Chapter eleven, Friday:25thoctober2013, London, still no Daniel
Determined not to cry I walk purposefully through Heathrow airport, I can’t wait to get out of this nightmare. Yesterday afternoon I was standing on a Harajuku pavement in Tokyo, I had kissed Daniel goodbye and got in the back of the car. He stayed, I had urged him to come home with me, but he said he had a few things to do first. He was snappy, and I needed tea before my head exploded. Inside I slid down the window and looked at him standing alone on the walkway, watching as Daniels car pulled away down the street and I was alone. Like a nervous tick I keep checking the screen of both my phones, nothing from him. Why hasn’t he sent me a message?
X flying change.
I decide to contact a thread of normal life, horse related too, it calms me, and answer Liza's text.
LC: “Tharie, you all set for the weekend!” I will be.
TC: “Yes Liza, can’t wait” did I clean my tack already?
LC: “Mousse is so ready, wish me luck” she doesn’t need luck, she’s dedicated.
TC: “You don’t need luck honey, you’ll be brilliant” true story.
I begin day dreaming, I can’t wait to be on board a large bay horse galloping around a course, grass and leather smells and the sounds of snorting horses and hooves thumping along the ground. Its real, and I need real. Stan meets me at the departure gate rather than arrivals I get in like a train on tracks, not thinking or deviating, it’s automatic. I’m comfortable Stan is here, it’s something normal, a link to Daniel, I begin to relax. I still don't work Friday’s, but I have some investigative work to do, so I ask Stan to drive straight from the airport to the 'hall'. He’s having a ‘Robbie the robot’ moment, his clear instructions from his boss countermanded, his need to be loyal at odds with my instructions. His pistons are twisting and metaphorical steam emerges from his ears.
“Daniel instructed me to take you home Miss Charles” Stan says seriously.
But I can be serious too, “the office please Stan, I’ve just got a couple of things to do.” Stan nods, but he's not happy, not happy about it at all. Bet he tells on me too, bloody hell.
“When did you speak to Daniel Stan?” Wondering if he's contacted everyone except me, and a new wave of dread falls over me.
“I got his automated message Miss Charles,” he adjusts his heating dial with a little more zest than is necessary, “it just tells me what to do and when.” His eyes leave the road and look at me in the rear view mirror for a second and back again, he wants me to know my request is most irregular, well, clearly he’s not used to Designers. Everything about us is irregular, it's how we roll. True bloody story.
And we drive in silence, so I plug in my iPhone and listen to The Cult, because my brain is too noisy and questions about Daniel are keeping me from calmness. I need tea badly, I’m starting to shake, and the start of a wicked headache begins to brew.
The kill or cure type of medicine is needed.
TC: “Hi mum, how’s tai-chi?” Contact.
EC: “What’s up Catharine, you never ask me about that” busted!
TC: “I’ve just missed home, on the motorway heading to Essex” and counting the miles. I don’t tell her about the city stop off, she’d only worry.
EC: “Glad you’re back love, I worry when you're away, see you soon. Got to go, Marion is at the door.” Dog walking pal, she’ll be out for hours, Mum doesn’t have a dog, she's a cat person like me, she just likes the walk.
It's getting late, already almost dark outside. I have to get home to the horses, but there's something I must do first. I still have the jeans we bought packed in the bottom of my Burberry, Daniel trusts me with them and I’m to put them in my safe. He tells me where it is, and I get the feeling they're burning a hole in the bottom. I don’t want to be carrying them around any-more, there’s something about them that makes me nervous. I stash the neat calico bag immediately, precisely where Daniel has told me too, and I still haven’t spoken to him since I left him in Harajuku. My phone demands my attention and I’m happy with the connection to my real life, I can almost pretend the last week hasn’t happened at all, it was just an intense dream.
TC: “Pete, home, call you later” I just need a hot bath and my pyjamas to get settled. And tea, lots of bloody tea.
PF: ”Honey, can’t wait to see you once you’ve reconnected with your horses, see I do understand? We’ll catch a drink?” She does get it.
TC: ”Can’t wait” and I realise that's never been truer.
PF: ”You OK?” How does she do that? She knows me well.
TC: ”Not sure” which is true.
PF: ”Daniel?” She’s good.
TC: ”Bingo”, what’s wrong with me?
