pats my hand. “I’m pissed, and if you
keep talking like that I’m going to start crying and make a fool of myself. You
make it sound so beautiful. Is he that perfect?” Forever sceptical, that’s her
style.

“He’s as near to it as I’ll ever find,” I
confess. “If we last until Christmas it will be worth it but, I’m sort of
expecting we’ll last a lot longer than that.” I lean over and give her a hug.
“Thanks for being such a good friend to me all these years. I know I’ve been a
miserable bitch most of the time, but I’m happy now, so be happy for me. Ok?” I
can see tears welling in her eyes.

“Sure. But if he as much as steps a foot
out of line, you’ve got to be strong. Don’t take any crap off him. Even if he
is one of the sexiest guys I’ve ever had the pleasure of insulting.” She throws
back the last drops of wine settling in the bottom of her glass. 

“Hey Beth, be honest with me now, does he
fuck as good as he looks?”

I know it’s the wine talking. “He’s good
at everything Charlie, and that’s all I’m saying.” I give her a knowing look
which, thankfully, she recognises as my final word on the subject.

“Good to know. I’m happy for you hon. You
deserve to be happy after what you’ve been through.”

With that she snatches the empty bottle,
from which she has drunk two thirds, and staggers off into the kitchen. I walk
over to the enormous floor to ceiling windows and take-in the spectacular view
of the O2 Arena and the London Skyline, illuminated against the cloudy night
sky. I wonder what Ayden is doing now? It’s 10.30pm. In half and hour he’ll be
landing, reliving the last seven hours again, five and a half thousand miles
away. Is he missing me? I hope so.

***

Coming home to an empty apartment is not
as much fun as it used to be. It’s so quiet. I’d even welcome the tap, tap,
tap, of laptop keys right now. I switch on mine, hoping for a message but
expecting nothing, it’s almost midnight. Just as I’m pouring boiling water over
a tea bag, I hear the familiar ping, signalling the arrival of an email.
Quickly I open up the message: It’s a long one.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Date
23
^rd
October  16.50

Subject:
SWEET DREAMS!

The Promise: Tracy Chapman

I’ve just arrived at the hotel, it’s late
afternoon here but you’ll be off to bed soon. I’ve been thinking, and I want to
say thank you for taking the time to figure me out. I know I’m a head case, but
I still haven’t explained ... I’d like to try.

What you said was right, but I think my
behaviour was a reflex response: for as long as I can remember, losing has not
been an option, misjudging anything has seemed like failure and feeling has
been something I’ve avoided.  Because, if you let yourself feel then you can be
hurt and there have been times when I could have been seriously hurt, emotionally
and physically.  Winning has been my coping mechanism, you’ve made me see that
now.

So, what happens next? I still need to win
or be seen to be winning.  Everything I’ve achieved has come from that single impulse;
it’s made me self-reliant and I’d be an idiot to lose sight of that. But ... 
right now I feel as if my armour has been stripped from me, yet I’m still
expected to go into battle and win. Knowing what makes me tick, has left me
feeling exposed. Maybe I’m not your Mr. P after all?

I’ve still got to fine-tune the speech I
thought I wouldn’t have to write, thanks to some clever man-handling this
morning. I’ll have to watch out for that!! You were right though, there was no
power sharing - I didn’t stand a chance! You should come and work for me - with
me - I can always use a good negotiator!

During the flight, I had time to find a
song for you.  I can’t kiss you good night, but imagine these words leaving my
lips and finding their way to your heart. It’s late, get to bed. Don’t email
back, I’ve got work to do!

Sweet dreams Beth.

All my love.

A. x

After reading his email, I’m left with a
terrible sense of foreboding. What have I done? Perhaps I shouldn’t have been
so brutally honest, telling him things he’s not ready to hear, not now, not on
the eve of one of the biggest corporate events he will ever have to open. I
don’t care what he said, I have to email him.

From
: [email protected]

To:
 [email protected]

Date
: 24
^th
October  00.05

Subject
: ARMOUR PLATING

Shine: Take That

Thanks for your lovely song - there’s
tears - it’s become one of my all-time favourites. I know you’re busy, but I
have three points to make:

1.
      
What I
said wasn’t an exercise in subjugation, it was my amateurish attempt to help
you deal with feelings you couldn’t get your head around: I was desperate! I
knew, if I couldn’t make you understand, then you’d move on and we’d be over. I
don’t want that and now I know you don’t want that either.

2.
      
Your fixation with winning
has seriously fucked up your ‘love’ life, but I’m selfish enough to be glad
that you were such a Playboy. As ridiculous as it sounds, being a player has
brought you to me.

3.
      
As far
as you and your company are concerned, nothing has changed. You should feel
empowered not disarmed: now you can begin to channel your motivation. Not only
that, you have someone in your camp 24/7.

So … stop feeling sorry for yourself and
finish that speech so you can blow their socks off tomorrow and get yourself on
a plane back to me!

Have a pleasant evening Ayden.

All my love

B. x

P.S. Enjoy the song x

Before I have time to turn out the lights,
I receive a reply. I thought I might.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Date
: October 23
^rd
  17.12