TouchStone for ever (The Story of Us Trilogy) (10 page)

“You do.”

He places down the
menu. “Then I won’t read your thoughts. It will be more of challenge for me
that way.”

I snicker to myself.

“I’m beginning to
wish I hadn’t agreed to it now. What does that response signify?” he asks.

“It signifies
nothing. Merely the unlikely idea that anything I say or do could be a
challenge for you.” I fiddle with my knife. “A single click of your fingers and
voila. You get exactly what you want.”

He clicks his fingers
and the sound returns. It makes me squint.

“Would you prefer I
didn’t?”

“No!” I shout. “Turn
it off!”

Silence is restored.

“Now. What shall we
eat?”

“What do you like?” I
ask, making my own selection.

He places down the
menu. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you
don’t know?”

“The last time I was
here was some time ago. The food selection was much more … rustic.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I will trust
you to choose for me.” He scans the room for a waiter. “You make the selection
and I will select a bottle of suitable wine.”

I look on, surprised.
“You don’t know about food but you know about wine?”

“I’m using the prices
on this wine list as an indicator of quality.”

I’m shaking my head.
“That’s not a good idea.”

“No?”

“No. Some wines are
overpriced, and some wines are better than you might think for the price.”

“Then I’ll select a
wine somewhere in the middle and we’ll hope for the best.”

I begin to laugh.

“Clearly you are
finding my ineptitude in this matter amusing, Mrs. Stone?”

There’s no denying
it. I am. “If Ayden were here he’d be fussing around with food options and
selecting wine like a connoisseur. But …“I look down, unable to conceal my
sadness. “But he isn’t, so we’ll hope for the best.”

“I think not.” He
turns his head to his right and scopes the room until his eyes come level with
mine. He casts a knowing eye over the wine list again. “If you choose the fish
we’ll have the Pavillon Blanc du Château Margaux and if you select a meat dish,
we’ll have the Château Branaire-Ducru ’05.”

I’m astonished. “So
what did you do, read through a set of wine reviews in record time?”

“No, I accessed
Ayden’s knowledge about wines to inform my selection.”

“You did what?!” I
fall back into my chair. “How can you do that?” I don’t give him time to reply.
“No, let me guess. Because you can?”

He smirks ever so
slightly. “Yes.”

“Please don’t do
that. It’s bad enough you have his body. Please don’t take his memories too,” I
implore, taking hold of his hand across the table. “I’ve told you I’ll do this,
as best I can. It’s my love you want, and the whole experience of love in its
many forms. You don’t need Ayden’s recollections for that. You have to discover
it for yourself.”

“I may need his
knowledge on occasions with regard to his business. How else will I be able to
operate without prior knowledge?” He’s totally serious.

“Business knowledge
and personal knowledge are two different things entirely. You’re forgetting we
are man and wife, we have said and done things that are not meant to be shared,
especially not with you.”

He grips my hand.
“Are you asking me not to read
his
thoughts too?”

Slowly I nod, but say
nothing.

“In that case we must
create our own set of memories of a public, personal and private nature. Don’t
you agree?”

He has me boxed in.
“Yes.”

“Still hungry?” he
asks, like a swimmer testing the water.

“Starving,” I reply.
“I think we should both have the Fillet De Boeuf Au Poivre, don’t you?”

“The perfect choice.
The Château Branaire-Ducru ’05 it is then.”

With my lesson
learned, I make lively conversation. As delicious as the beef is, it sticks in
my throat and requires a hard swallow to force it down; the pomme frites go
untouched on my plate. Knowing my thoughts are my own, I’m listening
attentively, but my mind is drifting to better days. To an afternoon meal in
Rome;
the
castagnaccioa, chestnut cake for dessert, and “due cucchiai.” Just one solitary
memory taken from so many that led to even more
happy days
.

We toast to the
creating of new memories and I smile, taking his cheek in the palm of my hand
as I have done so many times before. “Cin cin, Ayden.”

