A Gift to Remember

by Melissa Hill

  And while my boss might be a tough taskmaster, I also know that my efforts are appreciated and my input respected.

  For example, I can take personal credit for some of Max Bailey’s quirkier personality traits, like his preference for vintage Mustangs (yes, my own fault) and his secret love of great literature – the latter surprisingly at odds with his kickass renegade persona and, I like to think, one of the reasons that makes him so popular with female readers.

  Hence Will’s beloved library. I had helped him with much of the selection and indeed procured – thanks to George at Christie’s – many of the rarer first editions, most notably the Marlowe, who happened to be Max Bailey’s favourite writer. Will routinely joked that his popular character was as much my creation as his and to be fair, routinely credits me in the book Acknowledgements, thanking me for my input.

  And he was very understanding all throughout my domestic issues a while back, offering to let me stay here at the brownstone for a while until I managed to get things sorted.

  I guess that’s a side to the guy that people like my sister don’t understand, and one of the reasons I will go to the ends of the earth to find what Will wants when he wants it – because we aren’t just boss and employee; over the years we have in a way become good mates, albeit from completely different sides of the tracks.

  Will has always been wealthy, after all, hailing from a family of well-to-do Scandinavians who made good in the US, whereas I’m just a Dublin immigrant still making my way in New York.

  To say that benefits at the Met, Rothko paintings and skiing holidays in Val d’Isère are beyond my usual sphere of existence is an understatement, although by the nature of the job, I get the opportunity to sample the more glamorous side of Manhattan – repeated dealings with Christie’s and my open-ended chequebook a case in point. I like it. But ‘not permanent’ as Ciara would say.

  Pouring another coffee, I checked my emails and immediately spotted one from Will which, judging by the time, he’d sent yesterday a few hours before the première.

  Man, I can’t believe you came through for me! You’re a miracle worker, Aidan, and I don’t know what I’d do without you. This baby is beautiful! I can’t WAIT to drive down Hollywood Boulevard, pull up outside Grauman’s and step out onto the red carpet from this. James Bond who?

  Seriously, man, I owe you one and wish you could be here, but I know you’re taking good care of my buddy back home. Hope he’s OK. In the meantime, I wanted to get you a little something to show my appreciation – not for Christmas, because needless to say that’s gonna be a kickass bonus – but something that I hope you’ll like. Hell knows, you deserve it. I left it all wrapped up in the office; in the top desk drawer on the right-hand side. Key’s in the usual place.

  So thanks again, man, and wish me luck for later. We’re really going to blow ’em all away in these wheels. See you on the 24th!

  Will

  Chapter 41

  Longest way round is the shortest way home. James Joyce

  In the Apple Store, Darcy pulled Aidan’s broken iPhone out of her bag and sat it on the countertop as Jenna powered up the new one.

  ‘Hmm,’ the younger girl said after a beat.

  Darcy looked up and sighed, wondering what the problem was now.

  ‘Just to make you aware that not everything will transfer. Anything that wasn’t backed up to iCloud likely wasn’t saved. Images, apps, things like that.’

  iCloud? It was all gobbledegook to Darcy. ‘Well, I never back up my phone. Does that mean I would lose everything if something happened to it?’

  Jenna remained polite but Darcy could sense that oh you’re one of those people was running through her mind. ‘Do you want to know how many people come into the store who lose everything because they don’t religiously back up their device?’ the younger girl chided gently.

  Darcy felt somewhat heartened that she, along with Aidan apparently, weren’t religious backer-uppers. ‘Well, forgive me for not being a techie,’ she said as Jenna continued to mess about with the iPhone.

  ‘It has nothing to do with being a techie,’ the assistant said simply. ‘It has to do with something like this.’ She gave Darcy a knowing look. ‘Imagine if you were knocked unconscious and had a broken phone causing a data loss, making things so much harder for the person trying to help you?’

  Darcy had to smile. ‘Honestly Jenna, perhaps you should use Aidan’s situation as a new case study for Apple.’

