TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (61 page)

prodigious love making. I face the wall by the door and inspect the chair, remembering what took

place and then it becomes a blur … a grinding, gut wrenching response has my body writhing to a

humming sensation circling my navel and below.

Fuck!

It’s only 8 a.m. Ayden has been gone an hour, having roused me from the deepest sleep with a

whisper of a kiss and sweet words of endearment. I was too tired to beg him to stay and he left in a

flourish of Obsession and placid contentment. On the bedside cabinet is a single orchid and wrapped

around it is my tattered pink ribbon, affirmation of an inalienable truth: we have found each other. As

I lie here, I feel sated and secure in the knowledge that I’ve been ‘caught,’ in every sense of the word.

I feel my face heating as I peep out from behind a bath sheet, feeling cleansed on the inside but

harbouring dirty, dirty thoughts on the inside; self-awareness clings to my skin like body lotion. I

allow the sheet to fall to the floor and inspect myself for signs of physical alterations. There are none,

except the deep blue bruise on my inner thigh, the shape of a ripening heart. Even after that bruise

fades, I will be forever branded as Mrs. Elizabeth Stone. I have found my place in this world and that

place is by the side of the only man I have ever loved. Ayden Stone. Caught on a wave of realisation,

Miss Austen’s words come to me. “
Till this moment I never knew myself.”

Still reeling from my recollections, I sip steaming coffee from a mug and nibble on toast, dressed

for an outing in a lightweight black skirt and white blouse. Only two places of interest feature on

today’s agenda; a trip to a chemist shop and a return visit to school, to do some preparation for the

Autumn term beginning tomorrow, Wednesday.

Outside the enormous windows there are few clues as to the weather conditions. Triple glazing does

a superb job of keeping out external noise but it cannot disguise the morning fog that is descending

onto the street below. Still, I won’t be deterred; behind those cotton wool clouds, there’s sunshine. I

just know it.

The dishwasher begins its cycle and I reach for my jacket … out of nowhere a buzzer sounds!

Is it Lester next door, an alarm? I spot the flashing green light on the box positioned at eyelevel on

the wall by the lift. The buzzer sounds again …

Someone is at the front door.

I quickly dash over to it, unsure of what to touch. I press one button. “Hello.” Nothing. I press

another. “Hello.”

“Hello. It’s Alenka.”

Alenka?

“Oh. Alenka. Hello.” I recognise her Eastern European accent.

What does she want?

“I’m sorry, Ayden isn’t here right now. Can I give him a message?”

“I’m not here to see Ayden. I have a wedding gift for you.”

A what?

In all the rush, I hadn’t even considered people may want to buy us wedding gifts. “That’s very kind

of you. Give me a minute. I’ll be right down.”

Before opening the front door, I conjure up a mental picture of her in all her catwalk glory; auburn

hair streaming down her back, hypnotic green eyes and those long, long legs of hers. Oh, I remember

those,
woven into a yoga position when we last met.

As I pull the door back, I’m pleasantly surprised to find her less than polished. Her lack-lustre

appearance does wonders for my confidence. “Hello Alenka. I’m sorry I took so long.”

“You didn’t. You had to catch the lift. I was happy to wait.”

She was happy to wait.

“I have brought this for you both. As I said, it is a wedding present.” She hands me a weighty box,

beautifully wrapped in gold paper and decorated with an elaborate red bow.

“Thank you.” I lift it to my right ear. “I can’t hear it ticking,” I state, softening my suggestion with

a smile.

She returns my smile. “If I was going to hand you a bomb, do you think I would have gone to all the

trouble of wrapping it?”

Lowering the gift, I giggle softly. “I suppose not. But you shouldn’t have. It was such a quiet

affair.”

She raises her brows, unconvinced. “Really? I heard about it on the news.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Word must have got out.”

“Your husband
is
news Beth. You will come to accept that one of these days.” She turns to leave. “I

would say give Ayden my love but I suspect he would only squander it.”

