TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (6 page)

of Mango. Hardly uber designer but smart and stylish.

With the aid of my Sat Nav, I weave my way through Sunday afternoon traffic listening to Will

Young urging me to be
Stronger.

It’s 2p.m. when I arrive at Alenka’s address, unsure if she’s even home. She could be posing in

Paraguay for all I know. The only thing I am sure of, is I’m about to face a taller, smarter, richer and

more beautiful woman who, I suspect, is still in love with Ayden. Is it little wonder I’m filled with

dread.

By way of a final check, I take a look at myself in the sun visor mirror. I look fresh faced and

rested; my eyes are the colour of the summer sky – as Ayden would say - and there’s nothing stuck

between my teeth. Let’s do this.

Number 24 is the last house on the left; a Georgian town house with four steps up and four floors

from basement to attic. It must be worth a fortune. I hear the doorbell sounding inside, giving me the

time I need to straighten my T-shirt and inhale a much needed gulp of cool city air.

On opening the door she takes a step backwards. “Well ...”

It’s as if she is expecting me. And there I was thinking I had the element of surprise on my side.

“Elizabeth. I was wondering how long it would take you to summon up the courage to come and see

me. Do come inside.”

She wafts me in. I feel like the proverbial fly entering the parlour of a ravenous spider. I stroll into

a stunning hallway: tiled floor, enormous staircase and an ornate mirror the size of my sofa.

For some reason I can only offer a crooked smile and quickly straighten my face, before moving

into her enormous lounge.

“Please, sit down. Can I offer you a drink: coffee, water, wine?”

“No, thank you, I doubt I’ll be here long enough to drink it.” My voice is controlled, but I’m

actually starting to perspire beneath my blazer; my nerves are so frayed. “I’ve not come here to make

idle conversation over a glass of Pinot Grigio.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

She sits across from me and tucks here supermodel legs underneath her body in a kind of yoga

move that makes me suspect she’s double jointed on top of everything else.

“Why are you here?”

“I’d like to sort out a couple of things if that’s alright with you?” I’m getting into my stride.

There’s no stopping me now.

“Perfectly.”

Here she sits like a princess on her throne, so fucking perfect; even her voice is cultured and

refined. I hate her with a vengeance. Her glossy auburn hair is tied back into a loose pony tail; the

flyaway strands any other woman would sweep away, she has left hanging, giving off a kind of

untamed look that adds to her attractiveness. She’s only wearing a simple skirt and camisole top in

olive green to match her eyes and it’s tight enough to show her ample breasts, allowing them to press

up against the material provocatively. I daren’t even contemplate the lengths to which she must have

gone to seduce Ayden; he didn’t stand a chance.

“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Ask away.” She places her hands on her lap, totally unruffled and comfortable in her own skin.

I draw first blood. “Are you in love with Ayden?”

“Yes. Next question.”

What? I’m taken aback. “You are?”

“Yes, aren’t you?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”

Wait a minute. I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions.

“Well then.”

She’s smiling so sweetly, I honestly think I may have to hit her over the head with a blunt

instrument before I leave. Just to satisfy my need to knock that smug smile off her face.

“If you love him then why did you end the relationship in November?” I’ve had enough of her

games.

She looks crestfallen. “I had no choice.”

“What do you mean – no choice?”

Words do not come easy to her. “I ... I was not in a position to give him what he needed.”

“And what was that?”

I do believe she is finding these questions unsettling. She’s smoothing out the strands of hair that

have escaped the hair band and thinking very carefully about her words.

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you. This is something you will have to discover for yourself, Elizabeth.”

She uses my full name, a name only Ayden uses. It has connotations of intimacy and I hate the way

those four syllables leave her mouth. “You don’t know me?”

She sniggers and I want to slap her. “Oh, I think I do. You would be surprised what Ayden has told

me about you ...”

I hate myself for going along with this but she has me on the back foot. “Like what?”

Let’s hear it …

“Um … there’s your love of music.”

I shrug my shoulders, unimpressed.

“Your fear of flying.”

I dismiss that with a smug laugh. She’s guessing.

“And your willingness to be tied up and fucked by him.”

I manage to conceal my horror, even though I’m beginning to feel physically sick. Has Ayden

actually discussed what we get up to in the bedroom with her?

I won’t believe it. I can’t …

“I think you have a very active imagination, Alenka.” I shake my head from right to left, dispelling

the possibility of her actually knowing anything.

She smiles broadly, maybe thinking about something; a memory of Ayden and her together. I try to

banish that thought; allowing myself to fall into her trap will only cause me further distress.

“Unfortunately, I was not imaginative enough. If I had been, then maybe I would be the one

wearing that ring instead of you.”

“But you’re not and if you continue to stalk Ayden, if I catch sight of you again, I will have a

restraining order served against you.”

She looks genuinely mystified. “I have no idea what you are referring to.
I’m
not a stalker. I have

never been and do not intend to be. Take a look at me. Do you think with this body, I have a shortage

of admirers?”

Her eyes lock onto mine. I think she is quite insulted by my accusation.

Good.

“Then why were you in Rome on Friday? Are you going to tell me you happened to be in the same

place at the same time as Ayden and myself? Please...” I return the stare and confidently await her

reply

“I can’t explain. I would like to but I cannot.”

Her eyes edge away from mine and settle on the window, facing the light. I see her elegant features

for what they are: breath-stealing. Even without make-up she’s stunning. No wonder Ayden was drawn

to her. But, the fact remains. She cannot look me in the eye. What isn’t she telling me?

