Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play Read online

  "Thank you, not many teenagers know what they want to do at this age, they need guidance and for their talents to be recognised and nurtured."

  That’s a sensible answer.

  "True. Is that what happened to you? Did you have someone who recognised your potential at an early age?" I’m genuinely interested and he seems eager to explain.

  "No not exactly. I came across an opportunity that others didn’t recognise, modified it to improve the performance of existing applications and turned it into a profitable business, that’s all. Wasn’t it Machiavelli who said, “Entrepreneurs are simply those who understand there is little difference between obstacles and opportunity and are able to turn both to their advantage?”

  “So you’re a Prince among men?”

  He sniggers at the suggestion. “Hardly.”

  “An entrepreneur then?”

  “Yes, it’s in my blood, but now I’m able to harvest the necessary blend of talents to expand my business, and that allows me to remain competitive. I strive to be good at everything. I like to win."

  I’m happy to let him talk, transfixed by his stare; those azure eyes can make you forget every thought you have in your head - and they have. I feel my breasts heaving and I just know the skin around my neck is starting to glow. Silently, I’m praying that the flames don’t make their way to my cheeks.

  What’s happening to me?

  "I see," is all I can conjure up out of nothing.

  "What about you, how long have you been teaching?" His enquiry seems sincere enough and, what the hell, I’ve got all the time in the world.

  "I came straight out of university into teaching so it’s, what, six years now." I smile responsively.

  Pull yourself together, he’s a professional, you’re a professional …

  "And do you think you’ll remain in teaching or do you have other ambitions?"

  He’s asking me about ambitions? How can I think straight when he’s playing around with his bloody bottle top. Keep still!

  "I, I’m not sure. I enjoy teaching, I’m only 27, so I think I’ll stick with it for now." I look anywhere but at him. I don’t think he’s noticed.

  "Good, you should do what makes you happy. So much of my life is centred on my company. I envy you." After a thoughtful pause he continues with what feels like honesty. "That’s why I started up the ‘Pay Back Programme.’ It’s a small gesture but I like to think I’m making a difference, if only in a limited way. Of course I’m not educating the next generation like you ..."

  "You’re a fine role model for them Mr. Stone: a capitalist and a humanitarian." I’m finding my feet in the conversation and justly rewarded with an amiable smile.

  "If you say so Miss. Parker." Discreetly, he checks his watch which probably cost him more than I earn in six months.

  We’ve only been talking for ten minutes, and already I’m boring him? I take hold of my paper cup and bottle. "You’ve been very gracious, Mr. Stone. I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’ll let you go ..."

  "Only if that’s what you really want to do ..."

  Did he just say what I think he said?

  He’s directing a molten stare my way; it’s igniting the air around us and causing a rush of blood to my head, my face. "Well ... I suppose I could stay and chat ..." I pour out another mouthful of chilled water to douse the flames. Thank God I’m wearing my reading glasses because my pupils must be the size of footballs by now.

  "Good, I’d like that." He repositions himself on the flimsy wooden chair directly in front of me, laying out his hands on the table in a kind of predatory stance, ready to pounce. "Tell me what interests you have, other than teaching."

  Me? I swallow hard, shifting my focus between his hands and his eyes. I must look like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a Ferrari. I feel like one. "Oh, I like to read, listen to music, watch movies, visit friends, you know, the usual kind of thing. What about you?"

  I follow his right hand, keeping my eyes on it as it leaves the table and settles on his chin. He’s massaging the cutest dimple with his forefinger, contemplating his response. "Let me think ... I like to travel, go to the theatre, to keep in shape and to fuck beautiful women ..."

  He leaves those words hanging like a hot air balloon caught on electrical cables; they crackle and circulate the room, before creating a moment of uncomfortable silence. And that’s when it hits me: you’re toying with me Mr. Stone. You arrogant bastard!

  "Is that so. That must make you The Playboy of the Western World then Mr. Stone?" I smile sweetly and tip my head to one side. The ball’s in your court.

  "I’m not a fan of Synge but I take your point. You’re an English teacher I presume?"

