The Charm Bracelet

by HILL, MELISSA

  ‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a book…’

  Darcy looked up from the shelving cart to see an older woman hovering uncertainly nearby. She looked to be in her late fifties, well-maintained and manicured, dressed in an expensive coat and scarf and clutching one of the last decade’s most luxurious handbags, which Darcy knew, thanks to her fashion maven aunt Katherine, was easily worth at least three of her monthly pay checks.

  Darcy smiled. Looking for a book in a bookstore … if she only had a dollar for every time she’d heard that one …

  But she gave the woman a warm smile. ‘Let’s see if I can help. What’s the title?’

  The woman bit her lip. ‘That’s it; I can’t remember it, but I know it’s by a female author with three names…and there are four daughters in it, although one has a boy’s name I think? And it’s Christmas time, and as far as I know they want to buy themselves presents, but then think better of it and buy one for their mother …’

  The woman’s voice trailed off, and she stared at the shelves helplessly.

  Momentarily puzzled, Darcy slipped a stray lock of raven black hair behind one ear. No matter what she did with it – which was admittedly little – it would never stay put. ‘Is this a new release?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no, my dear, it’s a classic.’ The woman’s eyes refocused and her voice grew almost haughty. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know it, actually. Have you been working here long?’

  Darcy had to smile. Actually she was manager of Chaucer’s and had been working in the store for almost six years. And as if with minimum description she could magically hone in on the book in question amongst the millions published.

  Still she did love a challenge …

  ‘Now, you say there are four sisters, and an author with three names?’ she said, gently guiding the woman towards the classic literature aisle. The customer nodded. Overhead, a smooth jazz rendition of ‘It Must Have Been the Mistletoe’ played softly out over the speakers. ‘Well, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you may well looking for Little Women by Louisa May Alcott?’

  The woman grimaced, idly scanning the books on the shelves. ‘I’m not sure ...’

  ‘There are four sisters in the book, and one of them – Jo – has a vaguely masculine name.’ Darcy pulled a thin red book from the shelf, the pages edged with gold; and presented it to the woman.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, taking it gently. ‘That is beautiful.’ She examined the book from bottom to top and inside and out, marvelling at its rich leather binding, and reprints of original classic illustrations scattered throughout.

  ‘Is it intended as a gift?’ Darcy asked.

  The woman smiled. ‘Yes. A Christmas gift for my twelve year old granddaughter, actually’

  Darcy also guessed that the girl’s grandmother was acting on a recommendation and had never herself had the pleasure of reading Little Women.

  Which was a shame.

  It was one of Darcy’s favourites and Alcott’s famous quote about books addling the brain described her pretty well. Darcy was indeed too fond of books – a condition known as bibliolatry. She always had at least one book to read on the go close by, and felt almost naked without a novel on her person, much like someone might feel about a treasured piece of jewellery. Darcy had been enveloped in a story every single day of her life for as long as she could remember, and tended to use every opportunity she could – waiting in line, eating, occasionally even while brushing her teeth - to indulge in her greatest pleasure.

  But they hadn’t turned her brain. Not yet anyway.

  It was one of the reasons she loved working in a place like Chaucer’s.

  Darcy had first made the move as a teenager to Manhattan from Brooklyn where she lived with her aunt, to attend Columbia University and get a Master of Fine Arts in Writing (the closest form of study relating to her passion available). Only to quickly discover that the reality of trying to create stories was a world apart from the pleasures of reading them. Easy reading definitely didn’t equate to easy writing, and the weight of her own expectations combined with insecurity regarding the extent of her talent (or lack thereof) soon resulted in writer’s block, after which Darcy had to admit defeat. Following graduation she then spent some time working on Celebrate, a glossy New York women’s magazine. Her aunt Katherine – via her hugely successful and popular corporate events business - was good friends with the editor-in-chief, and had pulled in the favour for Darcy.