  ‘OK, here we go. The new device is now up and running.’ Jenna pushed the handset across the table to Darcy, who suddenly felt her hands begin to tremble a little, as if it was a bomb waiting to be detonated. Today’s phones were surely comparable to personal diaries of old; given the opportunity, you were likely to learn both bad and good about the person who owned them.

  She couldn’t deny feeling somewhat melancholy, knowing that the contact details of everybody whom Aidan knew and loved were assuredly in this phone, which meant that her role in his story would undoubtedly soon be over. Aidan was sure to be furious and would never want to see her again once he figured out the incorrect information Darcy had been feeding him.

  ‘Well, I guess I’d better get going,’ she said, pulling herself together. ‘Thanks again, Jenna. I really appreciate your help with this; I know Aidan will too. And I promise to back my phone up in future.’

  ‘Good, and not a problem – any time.’

  Saying goodbye to the assistant, Darcy checked her watch and went back upstairs and outside, but knew it would likely be some time before Aidan made his way back from Long Island. So she’d been right about the Mets keyring then at least. But she’d been wrong about so many other things.

  As per Aidan’s instruction on the written authorisation to Apple, the password protection on the new phone had not yet been activated, because it was unlikely that Aidan would remember the old one. Which meant that his personal information was available for all to see. Darcy took the handset out of her pocket again and stared at it, wrestling with her conscience. She would be seeing Aidan in a few minutes, and with this, hopefully empowering him with all the information he needed to get his life back.

  Very different information to what Darcy had provided.

  But just how different? she wondered. OK, so instead of being a millionaire, Aidan worked for one, which if she thought about it actually sounded reasonable, given that he’d never shown signs of having any airs or graces whatsoever. And while he might not own that amazing library, he was still extremely well read and, Darcy guessed, likely appreciated the book collection perhaps even more than its owner did.

  She thought then about the travel souvenirs, running medals and pictures of someone she’d assumed was Aidan, skiing and skydiving, but were likely of Will – a genuine mistake, given that his features had been partly obscured in almost all of them, and Darcy wouldn’t have known to think otherwise in any case.

  Aidan may not have travelled to all of these places or done any of those activities – which went some way towards explaining why he had absolutely no memory of them – but did that matter in the grand scheme of things?

  He might not be Bailey’s owner either, but clearly he loved and cared for the dog just as much if not more, given that his only memory when waking up had been of the gorgeous Husky.

  And it was also unlikely that Aidan was in a relationship with a ballet dancer called Melanie. It was much more probable that she was in fact Will’s girlfriend, or at least one of them, given her diatribe on the answering machine and the author’s known reputation as a ladies man. And now that she thought about it, Darcy did recall noticing that the author’s hair was thinning a little bit at the top . . . hence the Rogaine.

  Thinking about it all she felt a faint glimmer of hope about the prospect of Aidan being unattached, and she gradually felt calmer as the wheels began to turn and some of the pieces started to fall into place. Though she cursed herself for all the time she’d wasted over the last five days chasin
g down blind alleys trying to help Aidan, when in reality she’d likely been delaying his recovery. So much for trying to make amends.

  Then she thought of something else. The gift box – where did that come into it? If the item Aidan had been so eagerly chasing for the last few weeks had actually been a vintage car, then where had the gift he’d been carrying that day come from, and who was it intended for?

  Darcy thought back and tried to figure out why she’d immediately assumed that the gift was important. She recalled that it was because of the first message she’d heard on what she now knew was Will’s answering machine. But the woman phoning about being ‘let down’ had definitely been looking for Aidan – had even mentioned him by name, she was sure of it.

  So maybe Darcy had been right in guessing that Aidan was on his way to meet someone on the morning of the accident. But who? And was this person the gift’s intended recipient?

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, Aidan’s iPhone started to ring in her hand, and Darcy almost jumped out of her skin. She looked down at the display and her eyes widened.

