A Gift to Remember (19 page)

Darcy wondered if the staff here treated each bit of metal on-site with the spa equivalent of WD40, just to make sure that there wasn’t ever an unwarranted or unwanted squeak. Stifling a
giggle, she pictured a Code Red lock-down if, God forbid, a door knob whined when it was turned.

Olivia opened the door solemnly and Darcy had to give the woman credit, she truly was the epitome of calm. In fact, there was a good chance that she might have been a closeted nun in a previous
life.

Once inside the private treatment room, Darcy breathed in deeply the comforting scent of lemongrass that permeated the air. The place was so dim, lit only by candlelight, that she needed a
moment to adjust her eyes – and then she noticed a woman reclining in a spa chair, swaddled in a robe with another person at her feet, carrying out a foot massage. A third woman, a tiny Asian
lady who at first glance could pass for an eleven year old, massaged the robe-clad woman’s right hand, and a fourth was painting her face with a clay-like mixture. Two cucumber slices were
placed over the client’s eyes.

At this point, Darcy had to guess that the woman being pampered in the chair was Tabitha Kensington for she couldn’t see her face or her long, shining blonde hair as it was secured up in a
towelled turban.

‘Mrs Kensington?’ Olivia said, her voice barely more than a whisper. ‘The woman you asked for is here. Miss Archer.’

Tabitha Kensington raised one graceful hand and gently shooed away the woman who was applying the clay mask to her face. She removed the cucumber from her eyes and sat up in the chair,
encouraging the woman who was doing the pedicure to move.

When Tabitha spoke, Darcy realised that she was not following the apparent whispering policy.

‘Ah, I see. Thank you, Olivia. I appreciate you fetching her.’ Not waiting for a response from Olivia, she turned her attention to Darcy, and immediately launched into a line of
questioning. ‘Now, what is this about? Alexa Falcone called me directly, asking me to speak with you.’

Crikey, Alexa Falcone, the famed New York portrait photographer? Almost on a par with Annie Leibovitz in terms of reputation. Darcy had no idea that the woman was one of Katherine’s
‘friends’, but then again the connections her aunt had established in the city over the years were more intricate than any spider web.

And while Darcy was grateful for the introduction she was also now keenly aware of the calibre of the woman she was dealing with.

‘She didn’t say what this was about or how she was involved, but Alexa is a dear enough friend that if she asks me to do something for her, I do it.’ Tabitha had such an air
about her that it was easy to guess that she was used to getting her own way.

Darcy nervously cleared her throat. ‘Actually, it was my Aunt Katherine who arranged for me to meet with you.’ She felt silly alluding to the idea that getting an audience with the
woman was akin to getting one with the Queen of England, but it was how people like this made her feel. ‘Founder of Ignite Event Management?’ When Tabitha looked blank, Darcy added,
‘Her company did the Level 42 grand opening earlier this year,’ mentioning a hip new lifestyle emporium in Soho that, partly down to the fanfare created by Katherine in the lead up to
the launch, was currently one of the city’s trendiest shopping hotspots.

Tabitha raised a perfectly arched eyebrow and motioned for the woman next to her to continue her application of the clay on her face. ‘Oh yes. Wonderful place, some fantastic up and coming
designers there,’ she nodded enthusiastically, and Darcy made a mental note to pass on this reaction to Katherine, who would be pleased.

‘Now, the thing that I don’t understand is what I can do for you,’ Tabitha continued. ‘I don’t usually speak to PR people without an appointment, and certainly
not—’

‘No, no – I’m not here for anything like that,’ Darcy reassured her quickly. ‘Actually it’s a bit of a long story.’ She wasn’t sure if she should
just set off on a blow by blow account of Aidan and his amnesia.

‘Well, sit down for a start; you’re disrupting my aura,’ Tabitha commanded, signalling to one of the ladies assisting her. ‘And if your story is that long, then you
should have a treatment while you’re here.’

‘Oh no, I really don’t think—’ Darcy protested, but before she knew it she was being helped into a robe by one therapist and the other was determinedly leading her onto a
treatment chair.