I sense her disappointment. “Would you like to come in for a coffee?”

“Are you serious?” She repositions her sunglasses on her hair, creating the perfect head band.

“Yes. Why not? I’ve just made some. I know you’ve come out of your way to deliver this gift.”

She’s shaking her head. “Not really. I’m on my way to a photo shoot for Vogue in Mayfair. You

were on my way.”

“Well, that shouldn’t stop you having a cup of coffee, should it?”

“Alright. But you promise not to tempt me with biscuits?”

I smile at the suggestion. “The thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”

I search the cupboards for cups and saucers and watch her hover around the objet d'art scattered

about the lounge, memorising each and every item like a cat burglar. “Have you been here before?” I

have to ask.

“Only once. I spent most of my time ‘below stairs’ – as you English say.”

“I hardly think the basement counts as below stairs Alenka.” I continue to pour the coffee.

“No?”

“No. How do you take your coffee?”

She turns to face me. “I think you know the answer to that. Like my men?”

“Yes. Of course.” My mouth twitches at the thought of Ayden. “Strong and dark …”

“How did you guess?”

She moves over to the sofa, where I’m placing down the cups and saucers onto the glass topped

table. “This is a wonderful house. Ayden has good taste in … everything.”

I prepare to sip my coffee. “I like to think so.”

With elegant poise she sits opposite me, placing her sunglasses on the table and lifting her tea cup.

I raise my eyes and observe the length and tightness of her jeans; the way the green jumper matches

the soft hues in her irises. She personifies Autumn with her tumbling auburn hair, streaked with

sunlight. She’s the most resplendent of all the objet d'art in this room. Unlike myself, she looks like

she belongs here.

Riddled with self-doubt, I make idle conversation before using the cleaning away of cups and

saucers as a means of escape. But there is no escape. She follows me to the kitchen.

“I did not come here to make trouble for you Beth. Ayden has made his choice and you are the

woman he loves. I accept that. I think if you were more like me, I would have good reason to hate you.

But I don’t. He sees something in you and, because I trust him implicitly, I must accept that you are

the one.”

I’m stunned by her declaration. “Your stoicism is admirable Alenka.” I place down the tea towel. “I

think we could be friends but at what cost to you, I don’t know?”

“I would like that. Naturally, I knew Ayden wasn’t here and it’s best I don’t see him for a while.

My heart needs time to heal. No-one will ever fill that place he has there but, I am hopeful I will find

room for another lover, at least. I need a man for all kinds of reasons.” She sniggers at her admission.

“I understand. I’m sure they will be clambering for your attention.”

She appears less than convinced. “And how tiresome that will be.”

“There’s someone out there for you Alenka.” I offer a conciliatory smile of sorts and watch her fall

victim to flashbacks. Lurking behind her crystal clear eyes are last year’s tears. “Alenka. Alenka …”

She snaps out of her daydream. “I’m sorry but I have to head out. I have a couple of errands to run and

some school work to prepare so …”

“I see. I should have been at the photo shoot having my face painted, fifteen minutes ago.”

“Oh! Will they wait for you?”

She nods slowly. “Yes. Us model types are so unreliable, you know; seldom on time and never in

the right frame of mind for smiling on command. Besides … I have my reputation to uphold.”

“And that is?” I’m dying to know.

“Why! I am perceived as being
difficult.
Imagine that! Me, difficult?” She spins around and sashays

over to the table to collect her sunglasses and handbag. “Will Lester be driving you?” She asks

inquisitively.

“Um … No. I’ll stroll over to Sloane Street, do some shopping and flag a cab down. My school is

only a fifteen minute journey from there.”

“I just thought, seeing as I have my car outside.”

“I appreciate the offer. Ayden said to have Lester drive me if I go out but the fresh air will do me

good, I think.”