  Mel calling.

  Darcy’s mind raced. Mel? As in Melanie Rothschild?

  OK, so maybe she hadn’t got everything completely wrong, after all.

  She glanced quickly across the road to the subway entrance to see if there was any sign of Aidan yet, but even if there was, Darcy knew she wouldn’t be able to reach him in time for him to answer this call. And Mel, whoever she was, must be going out of her mind with worry by now.

  ‘Hello?’ Darcy answered, not sure if she was doing the right thing. ‘This is Aidan Harris’s phone.’

  ‘What . . . where is he? What’s going on? Who are you?’ gasped the person on the other end of the line, and Darcy could hear the desperation in her voice and realised that it had to be one of Aidan’s loved ones, or someone who’d be at least concerned about his absence. Finally!

  ‘It’s OK,’ she soothed. ‘Aidan’s OK, I promise. Please don’t worry. He was in a slight accident a few days ago, and his phone was damaged, which is why he’s been out of contact for a while, but he’s just got it back and—’

  There was a loud cry and then a muffled voice saying something like, ‘I don’t know,’ and Darcy winced, wondering if she should have tried to phrase it all better. But she had assured the caller that Aidan was OK and tried her best to explain why he’d been inaccessible, which was the most important information, wasn’t it?

  Then a different voice appeared on the other end of the line.

  ‘Who is this?’ a decidedly less emotional and more assured older woman asked sharply. ‘Where is Aidan? And what have you said to upset my daughter?’

  ‘I’m sorry . . . Mrs Rothschild, is it?’ Darcy ventured hesitantly, trying to figure things out.

  ‘Who is this? Where is Aidan?’ the woman demanded.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset anyone, Mrs Rothschild,’ Darcy babbled.

  ‘Well then, for goodness’ sake explain! And I’m not Mrs Rothschild, whoever that is,’ the woman added irritably. ‘I’m Mrs Harris, Aidan’s wife.’

  Chapter 42

  I sat down with my coffee, delighted that Will was so happy with the car – it truly made all the stress and strain of trying to secure it worthwhile. Just as I was about to close out of the email, however, I noticed a P.S. underneath his sign off.

  P.S. Oh and by the way, if that crazy Melanie calls the house while you’re there, just ignore it – she’s still not getting it, and has left about a hundred screaming messages on my cell since I got here. My own fault for dating a psycho . . . hey you know what I mean, you saw Black Swan . . .

  I smiled. Checking the time, I realised that I really needed to get a move on if I wanted to take Bailey for a run, then drop him down to the daycare place before meeting Ciara.

  I stood up and took my coffee into the office, curious about Will’s so-called ‘thank you’ gift. But at the same time, I knew better than to get too excited.

  For a man so incredibly imaginative in many ways, he very often came up short in others, especially when it came to choosing gifts.

  If it weren’t for my intervention, at Christmas his mother would be getting a blender from Pottery Barn instead of cashmere from Bergdorf, and his girlfriend gloves from Macy’s instead of earrings from Tiffany’s.

  Or girlfriends even. It was proving increasingly difficult to keep up with those, especially lately when he’d been meeting lots of new people out in LA, and thus neglecting some on the East Coast.

  My gaze rested on the bikini shot of Melanie Rothschild on the shelf nearby – a case in point. She’d evidently put it there during a stay-over one time, evidently not realising that this wasn’t Will’s office but mine.

  Preferring to keep work and home life separate, he rented a space in the Trump Office Tower on Fifth where he wrote when he wasn’t travelling, surrounded by all the various editions of the Max Bailey books to inspire him.

  And since we’d decided that part of my role should encompass taking care of Bailey (actually I’d insisted), it made sense for me to have a base at the townhouse, especially for the accounts part, though in reality most of my work involved being out and about, gathering specifics for research, meeting with publishers, or like last week, chasing down some of Will’s more obscure requests.