‘Perhaps a manicure, madam?’ the therapist suggested, pointedly eyeing her bitten-down nails. Darcy, who had never even used a nail file in her life and was terrified of the prospect
of any kind of ‘treatment’, instinctively shrank away.

‘I’m fine, honestly.’

‘Don’t you realise how difficult it is to get an appointment here?’ Tabitha interjected sharply. ‘I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth if I were you,’
she added, her tone ominous enough that Darcy felt she had to relent.

Unsure what to expect – to say nothing of how much this ordeal was going to cost – she had to fight not to hold her breath when the therapist asked her to sit forward and then
proceeded to dip her hands in some kind of solution.

Relax, Darcy
, she urged herself –
it’s not like you’re having a pap smear
. Though right at the moment she figured that, given the choice, she might well opt
for one instead; she truly had no idea what she was facing here. Though, seeing as women all over the world chose to have such a procedure on a regular basis, it couldn’t be
that
scary, could it? She’d just never been into all that kind of stuff.

The truth was that Darcy hated feeling out of control and was always much happier keeping within the confines of her own little world, where nothing terribly out of the ordinary could happen.
Much better to keep such surprises restricted to within the pages of a book.

‘Wonderful.’ Tabitha Kensington seemed satisfied that she was willing to join in the fun. ‘So then, tell me what’s so important that you needed to gate-crash my facial
today?’

Trying not to wince at both Tabitha’s tone and the therapist coming at her with nail clippers, Darcy began telling the socialite all about the accident and how her path and Aidan’s
had crossed. In keeping with the low-key mood of the room, everyone remained scarily silent as she talked, and Darcy instinctively spoke in hushed tones as if confessing something, while throughout
it all, Tabitha appeared unmoved.

Eventually wrapping up the story, Darcy turned to look at her, hoping for a reaction. Tabitha’s eyebrows were indeed raised under her mud mask.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Nice story, but I’m still in the dark as to exactly how I tie into this tale.’

Darcy smiled pleasantly – at least as much as she could while the therapist squeezed her fingers agonisingly hard while pushing back her cuticles. She wondered if the woman had worked as a
torture specialist in another life. ‘Yes, I was just getting to that part. So the poor guy asked me to go to his house and check it out – see if I could find anything that might help
him there. And well . . .’ Saying it out loud, Darcy realised this part sounded a bit iffy. ‘I went to the house, found a few things that I thought might help and then checked his
caller ID – just in case anyone was missing his absence. Your number, or rather the telephone number of your house, was on it.’

Darcy stopped talking and took a tentative sip of the camomile tea that had appeared in front of her as if by magic. She returned her gaze to Tabitha, who was now staring at her blankly. Darcy
felt even more unnerved; she couldn’t read anything in her stare.

‘You said that my number was on this guy’s caller ID?’

‘Yes,’ Darcy nodded, hoping that she wasn’t guilty of something. Though she supposed she was past that point a long time ago. She decided to provide additional clarification.
‘So I called the number earlier today, and spoke to somebody there who mentioned that you . . . might be here this afternoon.’ She purposely didn’t mention Maria’s name for
fear of getting her in trouble. ‘She also informed me that your husband is in Europe just now so I’m assuming it wasn’t he who called the house.’

‘What did you say your friend’s name was again?’

Darcy frowned, because she was pretty sure that she had already mentioned it many times already.

‘Aidan Harris. He lives off Central Park West, in the Upper Seventies?’

Tabitha’s brow furrowed under her clay mask. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I really can’t help you. I have absolutely no idea who Aidan Harris is.’

After saying hello to the receptionist at Christie’s, I was led to an office at the rear of the building by another woman who told me, very nicely, that I could wait
until one of the managers was able to meet with me. I was sure I wouldn’t be waiting too long; Christie’s didn’t make anyone with a chequebook like mine wait around.

I deposited myself in a chair and the woman offered me a drink. I told her that black coffee would be wonderful and as she left, I felt momentarily guilty that I had not asked what her name was.
I hated only to think of someone as a member of the ‘support staff’. It was important to call the people you worked with and who helped you by the name their parents gave them. Or at
least the name they wanted to be known by. After all, some parents had crap taste in naming children. I once knew a couple who had called their kid ‘Leia’ after the princess in
Star
Wars
. Mel told me she knew a girl at school whose name was ‘Aquanette’ like the hairspray. Not surprising that these days, the girl insisted on being called ‘Etta’.
Smart move.