“Cin cin, Beth”

***

Mack has dressed
quickly. He’s slipped into a comfortable pair of Sunday slacks and a grey
sweater that has become a little frayed at the cuffs. He has seen to his chores
and is setting up his Sat Nav. It’s a straightforward route; north on the M25
until he reaches the Harrow turnoff.

Even though it’s a
Sunday the motorway is still packed with cars and a caravan of haulage vehicles
advertising well-known supermarkets and delivery services. Mack sticks to the
speed limit and cruises at 70 miles per hour, forcing impatient drivers to
overtake him in the outside lane.

It’s 10.15 a.m. He’s
listening to the Archers, enjoying the watery sunlight and the scenery; it
makes a pleasant change from crime scene stills and paperwork. It’s good to be
out of the office.

Feeling a little
envious of the neighbourhood, he looks up a Miss. Richard’s third floor
apartment. It looks much like any other from the outside, but it’s the inside
that interests him.

Using the key from
her possessions box he enters, closes the door behind him and looks around;
he’s in no rush. He steps inside the lounge and remains motionless just inside
the door, taking it all in: the furniture, the boxes, the photographs scattered
on the floor like autumn leaves, crisp and curling around the edges.

His eyes are drawn to
the Whiskey bottle minus a top, the glass covered in lipstick and dirty
fingerprints. He makes an instant deduction. “Something upset you, Elise. I’m
here. Show me what it was.”

He takes a long look
at the three boxes in turn, drawing his finger along the open tops and running
it against his thumb until the black soot coats his skin like fingerprint
powder. He closes his eyes and sees her gripping the wheel of the modified
Shelby
Mustang GT 500
, threatening the life of the driver and herself;
the act of a desperate woman.

Moving on, he
rummages around in each box but finds nothing of value. Each one appears to be
storing up memories of no particular significance;  none more so than the one
ripped open. It’s full of photographs. He pieces clues together, taking his
time, massaging his chin between his finger and thumb. As his eyes dart from
left to right he is drawn to the photos on the floor, wondering why such a
woman would become so distraught over a photograph. Upon a closer inspection,
he thinks he may have found out why. One of the photographs is a newspaper
cutting of Mr. and Mrs. Stone. It documents their engagement: two beautiful
people in evening dress, obviously in love.

Weaving his way
through the debris, he stands above the photograph torn from the newspaper,
looking down upon it like a scientist through a microscope. But, as with every
scientific investigation, his must reorganise his focus and zoom out if he is
to make sense of it. “Come on, Elise. Talk to me,” he mumbles. “Show me what
brought you to your knees.”

 He closes his eyes
and waits to hear her voice. It comes to him slowly, making him smile for the
first time in quite a while. He follows the line of sight immediately above the
engagement photograph and sees a torn photograph of group of people, University
types. To the left of the group stands a shy, dark haired young woman. She
looks familiar. It’s cold and she is turning into her male companion; her hand
is positioned close to her mouth, coquettishly.  There’s nothing strange about
that.

Sensing there is more
to this than meets the eye, he takes out his notebook and begins jotting things
down excitedly, spurred on by the prospect of having stumbled upon something
meaningful. But there is more …

Directly above the
group photograph is a picture of three children. In the middle is a tall,
handsome boy; to his left is a blond girl with a fierce stare that he has seen
before. To his right is a little girl with a dark hair and an oversized pink
bow. As in the photo below it, she has her hand to her mouth and is turning
into him for protection. Mack balances his weight on the balls of his feet and
bends to inspect the photograph close-up.

All it takes is a
minute for the pieces to fall into place. The three of them have a history
together. He’s shaking his head. “Well, fancy that. I think we may have
stumbled across a secret you might not be able to sweep under the carpet, Mr.
Stone.”

Mack takes a clear
plastic bag from his pocket and placed the three photographs into it; then
seals it up and slips it back into his pocket. Dusting himself off, he stands
and tiptoes back towards the door. He presses a familiar number into his phone,
clears his throat and prepares to issue an order.