  I’d recognised right off the bat that the ballet dancer was dangerously smitten with Will – not a good idea when the same man hadn’t committed to one girl since preschool – and I had once even tried to gently warn her, obviously to no avail.

  Finding the key under the blotter, I opened the desk drawer, curious to see what Will had chosen for me. But seeing as his last gift to me was rather disappointing – being a replica of some dagger that had featured in one of the Max Bailey books – I didn’t have high hopes.

  And taking out the beautifully wrapped but suspiciously book-shaped package, I realised that my instincts had been right on the money.

  Will had a habit of gifting me signed first editions of his own work – a kind gesture certainly – and seeing as the new Max Bailey book was due out in the New Year, I guessed that this was exactly what was contained in the package.

  Never mind, I thought, absentmindedly tidying the desk and shoving the file from Christie’s back into the drawer; like they said, it’s the thought that counts.

  Back in the kitchen I tidied everything away; put the laptop back in its rightful place in the office and my cup in the dishwasher before attaching a skittish Bailey to his lead.

  ‘Come on, boy, time to get moving. We have a busy day ahead of ourselves today.’ I clapped my hands and Bailey yawned. Clearly, he didn’t share my urgency.

  I hurriedly shoved the gift box into a bag I found in Will’s pantry, deciding I’d open it later. If anything, Ciara would get a kick out of it.

  Smoothing down my Cole Haan coat in the hallway, I brushed some lint off the sleeve. It really was a nice coat. Way too nice truthfully, but in my line of work, I thought, glancing at that insanely expensive Rothko – another impulsive purchase of Will’s upon selling the movie rights – you had to keep up with appearances.

  Bailey and I walked quickly through the snow-filled streets, and I couldn’t help but notice that today, everything looked fresh and new to me. It was often like that after I’d finished a difficult assignment; as if a great weight had been lifted and I could concentrate on something other than the task in hand.

  Looking around, and for the first time in days truly taking in the beauty that the city had to offer, especially at this time of year, I felt my heart and my spirit soar.

  Going up to the Park entrance on Eighty-Sixth Street, I took our usual meandering route around the reservoir and then down past the lake and out at Central Park South, before heading back in the direction of Eighth Avenue where Bailey’s occasional daycare place ‘Puppy Love’ was located.

  I tapped my foot on the ground and out of nowhere started humming ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christma
s’ to myself. Bailey looked up at me as I hummed and I glanced down, throwing him a wink.

  I smiled benevolently at the Apple Store, the target of so much of my bewilderment not two weeks before, and took in the holiday window displays over at Bergdorf, as Bailey and I effortlessly weaved our way through the holiday shoppers and late-morning commuters. And for once, I didn’t feel the slightest bit annoyed by the sea of people that seemed to hit our path at the junction of Fifth, where a plethora of carriages waited to take tourists around a snowy romantic Central Park.

  Then I checked my watch and realised that my thus far relaxed attitude was turning out to be seriously misplaced. It was after ten and Ciara’s flight from San Diego was due in at Newark at eleven. I would have to get a move on if I wanted to make it there on time. Distractedly sending a text to the company’s regular town car service, asking them to pick me up at the daycare address, I quickened my step.

  Bailey hurried along in tandem, immediately noticing my sudden change of pace, and I looked up ahead noticing that the crosswalk light on Sixth was on a flashing red.

  I glanced sideways at the driver of the FedEx van stopped at the lights; he was on the phone and didn’t look like he was going anywhere too fast.

  ‘Come on, boy, we’ll just make it—’

  But I didn’t get to finish my sentence, as out of nowhere I thought I heard a female voice scream, ‘Hey, look out!’

  And then out of the blue, something crashed into me – the van? – I wasn’t sure. It felt as if I was witnessing the entire scene from afar, as if I was having an out-of-body experience. My legs were suddenly flying towards the clear, blue winter sky as my head and upper body were headed towards the ground. As I guessed what was coming next, I had a sudden moment of clarity: I was going down hard.