PF: ”Men, that’s why I like girls….too” I miss her.
TC: “Catch you soon I hope” really soon.
PF: “Count on it” she’ll always be there, always tell me straight, even though she may not always want me that way.
In my office I stand at my monitor, there’s a lingering smell of potent hand-cream in the air I am having a hard time recognising the origin. My brain is working to connect the necessary paths to recall who owns this perfumed emollient. A woman certainly, and there is also a smeared trace of the grease on my keyboard...Clarins? Someone's been in here. I turn as someone enters, Steffi, looking very surprised to see me, she looks like she's just walked into an invisible wall, though she shouldn’t have the key to my studio, so what was she expecting to find? My cranium is drilling a pneumatic pressure in my head, in which someone could be messing with my things, makes me anxious, I like my stuff just so.
XM, half-pass to the right.
“Hello” she looks awkwardly around, “good to see you back Tharie,” and looking nervously about my room she hands me some paperwork, I hate paperwork. “We weren’t expecting you back until next week.”
“No? Well with me, you've got to expect the unexpected.” I annunciate clearly, it's a warning. Her face turns to stone, warning received and understood. I treat the handful of spreadsheets with the contempt it deserves and almost drop it to my worktop like it is diseased. Rub my fingertips together to make certain I haven't caught anything. Steffi notices and the corners of her mouth twitch.
“Everything OK?” She asks, but already I have noticed she is scanning my studio for something. My safe, she’ll never find it, Daniel told me only he and I know where it is. My brain makes a quick connection, and the smell belongs to her, she’s been in here sniffing around, and now it’s me doing the sniffing.
I can play that game too, “and I thought you were away Steffi, decided not to go?” See, I can be a bitch too. “You had some loose ends to deal with here?” Bait, will she admit she was in here, likely not, but now she knows I know she was. Bingo.
She looks at me not certain whether or not to answer, “I fly tomorrow night,” she finally says her lips tighten in a smirk. “You alright?” She’s enjoying herself, “you look pale Tharie”
M, flying change. MCH collected canter.
I can’t look her in the face, a dread feeling that I’m not safe here, that she intends to do me harm hits me between the eyes, I step backwards. “I’m fine, have you heard from Daniel?” Is all I can utter.
She looks at me like a cat eyeing up a mouse but can’t decide when to pounce. I handle my phone pretending to swipe the surface and answer a call, happily for me she decides another time, when she has a better advantage, and I’m not on the phone.
“I’ll let you know when he’s back on the radar.” She says over her retreating shoulder “he’ll let me know when he’s home Tharie,” one last scan around my room, and she disappears down the stairs. Outside my room is a walkway and a balcony overlooking the ‘hall’ below. Next door are 2 more offices and at the end is the kitchen. Taking a breath, grabbing my mustang mug I decide a cup of tea is in order. I love to make tea as well as drink it, the ritual has been perfected over the years, I must have neural pathways, learned behaviour making tea, it’s automatic, and comforting.
I have an immediate need to connect with the one person that means safety to me, and send a text.
TC: “Hi Mum” I miss her.
EC: “Where are you Catharine?” Have I already told her I’m home? She never listens.
TC: “I’m home” she likes it when she knows where I am.
EC: “Glad you’re back, you know I worry, did you get your haircut yet?” Every time.
TC: “Not yet Mum, I’ve been busy” true story.
EC: “Come and visit soon, I am your Mother you may remember me? Marion has grandchildren you know?” I’m getting another telling off by the one person I’d ever let do that, she’s got a very good point too. My hair does need cutting.
Deep breath:
TC: “Love you”
And I really, really do too.
Where is Daniel?
Feeling a little calmer now, with my steaming tea in one hand and phone in the other, none of my calls or texts have been answered by him and I move to check my mails. My little purple icon jumps up and down, Daniels 'out of office' is still on. And I have nothing from him in my in-box. Longing for him to be here, to speak to him to know he's OK, I miss him and wonder whether it's me he's hiding from. Did I do something wrong? I look over the last two texts we sent each other, to reconnect with Daniel. My feelings growing inside me, this man that I just met, driving me crazy with desire and making me feel gorgeous like I never have before. This sexy, hard, dark incredible man that wants me, plain, nothing special to look at Tharie Charles
I close my eyes and exhale, reading the first text: “Tharie Charles, I am going to masturbate you all the way to Tokyo, fist f*ck you, lick you from my fingers, I am hard for you right now.” Not exactly romantic I’d be the first to agree, but we don’t do romance, maybe that’ll come later if we date like normal people do. God I miss him, my sex tightens in spasm at yearning for even a touch of him right now.