“Are you sure? In my experience, fresh air is so over-rated. I rarely go anywhere these days unless I

am chauffeured.” She throws her handbag over her shoulder. “You will need a jacket if you’re

walking.”

I collect it off the sofa, along with my handbag, checking I have my phone, purse and keys. We

enter the lift together. “Where are you heading?”

“Vogue House darling. Mayfair.” She flutters her eye-lashes, feigning pretentiousness. “It’s my

second home.” She tosses back her hair nonchalantly. “I would have left home for good if I had been

asked,” she confesses. “But … I was never asked.”

In the subtlest of ways, she is telling me Ayden was never serious about her; that I have nothing to

worry about. It’s a virtuous act. “He thinks a lot of you Alenka,” I declare. Why leave her to suffer

needlessly?

Her mouth tilts ever so slightly at one side. “You must learn how to lie more convincingly Mrs.

Stone or this world will chew you up and spit you out.” She nods her head. “But I am grateful for the

thought.”

Before she leaves for her gleaming sports car, I place my hand on her arm. “Alenka. Can I ask you

something?”

“Of course.” She folds her arm beneath her ample breasts.

“When we met for the first time, remember, at Max Bradley’s book launch and you made me aware

of Ayden’s modus operandi? You called me Frances. How did you know that was my first name?”

“Is it?

“Yes. I changed it when I left Cambridge to Elizabeth …”

“I don’t know. I suppose Ayden must have told me.” She’s shrugging her shoulders, either lying

beautifully or genuinely without a clue.

“Also, when I came to your house, when I left, you called me Frances Elizabeth Parker, like you

knew everything about me.” I’m wrinkling up my face into a curious frown.

“All I can say is that Ayden must have told me…”

“When? When did you see him?”

“I … I don’t remember. Perhaps it was when he asked me to collect your engagement ring from

Cartier in Paris when you were in Rome?” She is utterly baffled and so am I.

It’s such a small detail. I’m making too much out of it. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want

to keep you from your appointment.”

“It’s of little consequence. They won’t start without me.” She grins, seeming indifferent to the

occasion and stretches out her hand. “Goodbye Frances Elizabeth Stone,” she muses.

“Bye Alenka. Drive safely.”

I wave her off and close the door behind me. The fog has cleared; a cleansing breeze brushes

against my cheeks and fills my lungs with an uplifting sense of optimism. Any thoughts of Christian

names and conspiracies are cast aside for more meaningful propositions.

Before setting off, I input Sloane Street into my Sat Nav and set off in the direction indicated by the

red arrow, trying not to giggle like a crazy woman at recollections of Roman relics and Spanish Steps.

Happy days …

An unshaven, unwashed and homeless man sits in the driver’s seat of a silver BMW in an up-

market part of Belgravia. He’s rung in work sick, having considered his options. There is only one; to

do or die.

He’s been parked in Grosvenor Crescent for three hours. He saw Ayden Stone leave Stone Heath in

his Rolls and now he’s biding his time, mentally preparing himself for what he knows will be a last

ditch attempt to take back what is his.

He’s feeling edgy and uncomfortable in yesterday’s clothes. His tattoo has scabbed over and is

rubbing up against his shirt, now crumpled from sitting. He’s eaten, slept and is now slumming in his

car, surrounded by empty coffee cups, cartons of half eaten food and beer cans. On the back seat sits a

sorry looking, jumble sale collection of oddments; all that remains of a life now in pieces.

Jack’s texts were bad enough but by 1800hrs things had got decidedly worse. A badly shaken Elise

had called him from the Estate Agents with a gruesome warning; two large, foreign thugs were on

their way to Elm Gardens. They had traced her through her Google account which they had hacked,

thanks to a Mr. Simpson who, Dan already suspected, was probably in the men’s ward at the local

hospital being treated for abdominal injuries.

Her visitors had asked to speak with her privately about purchasing luxury property but, once the

door was closed, one of them had put a knife to her throat and insisted she tell them what she knew