“Yeah, Sam, it’s
Mack. I’m at the Richards’s place in Hatch End. Tell forensics to come over
here and give it a sweep. I’d like to know who’s been here and what we’re
dealing with.” He doesn’t wait for a reply.

“Good. I’ll drop the
key off at 1p.m. I want them here today.” He nods “That’s right. The full
Monty. I think we’ve got some investigating to do with this one.” He returns
his mobile to his inside pocket, taking a preparatory breath. “Alright Elise,
let’s see what else you’ve left for me. You’ve got my attention.”

We
are home by 4.30 p.m. As it turns out, the red Bordeaux was an excellent
choice; the zing of pepper tickles my tongue and the cherry aftertaste lingers
on my taste buds, adding to a feeling of intoxication. In my nervous state I
must have consumed over half the bottle and, even though it was soaked up with
steak and crème brûlée, it has numbed my natural instinct to bolt.

“Coffee?” I call out
flouncing over to the kitchen. “Or do you want more wine?” When I turn to
observe his response, he’s is by my side.

“Wine would be good
but I think coffee would be the more sensible option at the moment.” He smiles
and eyes me as a teacher might a pupil. “Is this how you spend your Sundays?
Eating rich food and drinking overpriced wine?”

“It’s only overpriced
when you can’t afford it!” I remind him happily, snapping a cupboard door shut.
“Ayden signed everything over to me in Vegas, so I can afford the occasional
bottle of overpriced wine.”

He folds his arms and
leans back against the counter, looking more like my husband by the second.

“Is that so? And
there I was thinking that had run its course and you only had Power of Attorney
until yesterday.” He tips his head to the side, anticipating a tirade of
insults.

Refusing to look at
him I pour coffee into two cups. “I suppose you knew that and never thought to
tell me?”

He shrugs. “What
would have been the point? I’m better equipped to handle your husband’s affairs
than you, surely?”

I meet him head-on.
“At home and at work it would seem.”

“Precisely.”

Without a single sip
of coffee, I feel the effects of the wine diminishing; him taking control of
Ayden’s business interests is a very sobering thought. I push past him on my
way over to the sofa. “I hope you know more about business than you know about
wine or we’re fucked.”

He holds up his hand
and I am stopped in my tracks. I cannot physically move. “Stop it! Release me.”
My body jerks forward. “I get it. You’re in charge. You can do whatever you
want, whenever you want. You’re omnipotent, and I’m scared of you.” Jerking
forward, released from his grip, I place down my coffee cup and turn to face
him. “Isn’t that what you want to hear?”

He takes a lingering
look at me, his eyes softening. “Not at all.”

I flop down into the
leather sofa, at a loss, cornered. “You talk of love and yet you haven’t the
faintest idea what it is. Everything you do is for yourself and that’s not what
love is about.”

“Then tell me. Paint
me a picture of love that I might see it for myself.”

I smile mockingly.
“You see, you want me to spell it out for you, as if the answer lies in a
sonnet; to paint you a picture … assuming the answer can be found in colours on
canvas.” I reach for my coffee. “Love is more complex than that.”

“Forgive me but you
fell in love quickly. You met and made love and married in a month; is that not
what is referred to as a whirlwind romance?”

Affronted, I stand.
“You don’t know me. You’ve visited me four times in my whole life and yet you
presume to know me and make judgements about my love life. I don’t care who or
what you are. You don’t have the right to do that!”

 I’m about to walk
away and he raises his hand.

“Go ahead, stop me.
Make me stay. We both know you can.”

He lowers his hand
and I’m able to keep walking. Before I reach the lift I turn to him. “You
should never raise your hand to those you love. You know that, right?”

He says nothing.

Close to tears, I
come face to face with myself in the mirror in the en-suite bathroom, enveloped
in Ayden’s cologne; my eyes are drawn to our bed. Bernie has made it and every
surface is gleaming. She must wait for us to vacate the premises and slip in
covertly like an undercover agent. I must thank her.

