A Gift to Remember (2 page)

A formidable figure in New York society, 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. Hence her interest in her niece’s career, and while Darcy had known from the outset that nobody got into bookselling for the money, for the sake of passion she was
prepared to forego a healthy pay cheque 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 heaven’s 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 surrounded 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 retorted 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 was aware 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. However, what it also meant was that she had greater creative freedom
over window displays, shelf arrangements and, most importantly, free rein to choose and order any titles she felt would suit Chaucer’s customers.

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

Just then, the front door swung open and Darcy turned to find Joshua, her workmate 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 Advent calendar.

And he was the best kind of workmate – a fixer. If he suspected or sensed that Darcy or Ashley, Chaucer’s other store assistant, were feeling hassled, down in the dumps or full-on
exhausted, then 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 extensive 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 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 & Body Works. Joshua was truly the most effeminate straight man she had ever met, and Darcy 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 as 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 flowerbeds 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.’

‘Ooh, anyone we know?’ Due to the shop’s minuscule 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 said to Joshua’s blank look. ‘He’s just hit the
Times
bestseller list and according to Aunt Katherine
he’s a “big deal”.’ She mimed quotemarks 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.

While her aunt was forever extending invites to various glamour-filled events and gatherings which her company hosted all over the city, Darcy tended only to favour the ones with a 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
glossier side of her industry.

‘And you’re going like
that
?’ Joshua glanced meaningfully 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 smiled fondly. ‘Like I keep telling you, if you 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?’

Darcy was well used to his teasing. ‘Not all of us are lucky enough to possess your rather . . . unique eye for style,’ she said wickedly, eyeing his drainpipe trousers. ‘The
literati will just have to take me as I am.’

It was true that she had no fashion sense whatsoever. Also, there was barely enough room to move in her tiny apartment, and for Darcy the choice was simple. She’d happily sacrifice
anything, 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, which was 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
heartache, because not only was she focused on an eternal attempt for Darcy to improve her career but also to improve herself in general. Not to mention a seemingly endless quest to matchmake her
niece with reputable New York men.

The truth was that Darcy was perfectly content on her own and had no interest in partaking of the often terrifying Manhattan dating scene. It was a million miles from the romantic rituals
outlined in her favourite novels, and while it might be wishful thinking, she wasn’t willing 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, rarely lasting 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 her, 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 Queen Guinevere,
Scarlett and Rhett, and her favourites, Elizabeth and Darcy, her namesake.

Later, 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 into the tiny yard behind the store, she unlocked her bike and put on her safety helmet, fastening it tightly beneath her chin. She was proud of her knowledge of New York’s streets
– like the nifty shortcut via the Meatpacking District she relied upon to avoid the traffic on Sixth, or how a simple hidden passageway near Chelsea whisked her away from the worst of the
Forty-Second Street hordes.

She particularly loved riding around town this time of year, with all the festive shop displays, cosy cafés 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 smoked a
crafty cigarette.

Darcy cruised along steadily on the bike, marvelling at the colour of the sky, that bleak city blue she loved so much in the last few hours before complete darkness fell upon the city.
Manhattan’s music filled the air, a mix of honking horns and hissing pipes, vendors shouting and people chattering.

It was all a blur as she sped by, obeying traffic signals as she hugged the kerb. She was zinging now, the lights green, the air cold and crisp, her eyes open and alert, her long legs loose and
limber. She felt truly alive.

She knew that cyclists in Manhattan, with their natural proclivity for speed and deft weaving through traffic, were generally considered by most New Yorkers – and taxi drivers in
particular – as being only barely above sewer rats and cockroaches in the food chain, but Darcy wouldn’t swap her beloved three-speeder – and the addictive sensation of almost
flying through the streets – for any amount of abuse. In truth, much of the bad reputation was derived from daredevil city couriers who defied traffic laws and sometimes gravity, as they
zipped along as if on a kamikaze mission rather than a job.

It wasn’t snowing, not yet, but Darcy could feel it teasing her in the crystal sky. Slowing at the corner of Broadway and Columbus Avenue, she passed by a fancy bistro full of equally
fancy patrons sitting at tables with white cloths and big glasses of rich, red wine and plates of delectable pasta in front of them. Her mouth watered. The air felt clear as she cycled on through
streets lined with people heading home from the market, their upmarket bags brimming with organic carrots and loaves of Cuban bread or carefully boxed truffles: another night of opulence in
America’s favourite city.

Darcy felt like an impostor here sometimes, particularly on the Upper West Side, amongst the galleries and restaurants and bistros, cafés and high-rises and appointment-only vintage
stores and photography studios. She was an ordinary person in an extraordinary place, one who ate Ramen noodles three nights a week and half-price specials from Luigi’s the other four, who
didn’t own a car and took care of what few clothes she had so she wouldn’t need to spend her hard-earned wages on new ones. And her entertainment of choice generally took place in her
own apartment between the pages of great books rather than in the nightspots of New York.

But still it was all worth it, to live in the most magical city on earth. She smiled. Maybe one day she’d find someone to share in the fairytale.

Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high
.
William Goldman

A little while later, Darcy pulled her bike up to the hip Chelsea bistro hosting the science fiction author’s book-launch party. Parking it next to a lamp post, she took
her bike lock out of her messenger bag and clipped it around both. Despite the media’s harping on about New York crime statistics, in all the years she’d lived in the city she’d
never had one stolen. Satisfied, she turned towards the entrance and inside by the door, immediately locked eyes with the only person she was likely to recognise here tonight: her aunt.