“Look Alenka, if you love Ayden as you say you do, then let him get on with his life. I can make

him happy. Don’t you want him to be happy?”

“I do and I would do anything for him, for his happiness.” There
is
definitely something she’s not

telling me.

“What have you done?” I may not get the answer I want to hear, but I have to ask the question.

She hesitates, before beginning her disclosure. “I will tell you, but promise me you will never tell

Ayden ...”

A simple nod is all it takes.

“As a special favour Ayden asked me to take the jet from Heathrow to Paris to pick up a ring from

Cartier; to fly from there to Rome and to be at the Spanish Steps at 2.15p.m.” She pauses and smiles

sardonically, noticing my astonishment.

This is definitely not the answer I was expecting.

“I saw you together, you were embracing. I saw the way he looked at you and I knew: he loves you.

So, as planned, when he was holding you close I came behind you and passed him the box with the

ring he had made for you. That’s why I was in Rome at
that
place at
that
time.”

I open my mouth to speak but no words come out other than, “Well ... thank you. That must have

been difficult for you?” I offer a sympathetic smile but she will have none of it. She’s too proud to

accept consolatory gestures from me.

“It was not easy but when someone you love asks you to do something for them, you cannot refuse.

This you will find this out for yourself, I think.”

At that moment it becomes apparent. For all her supermodel perfection, she’s just a 27 year old

woman like me who is in love with a wonderful man. The difference is she knows she can never have

him. That must be a crippling pain to ensure.

“Sometimes, devotion is painful and the love of someone like Ayden comes at a price.”

She faces me head on. I see a hazy mist overshadowing the diopside coloured flecks in her eyes.

She is near to shedding a tear.

“The last time we met I was quite rude I think and I apologise for that, but I tried to warn you. That

night, when I saw you leaving without him I thought you’d be able to stand up to him. Was I wrong?”

I cannot escape her stormy eyes. “No, you weren’t wrong.” I have no intentions of saying any more

and she knows it.

In the next room a phone rings. “Please excuse me. I have to take this call. Please feel free to look

around.”

I watch her glide into another room, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a lawless impulse to

rifle through her things. Instead I tiptoe into the next room.

Along the far wall are rows of framed photographs of her: she’s a vision of physical perfection,

elegance and beauty. What strikes me is her ability to transform into a different person thanks to

lights, costumes and skilled air brushing: she’s a changeling. No wonder Ayden had her by his side for

six months. What an unforgettable impression she must have made on his business associates and

friends.

I catch my own reflection in the glass, stand back and superimpose my body onto hers. There is no

comparison. I cannot fill the space with my slender frame and my blue eyes merely twinkle like stars,

swallowed up in a cloudy sky. I cannot compete with her. I feel my insecurities clinging to my T-shirt,

seeping through to my heart. What the hell does Ayden see in me?

Quickly, I step to my right in an attempt to leave the self-doubt behind and saunter into a side

room. Again it’s a shrine to Princess Alenka, only some of these photographs are not the kind you

would want to put on public display. The primary colours, the African prints and the monochrome has

been replaced by stark images of bondage and supplication. Alenka is either clad in what looks like a

leather bikini or naked. I suppose they are what could be called ‘artistic.’ I’m not sure what to think

but, before I can make my escape and return to the respectable covers of Vogue and Marie Clare,

Alenka appears behind me.

“For most of my photographs it’s my vanity that forces me to have them framed and displayed like

this. I was, what do you say, the ugly duckling in my family. I had intelligence but was always too tall

and too skinny to be considered attractive.”

I turn around and give her a disbelieving stare. Where have I heard that story before?

“You don’t believe me but it is true. I have most of them in this house to remind me that I am, in

fact, a swan.”

She tilts her chin up and strikes a graceful pose. I don’t know her well enough to be able to deduce

whether she is joking or exhibiting one of the most assured displays of arrogance I have ever seen.

“Well, no-one would ever doubt that Alenka.”

“But these photographs are here for a very different reason.” She stares up at them longingly, the

glow from the picture lights highlighting her features. “You cannot see it, but there is love here.”

I take a closer look. One depicts her on her knees, blindfolded and bound to the end of a bed with a

leather rope of some kind; head bent in a submissive pose, naked and exposed.

To the right of it is a photo of her holding a striking pose. Again blindfolded and standing, stretched

out. Her arms and legs are bound to a wooden structure and there she stands, in the shape of a human

cross; her legs go on for miles, her breasts are fighting to get out of a leather bikini.

Wow!

The third is the most outrageously erotic of the three. She is stretched out and handcuffed to the

four corners of the bed, blindfolded and totally naked, but there’s a serenity to her face that shocks

me.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I confess. “They’re very erotic and you look at peace in them,

not scared or as if you’re being tortured.” I turn to face her and shrug. What the hell do I know?

“Do they scare you?” She asks with such gentleness I feel the need to give her an honest answer.

“No. Scare is the wrong word. They’re provocative, intimate and very artistic.”

I hear a deep sigh. “They’re my favourite pictures in the house. That’s why they are in here and not

out there.” She tips her head in the direction of the lounge.

“They’re amazing photographs Alenka.” I turn to leave.

“Yes they are. Ayden took them.”

Three words. That’s all it takes to stop me from taking another step, another breath. My gasp must

have been audible as it causes her to take my arm.

I nail her to the spot with a seething stare. “Alenka, will you stop at nothing to get him back?” I