As I return to the
bedroom, feeling in a better frame of mind, Ayden is standing by the window
looking out over a tidy stretch of green. He turns when I approach.

“Forgive my
insensitivity, Beth. I have been alone for too long. One forgets what it is to
consider others when there is so much to do.”

I find a resting
place on the edge of the bed. “You weren’t doing it intentionally. It’s just
your way.” I look down and play with my rings. “When I met Ayden five weeks
ago, almost to the day, my life changed forever. Somewhere out there in your
universe, two worlds collided; it was a fateful connection, written in the
stars as we say …” I stifle laughter.

“From the moment he
touched my hand and I looked into his eyes, I saw forever. I knew and so did
he. He’d kept the childhood memory of me alive, nurtured it. But I’d banished
it into the realms of my subconscious. He was my wish come true.”

He draws up the chair
and crosses his right leg over his left knee, rests his chin on his right hand
and invites me to continue with no more than a smile. 

“You see, I’d been
hiding myself away. Like you I thought I didn’t need love; I kept busy with my
job and night classes and my music. I thought I was happy but, truth be told, I
wasn’t. I was simply biding my time; waiting to be found – by Ayden.” I settle
my eyes on my wedding ring. “Read my mind.” I close my eyes …

I take Patrick’s arm
and walk toward Ayden, standing expectant and stunningly handsome. I see the
love in his eyes, I hear his words, I feel the pink ribbon in my hand, and I am
transported back to my childhood …

When I turn to face
him it’s through eyes that are swimming in tears. “So you see, the love I have
for my husband cannot be feigned or given easily, not even to you; we’re soul
mates - and that’s the one piece of him you cannot conjure up or command, only
possess.”

“So you cannot love
me,” he asks mournfully.

I shake my head. “I’m
saying that I want you to understand how difficult it is for me to exist
between a rock and a hard place. I want to give myself to you in the hope
you’ll show mercy and return Ayden to me. I’ve seen what you can do. You healed
us both with no more than a click of your fingers. And yet … it’s like
committing adultery.” I stretch out my left hand, allowing my engagement ring
to catch the light. The heart of stone is a constant reminder of the love I’ve
had and lost. “You have no concept of it, but I belong to Ayden – I always have
and always will. He carried me out of the shadows and showed me what life could
be like; he kissed me, woke me from a great sleep, and allowed me to live
again. That’s miraculous, in itself. As Ms. Bronte would say,
“’He is more
myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’”

He smiles and
contemplates the literary allusion.

“So … what I’m saying
is I need time; time to grieve the loss of our baby, and the loss of the only
man I have ever loved. Your party tricks are wondrous, but can never compare to
that.”

He bows his head.
“Yes, I see that now. Thank you for explaining it so eloquently.” He’s rubbing
his chin the way Ayden does when he’s thinking. “Will you allow me to read
Ayden’s thoughts? To see how he wooed you?”

The turn of phrase
makes me smile. “Wooed me?” My mouth twitches at the thought. “Oh, I think he
did more than that. He seduced the hell out of me.” My declaration makes me
laugh. “Alright.”

He’s smiling
pensively. “I like to see you laughing.”

“Well, keep talking
like that and you’ll see me laughing a whole lot more.”

“Then I shall.” His
smile dissolves. In its place is a thoughtful frown. We sit in silence, waiting
to be united once again through shared memories. I roll my rings around on my
slender finger unaware of the change befalling him.

 I glance up,
witnessing the transformation. Gone is that self-serving arrogance I’ve come to
expect; in its place I see a mixture of humility and uncertainty.

“Are you alright?
What did you see?”

He clears his throat.
“Unadulterated love in its purest form.”

His announcement
pierces my heart like a shard of broken glass. I conceal a quivering mouth
behind my hand. “So now you know?”

“I do.” He stands and
approaches me.

Unsure of his
intentions I lean back, fearful and apprehensive.

He reaches out. “Give
me your hand.”