As I waited for my coffee, I looked around the office. It was a nice room, tastefully decorated with a few focal pieces scattered about. There was a Matisse on the wall and a vase on a stand in
the corner. I looked closer at the vase and identified it as dating from the Ming Dynasty. I smiled, wondering what my father would think if he could see me now, and laughing a little at the notion
that life had changed so much that I could now pinpoint things like that on sight. It was a long, long way from O’Connell Street, that’s for sure.

I settled back in my chair and thought about taking out my phone again, if only to touch base once more with Mel. But I knew she had a busy day today, and she would more than likely be tied up
if I did text her, so I decided to do the next best thing, and look at her beautiful face instead.

Selecting the gallery, I smiled as I scrolled to the photos – happy memories taken over the last few weeks once she’d laughingly shown me how to work the camera function on the new
iPhone.

I had to admit, it had been a good year all round – better than the one before, certainly. But we seemed to have got over the worst of that now and these days she was feeling secure and
happy and back to her old self again.

A huge relief, as the last thing I’d ever want to do was make her unhappy.

Still, I think we both appreciated that sometimes life just didn’t work out how you planned it and as much as I enjoyed my own company, I also lived to spend time with her as often as was
possible.

I looked at the pictures – snaps I’d taken in a variety of places at different times and moods. In all of them though, her blonde hair floated about her smiling face.

There was one of her, grinning and dancing around the edge of the Bethesda fountain in the Park. Another of her on top of a wooden horse at the carousel – again in the Park. She was
wearing the kind of ‘bursting’ expression she had when she was working to suppress laughter, but failing miserably.

Before I could reminisce any more, the door of the office opened behind me and a man I recognised walked in. The younger woman following behind carried a silver tray. Even though I had told her
that I take my coffee black, I’m sure there was something in the Christie’s operational handbook that said you couldn’t give a guest a simple cup of coffee and instead you must
break out the fine china.

I accepted the cup that she poured for me and appreciated her efforts, but at the same time, I’m a paper cup kind of fellow and happy as long as the coffee is hot and fresh.

Before I could say anything other than thank you, or even ask the woman her name, the man in charge here, a guy by the name of George Stafford, cleared his throat, took a sip of his own coffee
– cream, sugar – and sat back in his chair.

‘Mr Harris, it’s so nice to see you again. I trust that you are doing well?’

I nodded and said I was, but thinking of Bailey waiting on the cold street outside I decided to dispense with the niceties and stay on task. When I extended my query to George, he nodded and
said that he had already been briefed on what I was looking for.

‘Of course, it’s not that something of this nature cannot be procured . . .’ I nodded but raised my eyebrows, waiting for the inevitable ‘but’. ‘However, I
must ask. Are you sure this particular edition is exactly what you are looking for?’

‘Quite sure,’ I responded. ‘Is there a reason you ask?’

George pursed his lips. ‘Well, the fact is, we had an auction just a month ago, during which we sold that very one.’

Dammit.

I ran a hand through my hair. If I had known I wanted it a month ago, I would have done something about it then. Except that I didn’t and it was more of a last-minute idea. Impulsive, but
that didn’t matter. What mattered was whether or not I could get it – and most importantly, get it in time for the big day.

‘Do you think that the person who bought it at the auction would be willing to sell again?’

George grimaced. ‘Unlikely. This individual is a serious collector, and had been in the market for this for quite some time.’

I exhaled, disappointed. ‘OK, well, what are my other options, do you think? There has to be a solution. I know it’s a long shot, but there must be a willing seller out there
somewhere. Isn’t there always?’

George nodded thoughtfully. ‘I would normally agree that yes, a seller can usually be found. However, I am also keenly aware of your deadline. Mr Harris, you know I appreciate your
business and I certainly appreciate the fact that your company is such a loyal patron. But I’m sure you also realise that it is nearing the end of December. People are getting ready to go to
St Barts or St Tropez, if they are not there already. Anyone with the ability to help you is probably not going to be available for such a transaction, at least not until after the New
Year.’