Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play Page 3
At 39, he’s the youngest of a four man team of maintenance men at The University of Cambridge. He takes his job seriously, likes the shift work; he considers checking out the ‘pretty young things’ a perk of the job, that and the free lunches.
He leaves early to beat the rush hour traffic, knowing the A10 will be clear and he’ll be able to make good time. He prides himself on his timekeeping. He’s never late. That’s something he learned in the army: be punctual and be prepared. It’s his mantra and his guiding principle.
First stop his locker. Speaking to no-one in particular he mutters, “I bet that bitch in E4 has put another complaint in about me … you know what she needs? A seeing to. If I had the time, I’d pay her a visit one night and wipe that smug fucking smile off her face.” He’s straightening his back, lifting his head to gain extra inches, increasing his physical presence, being six foot four and 15 stone just isn’t big enough.
He spits out something under his breath, it sounds like “bitch,” but his footsteps cover the sound and it becomes nothing more than a hiss.
With a kick and a tug, his locker door opens and he checks to see if anyone is around, there’s no way he’s going to share her. Tucked away under a prospectus is a photo; the faded picture is of a pretty, dark haired girl in her late teens, wearing a pair of jeans and a black sweater; he rubs his thumbs over the sweater and his breathing quickens at the thought of sliding his hand up inside. He knows what he’s doing; he’s seen it on the internet; getting her hot and ready won’t be a problem for him. The snapshot is one of his favourites, that’s why it’s there. How could he be expected to start the day without her? It’s one of hundreds he took with an expensive camera with a zoom lens that cost him over a week’s wage. “Worth every penny,” he growls, salivating over her delicate frame.
A short burst of adrenalin triggers his breathing and those accustomed feelings travel at the speed of light to his groin, making him hard, again. He slides his hand down inside his boxers and touches himself, smiling and whispering, “I’m saving this for you Princess.”
The sound of approaching footsteps ends his special moment. He scowls and slams the locker door shut.
A cheerful looking fellow of around fifty with thinning brown hair and glasses sidles up next to him, “Alright Dan? You’re early?”
“Mornin’ Ernie, traffic was light, made good time.” He doesn’t like to chat, but he’s known Ernie a while and they’ve had a few laughs.
They undress, keeping their backs to each other and put on the required black work pants and T shirt, with the added bonus of the University insignia. It’s not what he’d wear given the choice, but it gets him into all kinds of places that an everyday outfit would not. How many times had he been called upon to unblock the toilets in the ladies’ changing room at the gym and forgotten to mention that he was in there? The prospect of scoring another job like that gets him through the day.
“Hope we’ve not a lot on, Monday’s can be busy. Fingers crossed, eh? “Ernie, closes his locker.
“Yeah, but I think it’ll take more than crossing fingers to stop this fucking lot from making work for us.”
“You’re right there. Do you know what the buggers did outside Lamont? They filled the sculpture with cans and bottles. And they’re supposed to be the bright ones?”
“You don’t have to tell me Ernie. I was called over to the undergrad dorms and some bastard had busted a shower, torn it right off the fucking wall. Took me half a day to put it right.”
“And I bet you didn’t get so much as a kiss my arse?”
“Wouldn’t have been so bad if I had. There were a couple of nice little arses I wouldn’t have minded kissing or bending over a desk.” That thought touches a nerve and he sits down to fasten his laces, giving himself time to settle.
Ernie pats him on the back. “I’ll leave that to you champ. I’m a bit too old for that kind of talk.”
“No problem, I can handle your share,” Dan calls out after him, still feeling the after effect of something sweet between his legs.
“I’ll check the jobs list and we’ll draw straws for toilet duty. Ladies or gents, you’re welcome to it. Gets my guts rollin’, that smell. Puts me right off my lunch.” He’s sticking out his tongue like a lizard tasting the air.