  "Yes, full marks, I’m an English teacher, you know, plays, prose and poetry." I hold up my arms in a kind of ta da and he rewards my animation with a sexy smile.

  "That’s surprising," he muses, sounding so self-assured I could slap him, if only to feel a chiselled cheekbone against my palm. He leans over to my side of the table, forcing my back to straighten reflexively. "From where I’m sitting there seems to be more chemistry than poetry."

  Bang! What a line!

  I give him a well done smile and roll my eyes; he looks quite pleased with himself. "Did you make that up on the spot or is it one you save for occasions such as this?"

  "No, it was a one off, just for you Miss Parker." He leans back in the seat, forcing it to creak under the strain, taking great delight in watching me squirm.

  “Then thank you Mr. Stone." I offer a formal nod and try to suppress a smile. Another comment like that and I’ll spontaneously combust and my insides will cascade across this table like spaghetti.

  "Ayden, my name’s Ayden," he states. "And you are?"

  "Elizabeth, Beth."

  “I like the name, it’s solid, traditional."

  "I suppose it is, but Beth’s fine."

  It’s just a name …

  "May I ..."

  Just when I think I’m holding my own and I’ve got the measure of him, he hits me with a sucker punch. He removes my glasses with both hands without touching my face, breaths on the lenses and proceeds to clean them with his blue, silk tie. Even without the glasses I feel his eyes on me, sharp and scrutinising, stripping me of my self-imposed disguise.

  He looks at the lenses against the light. "There you are, that’s better. Now you can see things more clearly."

  Things, what things?"

  “You have beautiful eyes Beth, the colour of a summer sky. You shouldn’t hide behind your glasses." He hands them back.

  Summer sky? Where is he getting these lines?

  "I’m not hiding," I answer, defensively. "I can’t read without them and that’s quite important for an English teacher." I settle them more comfortably on my nose.

  "Indeed it is, forgive me." He tilts his chin and launches a rocket of a stare my way. I try to launch one back but he’s too skilled in what feels like verbal foreplay and, defeated, I glance away. I chew my thumb nail and breath …

  "Can I get you anything else ... Ayden," I ask, brusquely. "I’m afraid I have a lesson in 10 minutes and I need to prepare for it." Looking purposeful, I gather the bottles and stand.

  He seems unsettled by my assertion. "Yes … of course, I hadn’t realised. What are you teaching?" He stands and fastens his jacket, once again adopting that model pose.

  I throw the cups and bottles into the rubbish bin and head towards the door. "The sonnets, you know, ‘Should I compare thee to a summer’s day …’” I stop, realising what I’ve said and smile coyly.

  "How apt, ‘Thou art more lovely and more temperate’" He smiles broadly, enjoying my look of genuine surprise.

  "You’re fond of the sonnets?"

  "Not especially, I’m more of a Romantics man myself."

  "I find that hard to believe," I huff, starting up my mouth before getting my brain in gear.

  I’m met with a bemused smile which only lingers for a second, but it’s there. I chan
ge the subject

  quickly. "I assume you’re parked at the front of the building?"

  He nods. Before reaching the door, he stops abruptly and I turn to see why. He’s rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand as if there’s a tense spot that he can’t reach. "Look, Beth ..."

  "… Please Mr. Stone, Ayden ... you don’t have to say anything. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, really it has. I’ve enjoyed the ‘I’m all yours’, the smouldering looks, and the chemistry thing was very clever but, if you don’t mind, I have to go back to my world now, and you have to go back to yours."

  For some reason he is taken aback by my directness. In fact a veil of sadness has descended upon his face, sharpening his stunning features. "So you think we’re worlds apart do you?" There’s that scorching stare again.

  "Well aren’t we? In your world, people react to you in a certain way, and I get that."

  "... You mean women?"

  "Yes, I mean women. You know what you’re doing, and you do it so well. What can I say?" The words ricochet out of my mouth but I’m not entirely sure I want them to find their target.

  "But sometimes Miss Parker, worlds collide." There’s only the trace of a half-smile, but his sparkling eyes are intense and questioning.

  "Yes they do, but it usually ends in tears." I reinforce my declaration with a carefree shrug and look away.