  After two miserable years of cutting down bland three thousand word descriptions of shoes and handbags into even blander three hundred word descriptions, as well as struggling to fit in amongst her uber-cool and effortlessly chic workmates, Darcy had just about given up on turning her passion into a way of life until one day stumbling into Chaucer’s with the aim of finding some kind of guide that could help with her hopeless lack of fashion nous. In any case, not being able to pass by a bookstore without venturing inside had always been one of her major weaknesses, but this time it had turned into a stroke of blessed luck.

  There had been a ‘Help Wanted’ sign on the door and, on impulse, Darcy had applied there and then. She was interviewed on the spot upstairs in the cafe, over a cup of caramel mocha. The following morning when she got the call from the owner telling her the job was hers, she felt as though all her Christmases had come at once. Imagine spending her days constantly surrounded by books, being able to pick one off the shelf whenever she wanted, caress the spine, smell the paper … heaven!

  Though Darcy quickly discovered that working in a bookstore was in reality more about unpacking boxes and rearranging shelves rather than sitting curled up in the corner sampling the merchandise. Even so she felt that she’d finally found her calling. She quickly forgot the long hours, the lousy pay, the paper cuts and the doom-laden prophecies that books were finished.

  Much to the horror of her aunt Katherine, who considered it a huge step down in both pay and career prospects. And while there may have been some truth in the former, Darcy wasn’t the least bit interested in climbing the media ladder in any case. Unlike the formidable, high-achieving Katherine Armstrong, Darcy just wasn’t made that way, and when growing up had always been happiest with her nose a book. One of her earliest and fondest memories was of her mother reading to her before bedtime all tucked up and cosy together on Darcy’s bed. A love of reading was something her bookworm parents had instilled right from the start, and the family had spent many happy times curled up together escaping into wonderful fictional worlds.

  Like her mother Lauren use to say, books were solid proof that ordinary people were capable of creating magic.

  Sadly Darcy’s beloved parents had both died in a car accident when she was twelve years old, and as such she and her aunt had been thrown together by circumstance and familial duty. As per her parents’ wishes, her mother’s sister Katherine had taken her in and overseen her upbringing until Darcy finished school and then at seventeen moved to Manhattan to attend Columbia. In the ensuing years the two of them had somehow muddled along together – at least as well as a shell-shocked teenager and a single thirty-something career girl could.

  Hence her aunt’s interest in her career and while Darcy had known from the outset that nobody got into books for the money, for the sake of passion she was prepared to forgo a healthy pay check for one that just about kept a roof over her head. Her response to her aunt about quitting the magazine six years before had been a quote from Albert Camus: When work is soulless, life stifles and dies.

  ‘Oh for heavens’ sake, Darcy! Albert Camus won’t pay the bills, whereas a nice two-page advertorial on the latest Dior collection will.’ Katherine had said. ‘If you must, then at least aim to work in one of the conglomerate bookstores or publishers even.,. Yes, I’m sure being surrounding by books sounds great in theory, but really what kind of prospects can you expect from working in a tiny independent?’

  ‘The prospect of spending my days doing something I love and being happy,’ Darcy had retort
ed sunnily. ‘That’s really all anyone can ask for, isn’t it?’

  But Darcy knew her commercially-minded aunt didn’t lend herself to impractical notions such as finding joy in work simply for the sake of it, and certainly not without some kind of tangible accompanying reward. She knew that Katherine had worked (and continued to work) ferociously hard over the years to build Ignite into the successful corporate event management company that it was today, but she often wondered if any of it actually brought her aunt contentment or satisfaction, because she eternally seemed to have her eye on the next hurdle or challenge.

  Darcy knew in her heart and soul that finding joy and satisfaction in her work was undoubtedly what she wanted. And she had yet to regret her decision. Besides she had in the meantime worked her way up to manager, a dubious promotion that in reality meant more responsibility and not a whole lot more money, but that had never been a driving force for her in any case. What it did mean was that she had greater creative freedom over window displays, shelve arrangements and most importantly, free reign to choose and order any titles she felt would suit Chaucer’s customers.

  Now, Darcy watched the woman walk away with a copy Little Women housed in one of the store’s trademark purple and gold striped paper carrier bags and sighed contentedly. Another satisfied customer.

