Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (4 page)

I
drive to work, weary from lack of sleep and emotionally drained.  Every
time I catch my reflection, my eyes are saying ‘sorry.’ Adele sings on the
radio,
"When will I see you again
," and I sniff and take her
words to heart. How will I ever get through the day?

When I get to my classroom, I give myself time to
regroup. I switch to autopilot mode, with no sense of purpose or direction. I
rummage through my bag and find a couple of painkillers to ease the
self-inflicted agony.

Please let the day pass quickly ...

After my final lesson of the day, I head home and wish
for more strength and less regret or, at least an equal measure of the two. My
upstairs neighbour is waiting to ambush me.

"So who’s the lucky fellow then?" she asks
cheerfully. "You must have an admirer Beth?"

"Hello Pat, I suppose I must, but I can’t imagine
who." I fiddle with my key and push open the door to my apartment.
"Thanks for taking the flowers in for me, I appreciate it. Bye." Not
soon enough, I close the door.

Dinner is a simple affair, a small tuna salad and an
apple. Not a lot of sustenance but all I can force down under the
circumstances. For some reason, this empty house seems like a vacuous space,
there is no air. I barely have the strength to breath, so heavy is the weight
on my chest. Everything I own resides here, rests on the floor, covers the
walls, sits in drawers. And, what do my meagre possessions say about me? Alone
with a capital ‘A’.

 I collect my mail and throw the bills to one side.
There’s a plain lemon envelope which looks like a birthday card or an
invitation. I open it and there’s a ticket to the new production of Romeo and
Juliet at the Apollo Theatre in the West End for tomorrow evening. It’s a
single ticket and I think I know who has the other. It has a tell-tale cross in
the bottom left hand corner, much like the soft kiss that lingers at the corner
of my mouth.

Maybe it’s the effect of the salad, but I feel
suddenly energised. For the first time today I exhale; it’s seems like I’ve
been holding my breath for far too long or, maybe, I’ve been holding out for
something, for someone?

I collect the photographs off the floor and slip them
into a drawer. This time tomorrow I’ll be face to face with the real thing but,
there’s so much to do before then, like finding something to wear.

I switch on Britney singing
Piece of Me
and
skip off into my bedroom; before she hits the chorus I’m dancing in my one
designer dress and stomping in heels I’ve never worn, hoping I’ll find
something that won’t reveal my ordinariness to this prince of a man.

Just to be on the safe side, I want to enlist the help
of my best friend Charlie. She’s an urban firecracker with flaming red hair and
a perfect smile; a city girl who’s paid too much and knows how to spend what
she earns, usually on socialising and herself. I’ll need her help if I’m going
to pull this off.

***

All it takes is a phone call and she’s knocking on my
door in 50 minutes. Over her arm are what looks like 20 dresses of varying
colours and lengths: what a life saver. Under sufferance, I try, twirl and
discard until we have two contenders. A red smock dress that sits just over my
knee or a fitted silver, grey cocktail dress that’s slightly shorter but with a
less revealing neck line.

"It’s a winner," Charlie announces, seeming
even more excited than I am. Some things never change, she’s the same red
headed girl I knew at university but slightly taller with straighter teeth.

Caught up in the excitement of it all, she blows a
stray piece of hair from her face and issues another round of instructions:
“hair, nails and legs,” and I wonder if it might not be easier to give her the
ticket. So much to do and so little time, on a school night too!

By 9.30, I’m almost done and I’m sitting in a bath
with a face mask on while she’s giving me a manicure. The bath is filled with
bubbles and the oils ripple around my softening skin like a luxury spa. I’m
enjoying being pampered. It’s a new experience for me.

"There, all we need now is two coats of varnish
and you’re done and dusted." Charlie is proud of her handy work. She goes
to refill our glasses with more chilled Chardonnay and I step out of the bath;
the soft folds of the bathrobe glide over my baby soft skin and I hug myself.
The bathroom is a sauna and I can’t see for steam, but I know I’m glowing and
that has something to do with the oils, but more to do with the thought of
seeing Ayden Stone again. I’m getting a second chance to shine.