Note to self, be careful introducing him to Mum.
My reply: 'Mr Pearce, I will lick your cock from the base along the glistening underside to the bulb at the tip and suck gently when I get there, like a sweet ice cream, and I’m catching the melted drips with my mouth.
“I’m coming over right now, are you ready for me baby?” And we left for the airport, after a little lie-down of course. Questions, too many of them floating about waiting to be caught. Why am I doing this to myself? What's all this stuff going on? Why are those jeans so important? How do you ride the perfect fly-change? What's the missing part of that bloody Blake poem? And why was Steffi in my office? All good questions Miss Marple, what next?
Tea?
Setting my cup on my rubber embossed eagle and ship logo’d place mat, I wonder at the jean in my safe. Which makes me wonder whether I am safe, then my brain goes somewhere I was dreading, is Daniel safe? “Bloody hell, where is he?” To myself at a whisper.
I carry my tea to the balcony and peer over the edge. Steffi is talking to James, looks like an argument, he glances up at me and the conversation stops dead as they both stare. It’s comical actually as if someone's clicked the pause button. I salute with my teacup as if to indicate everything is OK, they exchange conspiratory looks between them, say a few words each and swiftly part. Satisfied I’ll be alone for the next few minutes, I rush back inside, close the door, grab Daniels remote still in my parka, search for the key button, press it and hope. Nothing happens for a few seconds, and just as I’m about to press it again impatiently, I hear a hiss of escaping air. Beside me set into the thick worktop of my desk, thicker than it needs to be for a regular desk but not suspicious to a casual observer, a tray slides out from under the overhang. Slowly it slides toward me controlled by a little motor I can now hear a soft hum, and there lying safe in the tray is the little calico bag with the metal seal intact.
I quickly shut it up, look around me nervously, my Grandma would have called it my guilty conscious look. And finish my tea.
I can’t help trying for the umpteenth time, I just can’t drop it.
TC: “Daniel, please let me know where you are, and that you’re OK” please, please, please.
It’s 7pm, and I’m out of here.
Stan is dutifully waiting outside for me and the car hums to life when I appear from the doorway. He takes me home to my little cottage and I find I am exhausted from my brain to my toes, and just want to sleep. My boys look up at me emerging from the car for a second as the headlights of the car sweep over the fields as it turns into my driveway. They clock it’s me of course, I'm their primary butler, and get back to the important job of eating grass. How I envy their simple life. “Thank you Stanley.” He carries my bag to my front door.
“You’re welcome Miss Charles.” Too tired to argue about addressing me like a bank manager, I just nod and my key goes in the lock. Stan is about to turn away when I ask him, “have you heard anything from Daniel, Stanley?”
He looks professional at all times but I taste a feint flavour of worry too, “no Miss, not yet, but don’t worry, Daniel can look after himself, I’m sure he’s fine.” I’m not convinced, and more than that, I think he is worried too. I let myself in, drop my bags on the floor like a temperant teenager, feed my cats and change to do the horses. I can’t wait to see them up close, and fling my arms around their big strong necks, bury my face in them for comfort, and that’s exactly what I do. And get mud in my hair of course as a consequence.
Hay in my bra too now, tick. Good times.
I play out my practised routine, feed the horses and sweep their yard, hay everywhere, they have had a great time with their edible toy and have dragged large sections of it across the yard. They stand and watch as I toil to clear up, my yard has to be immaculate, well, you never know when the Queen will visit. Well, I’ve heard she likes to pop in without any warning, or was my Mum making another point about my appearance, can't remember? Knowing the moment I shut the yard gate and retreat back to the cottage, the fun can begin again. Tomorrow is the show, I have to be up early. I try not to think about Daniel, and it takes every ounce of my being, I miss him. Miss his deep voice and his touch, but with the horses, I can think only of them, so my brain can be quiet for a while.
I check my phones and e-mails before going to bed, still nothing. Where is he? I want him here, with me, beside me, inside me.
How have I become this needy?
Let’s have another cup before bed eh?