  Just then, the front door swung open and Darcy turned to find Joshua, her work mate and relief for late opening hours, standing there with a green elf hat on. An attractive guy in his late twenties, his hair was close cropped against his mocha skin and his grey sweater tight against his thin frame, while his maroon-coloured cords threatened to slide down his narrow hips at a moment’s notice. He looked like a walking Gap advert.

  ‘Merry week before Christmas!’ he intoned in a voice full of rich humour and warmth. No matter what mood Darcy might be in, Joshua always cheered her up. He’d been wishing everyone a merry ‘something’ before Christmas since pretty much Thanksgiving weekend: ‘Merry month before Christmas or ‘Merry three weeks before Christmas.’

  It had been exasperating at first, but now it was something she looked forward to every week; her own personal human advent calendar.

  And he was the best kind of work mate – a fixer. If he suspected or sensed Darcy or Ashley, Chaucer’s other store assistant, was hassled, down in the dumps or full-on exhausted, look out; the place would be full to bursting with his own personalised ‘Joshua bucks’, handwritten coupons he’d slide into pockets or beside the cash register. They were always for cheery little things, like ‘this entitles the bearer to one free back massage’ or ‘cover for one half shift’. In short, Joshua was a sweetheart, a pleasure to manage and great fun to work with. Plus his literary knowledge was exhaustive and he had a particular talent for obscure, cult books, which combined with Darcy’s more classic bent, made them a fantastic team.

  Dropping his fur-lined sheepskin jacket behind the counter, he put on the purple and gold striped Chaucer’s apron and Darcy in turn went to untie hers. Up close, he smelled like the holly berry hand wash he’d been using ever since it went on sale at the nearest Bath and Body Works. He was truly the most effeminate straight man she had ever met. She had been truly astonished when she’d first met his girlfriend a couple of years back, a stunning long-legged blonde who would have looked right at home on the fashion pages in Darcy’s old magazine job.

  ‘So what are you up to this evening, boss?’ Joshua asked. ‘Besides today’s special from Luigi’s?’

  Darcy’s apartment was situated over a popular little Italian restaurant just off West Houston Street, a good twenty minutes from the store but worth what she paid in rent to be within cycling distance to work. She’d lived in three different apartments in Manhattan since making the move from Brooklyn, and although by far the smallest, her third floor walk-up over Luigi’s was easily the best location, close at it was to Hudson River Park, a riverside oasis amidst the hustle of bustle of the city.

  She loved going down there on her days off, taking long walks along the water with views out to Lady Liberty and Staten Island. And of course in the summer months, the grassy areas amongst the pretty flower beds were ideal for reading, and the welcoming river breeze perfect for surviving the worst of the city’s heat and humidity.

  ‘Actually not tonight,’ Darcy told Joshua. For once she had somewhere to be. ‘I’m headed to a book launch actually.’

  ‘Ooh, anyone we know?’ Due to the shop’s miniscule dimensions, Chaucer’s didn’t hold launch parties or literary events, but even if they did Darcy guessed that this particular author wouldn’t draw too many of their regulars.

  ‘Oliver Martin? Science fiction author …?’ she nodded at Joshua’s blank look. ‘He’s just hit the Times bestseller list and according to Aunt Katherine he’s a ‘big deal.’’ She mimed quote marks with her fingers. ‘I’m only going because I haven’t seen her for a while and we’re long overdue a catch up.’ Oliver Martin must certainly be a very big deal indeed if Katherine Armstrong was deigning to attend his book launch.

  A formidable figure in society New York, for over fifteen years Katherine had been at the helm of Ignite - one of Manhattan’s most prominent event management companies with offices close to Union Square.

  While her aunt was forever extending invites to various glamour-filled events and gatherings the company hosted all over the city, Darcy only tended to favour the ones with a more literary bent. She loved meeting authors, although it had to be said that the more successful ones were often insufferably pompous, but still it was nice to occasionally be able to dip her toe into the more glamorous side of her industry.

  ‘And you’re going like that?’ Joshua glanced balefully at her.