Once again sleep doesn’t come easily, but for
different reasons. There’s a trace of regret, but I hold on to the promise of
redemption and it comforts me. I dream of wild azure eyes and soft kisses and
awake to the sound of an angry alarm clock: it’s a new day.

***

Wednesday is a blur. Every lesson takes care of itself
and I’m totally preoccupied. From midday onwards I have butterflies in my
stomach and, at one point, actually feel I might bring back my lunch. It’s like
being 16 again, only I was never like this at 16. I consider myself to have
been what my father reliably called ‘an ugly duckling’ and I trusted his
judgement. Most of my boyfriends developed out of friendship and when romantic
liaisons came to a natural end, I’d suffer the indignation of losing both a boy
and a friend. But, I’m captain of my own ship so, come hell and high water, I’m
ready for you Ayden Stone.

It’s 6.15, I’m almost done and Charlie has arrived to
give me the once-over. She finishes off my hair and make-up and leaves me to
dress. I take a look at her masterpiece in the mirror and I’m pleasantly
surprised. By choice, I’ve put myself on the back burner for almost seven, long
years, and here I am all fired up and full of anticipation. I take one last look,
"welcome back Beth." An undetectable smile passes my lips, and I head
off to make my dramatic entrance.

Charlie gasps and holds her hand to her mouth in mock
horror.

"That bad, eh?" I screw my face into a
grimace.

"No, no Beth. You look amazing. Who knew, under
all those stuffy shirts and pleated pants was a babe just waiting to get out.
He’ll have such a hard on when he sees you."

Oh! Now there’s a thought …

She runs over and gives me a hug. "I’ll drive you
to Shaftsbury Avenue. I want you to stay just like that: gorgeous. Put your
glasses in your bag honey, we both know you don’t need them. Let this lucky
bastard get a look at your sexy blue eyes." She swerves her hips at me and
we laugh like a couple a teenagers. I really like her, she’s more like a sister
than a friend and I can tell her anything. She knows all my secrets. I catch a
shawl she throws me, and head out in the direction of her new Audi, giving my
sorry looking Fiesta an apologetic smile.

On route, she lists the dating do’s and don’t’s and I
pretend to listen, but I have my own thoughts to contend with. She has us
singing along to her hits of the 80’s cd and, as luck would have it, Shalamar
just about set the tone with
Night to Remember.

By the time we reach the theatre I’m feeling nervous, not
the frightened kind, but the kind that comes from having high expectations.
Could he be the one I’ve been waiting for? Has he found me?

Charlie bolsters my resolve. "Look, you can do
this Beth. I know it’s been a while but friggin’ hell, any guy should be lucky
to have you. Just look at you! You’re Cinderella! Now go to that friggin’ ball
and knock him dead."

I check my simple make-up, ensure there’s nothing
stuck between my teeth and step out of the car. I call out, "Thanks Char,
I couldn’t have done this without you." And it’s a fact.

"You know where I am if you need me. See
ya."

I wave her off and head towards the crowd, considering
at what point my life became a hopeless fairy tale: that would be the day I
learned there are wolves out there, I suppose.

I can see him, but he has no idea I’m here. I’ve
entered by the side door and I really think, for once in my life, lady luck is
on my side. I blend myself into the flock wallpaper and digest him from the
shoes laces up. He seems taller than I remember, and he isn’t wearing a suit
but black, tailored trousers that must have been made to measure. He has a lean
body, broad shoulders and there’s the suggestion of muscles, taut and firm in
all the right places. His right hand is in his pocket and the front of his
blazer pulls back slightly, drawing attention to his crisp white shirt and the
firm package underneath and … is there a hint of chest hair on his collar bone?
I can feel myself blushing and imagining what he must look like naked and wish
I’d brought a fan or something to waft away my carnal thoughts. I lick my lips
lasciviously at the thought of his mouth on my skin kissing, licking, tasting
...