“Leave it to me, Ernie. I’m use to clearing up other fuckers’ shit. I hold my breath and count to sixty. By then, the worse bit’s over.” Dan stands tall, his chest fills out his work shirt, he’s fearless.
Ernie, checks his watch and compares it to the one on the wall. “You’re a good lad Dan. We’d better make a move. Can’t stand here chatting all day, shit happens.” They share the joke and stroll towards the office, Dan at the rear and Ernie in his shadow.
It’s 1500hrs, the journey home to Ely only takes Dan forty minutes but he can do it in thirty on a good day, minus the tourists.
“Hello. Honey, I’m home,” he calls out to his golden coloured cat, the only female he has ever cared about, bar one.
His one bedroom, ground floor flat is no more than two rooms and a bathroom, slotted together into a tidy matchbox shape. For a man of his size it’s adequate, or it would be if it wasn’t for the piles of newspapers and magazines stacked like stalagmites along every wall. There is only one special area, his favourite place, facing his cork noticeboard where he stands and remembers.
His face casts a ruggedly handsome reflection in the window pane as he fills the kettle with water. A mug of hot tea, that’s what he needs. He relaxes a little, feeling Honey weaving herself around his ankles, not for attention but for food; his awesome frame towers above her but she isn’t intimidated by his size. He gives her what she wants and her behaviour is merely instinctive.
“There you go honey.” He amuses himself with the endearment. “Get your teeth into that and I’ll tell you all about my day.” He scrapes out the remains of a half empty can of cat food and leaves it by his feet. “Let’s have half an hour to ourselves, then I’ll get to work. We’ve a job to do, I feel lucky tonight.”
He places the day’s newspapers and magazines on the battered sofa, throws yesterday’s take-away box off the single chair into a black bin bag and plonks himself down. On his knee rests a new pizza box: it’s pepperoni. He hits the news channel on his TV remote and lets it wash over him; he lives in the present but his thoughts reside in the past. Distant memories are as vivid as they were seven years ago. Letting go simply is not an option.
Fifteen minutes later, with the sizzling taste of pepperoni and cheese tingling his taste buds, he prepares to start the night shift. He is not a man to shy away from work, especially when it’s the same thing he did yesterday and the day before, and the day before that … looking for her.
The chair seems to give a grateful wheeze when he eases himself out of it and makes his way over to the kitchen table, carrying today’s purchases under his left arm. They drop onto the pine table with a thud and sit patiently waiting to be scanned for any trace of her. Laid out on the table is his equipment, tools for the job: a pair of scissors, a pad and a pencil at the ready to take notes to plan, to orchestrate an abduction or, at the very least, the consummation of a sexual encounter left unfinished.
An antiquated computer stands tall at one end of the table; any minute now it will be coughing and spluttering its way around the internet, pausing to catch its breath on social network sites like Facebook and Twitter. It may have been almost seven years but that’s nothing to him; he’s determined, ruthless and unrelenting in his search for Francis Parker.
Before starting his labour of love he glances up at his noticeboard at the hundreds of faded photographs, held up by coloured stickpins. Some of the photographs have become frosted and blurred over time, others have yellowed around the edges but, there is no mistaking the fact, they are of the same person: his obsession, his girl, his princess.
Around the board is a length of dusty, gold tinsel, a left over from six Christmas’ ago. The memory of the Christm
as he spent with her in his head, in his bed, it’s on replay. So much so, that it shifts and changes with every new recollection, each time there’s a new addition; each time a confirmation of their festive union. How does something that was once fantasy become corporal - it just does!
It’s 0100hrs and another wasted night. No sign of her, but he knows she’s out there, thinking about him, waiting for him. Every night he gets one step nearer to finding her.
He stands eye to eye with her faded image, remembering her smell, her voice and that look in her eyes, it excites him, makes him hard and ready. His mouth opens slightly and his hands unwrap, pinning her to the noticeboard with human hand cuffs.
“I’m going to find you, Princess.”
2
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.