My palm in moist but
he takes it anyway. “What are you doing?”

“Offering you a
lifeline, Beth.”

I take hold of his
hand and stand before him, my tear-stained face inches away from his. “I belong
to Ayden.”

“This is true,” he
says calculatedly, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

I gasp. “Don’t! Don’t
take the words from his mouth too. You have his body and his memories. Leave
him something.”

He raises his chin,
seemingly fighting his life-long habit of taking without regard for the
feelings of others. “Very well. I will lay him to rest and we shall continue
with our adventure, both better informed as to how we can move forward.”

I stand on my tiptoes
and kiss his left cheek. “Thank you.”

“You may be thanking
me prematurely, Beth.”

“Why?”

“Because you should
prepared yourself to be wooed, darling.”

I smile weakly.
“Ayden wouldn’t call me that.”

He kisses my right
cheek. “Then that’s precisely why I shall. Now go and tidy yourself up. Your
friend is parking her car outside.”

I roll my eyes and
head for the door. “I’ll see you in the lounge. Will you make sure there is
white wine in the fridge?”

“Any particular
vintage?” he asks for his own amusement.

“No,” I call out,
entering the lift. “Ayden’s made the choice for us both; you don’t need to go
pilfering his memory anymore tonight.”

With some serious
decisions made and our differences reconciled, I feel a little more settled. He
won’t pressure me to perform or drag me to his bed. All I must learn to do is
pretend everything is as it was, but doing that with Charlie around won’t be
easy.

Ayden stretches out
his arm and ushers Charlie out of the lift. She steps out in a flurry of
cheerful laughter, stripping off her winter coat, causing me to wonder what
he’s said in response to her thoughts.

She sprints over
towards me. “Holy fuck! Look at you!”

I hold out my hands
and glance down at my black skirt and crisp white blouse.

“You look amazing.
What did they give you at that friggin’ hospital, and where can I get some?”
Her arms tighten around me in a fierce bear hug. “I thought you’d still be in
bed resting, and here you are.”

“I feel fine Char,
just glad to be home. Come and sit down, Ayden will gets us a drink.”

Picking up on my
signal, he strolls in the direction of the kitchen. I sit and watch him opening
and closing cupboard doors in search of glasses.

“I couldn’t believe
it when they said you’d been discharged. I thought you’d be in there for at
least another week,” she says.

“I wanted to get out
and sleep in my own bed, wear my own clothes, you know?”

“Sure. Well, you look
like a new woman, Beth.” She takes my hand and whispers, “How’s Nurse Stone
coping?”

I see his head turn,
ears pricking up at the mention of his name. “Nurse Stone is becoming very
skilled in the nursing department.” I laugh at the thought.

He turns and shakes
his head at the likelihood of that ever being the case, making me laugh even
more.

“Did you hear that,
Ayden? You might be in line for a first-class reference if you can keep it up.”

Realising Charlie’s
comment is laced with sexual innuendo, he replies, “Rest assured, I will not
have a problem keeping it
up
, Charlie.” He hands us a glass of wine and
winks at me, leading me to believe, momentarily, I have my husband back.

With total
confidence, he states, “I make it my mission in life to exercise good practice
in all areas.” He positions himself next to me on the right and takes hold of
my free hand. As I listen to Charlie relaying her news, I feel his fingers
sliding between mine; he’s gently caressing my hand with his thumb as Ayden
would. My need for close contact with him ignites, making it impossible for me
to pull my hand away. This less than innocent gesture has gone unnoticed by
Charlie, but not by me.

“So how long are you
staying in Brussels for?” I ask, excitedly.

“Four days. Why don’t
you come along? It’ll be a break for you.” She taps my glass with hers.

You can’t go …

Hearing Ayden’s voice
I turn to him sharply only to be met with a carefree smile.

“Have you been to
Brussels before, Charlie,” he asks, not saying a word to me.

I continue to stare
at him.

It’s rude to stare …

I hear his voice but
his lips remain fixed in a roguish grin.