A Gift to Remember (36 page)

Still, it had to be said that I was more than recompensed for my efforts and the perks of the job were second to none. Yes, Will drove me crazy sometimes with his more bizarre requests
(especially the last-minute ones like the Mustang – a case in point) but I loved being involved in the business as well as the creative side of Thrill Seeker, and wouldn’t change it for
the world.

Any profession that allowed me to be surrounded by books made me a very happy man. The job had given me a chance to dig deep, and had helped me to overcome the big changes and disappointments in
my personal life over the last few years. And while some might argue – like Ciara – that my dedication to the cause may have been partly to blame, my belief is that some things just
aren’t meant to be. In any case, life is pretty good these days, and Mel and I have never been closer.

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.

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 chasing 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.’

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.

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.