My God what am I thinking?

I manage to control my breathing, but the air leaving
my body is so much hotter on the way out than on the way in. Forcing down a
lump in my throat, I continue my visual exploration of Ayden Stone, and here
comes the best bit: his flawless face. The light in the foyer isn’t stark, it’s
created by two stunning chandeliers hanging to his left and right. Hampered
only by limited shadow, I’m able to focus on his eyes; framed by heavy brows,
they’re darting from left to right, catching every speck of light like polished
glass, shimmering with an incredible luminosity. Even from this distance
they’re dazzling and hypnotic. How will I hold onto a rational thought when I’m
being ensnared by them like a tiny, helpless creature? He’ll chew me up and
spit me out and take no delight in the snack. Even his liquorish coloured hair
serves to frame his staggering manliness; it’s carelessly dried and may still
be wet, and I fantasize about how those black flicks will feel between my hot
fingers.

I’m sighing … just look at him, he’s breathtakingly
gorgeous.

But, I’m so out of practice. It’s been a year since I
went on a date and even then it was arranged
for
me. Talk about diving
in at the deep end ... what should I do - leave?

I glance over to him again, he’s checking his watch: 
it’s now or never. I take one last look and make the mistake of examining his
bone structure and that makes walking away even harder: a sharp and
well-defined jawline, a Romanesque nose and an upper lip that forms into that
perfect pouting ‘v.’

Be still my beating heart …

Classic sculptures of the male form come to mind,
Michelangelo’s David or Prometheus; he could give them a run for their money.
If she were alive, my mother would tell me to be careful what I wish for, but
he
is
what I wish for and I thank my lucky stars that he’s here,
impatient and waiting for me.

I exit the building, taking in the fresh evening air,
preparing myself for my grand entrance; I re-enter via the foyer, pausing to
look around. I catch his eye and he removes his hand from his pocket and
fastens his jacket. He’s all smiles and fuck-me eyes and my heart starts to
beat through my clothes. I’ve simply got to calm down.

Dodging the other theatre goers we move towards each
other; I feel like a moth being drawn to an irresistible flame that will
incinerate me with its smouldering beauty, but I refuse to give-in to the
temptation to skip or run, I refuse. This is it.

He reaches for me with both hands and takes hold of my
shoulders so I can’t look away. Just as I knew they would, his eyes burn into
me, he’s assessing me like I’m some kind of precious object or oil painting.
His gaze rests on my face and I can’t shake free: it’s like a gravitational pull
and, as hard as I try, those dazzling flecks of blue and green hold me captive.

With a thankful sigh, he declares, "Miss. Parker
you look stunning." Before resting his mouth a millimetre from mine, he
says softly, "I knew you would."

Another great line, he’s really good at this.

I find my voice. "You look pretty good yourself
Mr. Stone. Thank you for the invitation and the compliment."

He offers me his arm. "Would you like a drink
before the play starts?" He places his hand over mine as if we’re an old
married couple. It feels warm, firm, protective.

"That would be nice." I’m becoming more
self-assured with every step. He seems to think we look good together, and who
am I to question his judgment. I lick my lips, anticipating the drink, my mouth
is so dry and I can feel the moisture leaving the corners and a sticky residue
forming.

"What would you like to drink, Miss Parker?"
His words have such a rich cadence that I can hear them ringing in my ears
after he’s spoken. I’d forgotten the refined way he articulates his words, like
they’ve been cultivated over time: the English language is in safe hands.

"Dry white wine please, and it’s Beth."

"Very well, it’s dry white wine and it’s Beth
from now on," he declares, brushing my left arm with the knuckles of his
right hand. His touch causes the hairs to stand up on the back of my neck and
my back to straighten.