  "Touché," he concedes, pressing his lips together, nodding but not appearing entirely convinced.

  I reach out to shake his hand, prepping myself for another power surge. I’ve done myself proud. If that’s the case, then how is it this man is affecting me so, is tormenting my senses and breaching all my defences?

  "It’s been an interesting morning, Miss Parker. How was it for you?" His crooked smile reaches up to the corners of his eyes which now, in the morning sunlight have taken on a kind of cerulean iridescence: they bewitch me. The cool morning air has breathed new life into his handsome face and I’m spellbound, caught up in his ethereal beauty. We’re sharing a private joke, and the space between us has become incredibly intimate.

  "It’s been ..." I take a dramatic pause, adopt a thinking stance and turn to face him. "Entertaining."

  "I won’t argue with that." He nods his head in agreement and I realise that he still has hold of my sweaty palm and his thumb is brushing across my hand, stroking my feverish skin, creating a silent but not unfamiliar bond. He leans into me and kisses the corner of my mouth and I find myself moving into him. My lips are parted, anticipating something more.

  "It’s been an education, Miss Parker," he whispers softly, so close I can feel the warm air leaving his mouth, caressing my cheek.

  Standing on my tip toes I reciprocate and kiss the corner of his mouth, catching the essence of masculine heat and expensive cologne: it’s an intoxicating mélange. Breathless, I put my lips to his ear and say softly. "But you didn’t win Mr. Stone."

  When I pull away I am met with an expression I can’t read; it looks a lot like affection, but there’s mischief lurking in those eyes and a silent promise of … something.

  The school bell sounds and I focus my attention anywhere but on him, it’ll be easier that way. “Saved by the bell,” I say in an airy whisper. “Goodbye Mr. Stone. Have a safe journey." Leaving him in the safe hands of his chauffeur, I turn and walk away.

  My classroom door closes behind me with a slam. What just happened? With that whisper of a kiss he has awakened something in me. I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my heart, a spell broken. I feel alive.

  I’m cooling in the afterglow, having been charred by the scorching rays of something hot and unbidden. I’m gasping, moisture oozing from my body, heat flaying my skin. Dear God! This can’t be normal. Two words are forever etched into my consciousness: Ayden Stone.

  The day comes to a welcome end. All I can think about is climbing into my car and being alone with my sensual thoughts. For some reason, I’m exhausted but unsure why. Who am I kidding, after the morning I’ve had and the inquisition I faced at lunchtime, I’m lucky to still be standing. Margaret had gone to great lengths to spread the word: Ayden Stone is a babe magnet, or was it a fine specimen? Probably both. Female colleagues were Googling him and a thousand photos appeared, 70% of which included stunning women of five foot ten plus, draping themselves over his arm or around his shoulders like poison ivy. What could I say: he hit on me, he took off my glasses and cleaned them with his tie, and he mentioned chemistry for God’s sake. They wouldn’t believe it - I don’t believe it. Instead, I said he was self-assured, polite and cultured. I wasn’t lying, but I did fail to mention I’d probably lost three pounds in perspiration.

  Thankfully, the rest of the day passed without further incident and now I’m grateful to be left alone to my own devices, to drive home with only Sting urging my beating heart to still. I relive our conversation over and over: ‘I could have said this’ and ‘I should have said that.’ But I’d had my fifteen minutes and blown them in sterling fashion.

  When I enter my ground floor apartment, there’s the fragrance of fresh flowers. I think nothing of it until I set foot in the kitchen. There, placed in my biggest vase is an enormous bouquet, courtesy of my obliging neighbour: blue hydrangeas, crème roses, lilies, lavender limonium and salal in cobalt blue: so it says on the card. My first thought is, whose are these? My second thought is: Ayden Stone.

  Unable to contain a cry of unparalleled delight, I throw down my bag, lift out the card from its envelope and read the hand written note:

  Where true Love burns Desire is Love’s pure flame;

  It is the reflex of our earthly frame,

  That takes its meaning from the nobler part,

  And but translates the language of the heart.

  x

  There’s only one person who would send me flowers, and there’s only one person who would think to include a poem called ‘Desire’ written by Coleridge. That would have to be a self-confessed ‘Romantics man.’ It’s a powerful message, so romantic and - it’s for me!