  Darcy looked down at her grey trousers, forest-green woollen sweater and chunky leather boots. ‘What’s wrong with it?’ She pulled out the elastic from her ponytail and fluffed out her black curly hair, letting it fall loose around her shoulders. A pointless action as it would very quickly be flattened by her bike helmet on the journey downtown.

  Joshua shook his head and smiled fondly. ‘Like I keep telling you, if you’d tried making an effort now and again – maybe some eyeliner and a touch of lipstick – you could almost pass for Megan Fox’s older, chunkier sister. Oh, and lose the spinster glasses, for tonight at least?’

  ‘I wish…’ Darcy said, by now well used to his teasing. ‘But not all of us are lucky enough to possess your rather…unique fashion nous,’ she added wickedly, eyeing his drainpipe trousers. ‘The literati will just have to take me as I am.’

  It was true she had no fashion sense whatsoever and wasn’t particularly interested in the contents of her closet, which were in truth minute compared to the contents of her bookshelves. The fact was there was barely enough room in her tiny apartment for furniture, let alone possessions, and for Darcy the choice was simple. She’d happily sacrifice less of everything even food if it meant she could fit in more books.

  While her wardrobe consisted mostly of functional work clothes (in a bookstore paper dust clung to everything) she did possess a few items for special occasions – a seventies-style wrap dress she’d found in a cute little vintage store down in Greenwich, and incongruously a pair of unworn Jimmy Choo heels that her aunt had bought her a couple of Christmases ago.

  Still now that Joshua had openly pointed out her sartorial shortcomings, she guessed she was due for a similar earful from Katherine on arrival at the party being held in fashionable Chelsea.

  While Darcy loved her aunt and was massively grateful for everything she had done for her Katherine’s outspoken and no-holds-barred personality had also caused a certain level of heartburn, because of the fact that she was not only focused on an eternal attempt for Darcy to improve her career, but to improve herself in general. Not to mention a seemingly endless quest to match-make her niece with reputable, in Katherine’s opinion, New York men.

  The truth was that Darcy was perfectly content on her own and had no interest in partaking of the co
mplex, relentless, often terrifying Manhattan dating scene. It was a million miles from the romantic rituals outlined in the novels of the Brontes or Austen, and she didn’t see the point in submitting herself to such a trial. While it might be wishful thinking, at the end of the day Darcy wasn’t going to settle for anything less than being swept off her feet.

  While she’d had relationships with guys over the years – mostly quiet, bookish types like herself - none of them had been especially serious, lasting little longer than a couple of months.

  ‘No flesh and blood man could ever live up to those fictional heroes you’re so crazy about,’ Joshua often teased and Darcy supposed there was some truth in that.

  There was certainly no denying that she’d always been taken with the idea of true love and proper passionate romance like that between Romeo and Juliet, Lancelot and Genevieve, Scarlett and Rhett, and her favourites, Elizabeth and Darcy.

  Saying goodbye to Joshua, she wrapped up warm in her purple North Face ski jacket and woollen scarf, and prepared for what was for her, unlike most New Yorkers, one of the most pleasurable parts of her working day: the commute.

  Navigating Manhattan’s Upper West Side was something tourists paid good money to do on a regular basis, and Darcy did it twice a day, five days a week for free.

  Going out back to the tiny outside yard behind the store, she unlocked her bike and put on her safety helmet, fastening it tightly beneath her chin. Of course, her bikes had morphed and changed over time as much as the city had, but she was proud of her knowledge of New York’s streets. She knew them almost as well as the books she held so sacred – like the nifty shortcut via the Meatpacking District she relied upon when needing to avoid the traffic on Sixth, or how a simple hidden passageway near Chelsea whisked her away from the worst of the 42nd street horde.

  She particularly loved riding around town this time of year, with all the festive shop displays, cosy cafes and trattorias lit up for the season, white and coloured fairy lights blinking, candles aglow, early-evening diners holding hands in window seats, or braving the al fresco tables that sat mere inches from the kerb, bundled up in thick woollen coats and gloves as they had a crafty cigarette.