  I put the card next to my lips and think of where it’s been: in his hands, between his finger and thumb, maybe he even blew across it to dry the ink? He knows I’ll recognise the poem and, more importantly, he knows I’ll understand it.

  It must be the heady perfume from the bouquet that causes my head to spin: I’m stunned. I realise I’m holding my breath and, for fear of actually fainting, I exhale. I catch my reflection in a pane of glass and come face to face with a young woman with wide blue eyes the colour of a summer sky and an ‘O’ shaped mouth: it’s me.

  Time for a reality check: is this just a game, an attempt to draw me in, to have me fall at his feet, merely to satisfy his ego? In the space of five minutes my feelings go from elation and sheer delight, to rock bottom disappointment. I should know better, men don’t respond to me that way. But he has ... and the flowers are so lovely and, besides, who hand writes a poem like that just for fun? Maybe Ayden Stone does?

  For the hundredth time, I run through our conversation and I’m smiling, I’m also a little flushed just remembering the way he threw his head back to drink and how the thick band of platinum wrapped around the middle finger of his left hand, and the way he played with the bottle top and … I shudder myself out of the memory, feeling a twinge of something that simply isn’t decent at 5 o’clock on Monday afternoon. No-one has ever made me feel quite so, out of control.

  I pour myself a tall smoothie and nibble on a quiche. On my kitchen table is my copy of Pride and Prejudice and on my mind is my favourite quote: “The Very first moment I beheld him, my heart was irrevocably gone.” What am I thinking?

  I quickly rid myself of that foolish thought and begin my research. Let’s see who you are Mr. Stone.

  As I read his biography, I realise he really is a self-made man: born 1980, London; spent most of his childhood in a residential care home and wasn’t adopted until he was 12 years of age. Young Entrepreneur of the year 1998, having been the
brain child of ‘A.S. Media International.’ Included in the U.K top 20 Rich List in 2000 and set up the ‘Pay Back Programme’ in 2010. There are rows and rows of achievements that just fill the page: he’s the real deal.

  My eyes fill with bubbling tears, I’m overcome with regret, not because of a missed opportunity but because I behaved unforgivably. Towards the end of our conversation, he tried to speak but I wouldn’t let him. Was he trying to articulate the words he has so eloquently included in a poem? Will I ever get the chance to say I’m sorry?

  My mind is in turmoil. He was right, sometimes worlds do collide, it might end in tears but, who gives a fuck? I’ve spent my whole life waiting for a ‘collision’ just like this.

  Bedtime brings little rest; I wrestle with my pillow and struggle to find a settling thought. I have visions of a neglected and broken boy and my heart aches. I find solace in the fact that he’s tough and he’s come through the flames like a blazing phoenix. Nothing fazes him, not even the possibility of rejection. What did I whisper in his ear? "You didn’t win Mr. Stone." I want to take it back. Scattered on my carpet are pictures of him; they’re like fragments of a puzzle I may never get the chance to piece together. That’s the thought that has me tossing and turning for most of the night.

  Dan Rizler takes a cigarette from the packet, taking care not to crush the filter between his fingers. He’s a former boxer; he claims to have the strength of two men and considers his hands to be his weapons of mass destruction. No-one messes with Dan.

  It’s 0500hrs. Most mornings begin the same way, with a hard on. The trick is to keep his eyes shut tight; his special girl lives behind them, in that secret place that only they know. If he peeks, their precious moment is lost and the image of her vapourises, leaving nothing more than a fading ghost.

  The cold shower purges him of his brutish notions and leaves him to shave unhampered by further hauntings. He takes his time shaving, tracing the outline of his firm jaw, watching the brown hues return to his eyes. There was a time when the ladies found those dark brown magnets irresistible, they would do anything for him; all it took was a nod and a wink and they’d be his for the taking. The recollections of backroom antics and bouts of all night boozing, make his mouth twitch. Wiping the foam from his cheeks, he reassures himself, “You’ve still got it Danny boy.”