A Gift to Remember (30 page)

More than anything, she didn’t want Aidan to have to spend another night alone in that sterile, flower-free hospital room.

But with only three days left till Christmas she couldn’t help but wonder why nobody had yet sought him out in the hospital. It had been four days since the accident now and still he
remained to all intents and purposes ‘unclaimed’. She knew it was starting to get to him too; she guessed he was feeling hurt and even more despondent as the days went by and with the
holidays just over the horizon.

No one should be alone at this time of year, especially not when they had a beautiful, talented and accomplished girlfriend out there who loved them and who, thanks to Darcy’s efforts,
might well now believe that Aidan didn’t care about her.

Darcy knew she couldn’t let that happen, and having gone this far, would try her utmost to make things right. She’d deliver the gift herself to Melanie if she had to.

Yes, it was proving difficult to get to the bottom of it all, but at the moment she was Aidan’s only hope – and didn’t she owe it to him to try?

For Christ’s sake, doesn’t anyone ever answer their phone in this city? I have tried to reach Stephanie Everly twice now – once immediately after Nate passed
me her number and once again this morning, hoping out of dumb luck that I would get her to pick up.

Though it seems luck is not on the cards for me lately. She didn’t pick up, not last night, and not this morning either.

Don’t these people understand my urgency at this point? I’m fifty shades of desperate and I think that my next step may have to be running across Manhattan with a sign attached to my
chest advertising my needs.

Not sure who would pay attention to me though. Maybe if I did it naked it would work, perhaps generate some attention in the papers?

Ah no, Aidan. Don’t even go there. You would more likely get arrested.

But back to the matter at hand.

It has now been four hours since I last called Stephanie’s cell phone and I reckon it’s time for me to try again. I don’t want to come across as a stalker but I just really,
really, really need to talk to her.

I dialled her number and heard it ring – one, two, three, four times – and then it went to voicemail.

‘Once again,’ I muttered as I listened to Stephanie’s cool voice tell me to leave a message and that she would call me back. At this point in the game, I didn’t believe
her.

But of course, I didn’t tell her that.

Injecting a warmth into my voice that I didn’t feel, I began to speak.

‘Hi, Stephanie. It’s Aidan Harris – again. Don’t mean to be a pest, I really don’t, but Nate Cleaver-Parks – Junior, that is – said that I should talk
to you about something I’m seeking urgently. He tells me that your boss is a keen collector in this area and may be willing to sell. And just in case Nate mightn’t have mentioned it,
I’m anxious to expedite a deal and as such am willing to pay top dollar.’ My stomach hurt when I said that – old habits die hard – but it was the truth.

‘Anyway, I’ll leave you my number again, 212-555-4343. So give me a call and we can chat. Again it’s—’

Beep
.

An automatic voice told me that my message had exceeded the maximum time allotted. Irritated, I pulled the phone away from my ear. It would be an understatement to say that I was frustrated by
the silence. Then, no sooner had I thought this than karma answered by making my phone buzz with several incoming text messages.

Due to the frequency, I could guess who they were from, and the knot of anxiety that had been forming in my stomach tightened as I read through them.

I typed a quick response and flung myself down on the bed, aimlessly turning on the TV.

Bailey, sensing an invitation, jumped up next to me on the down-filled duvet and rested his head on the pillow next to mine. He sniffed briefly, possibly picking up the remnants of Mel’s
strawberry shampoo from the other night, and then rolled onto his back, as if he’d identified the source of the smell and was satisfied.

I flipped channels for a moment and as usual found nothing worth watching. It was all Christmas specials featuring the Kardashians or the
Jersey Shore
cast or some other reality show
family, news about whatever was happening in Washington and who was picking fights with whom.

I tossed the remote control to the side, leaving the news channel on as background, and closed my eyes. I knew I should be doing something, anything other than lying here, but God, I was getting
so tired and worn out.

‘Thirty-six hours, Bailey. Thirty-six hours to D-day. Either I succeed by way of some miracle, or I fail miserably.’

Bailey sighed as if he felt my pain. I opened an eye and looked at him.

Nope, not feeling my pain actually, just falling asleep. Typical . . .

There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars
.
Jack Kerouac

It was early afternoon the following day, and there were few things prettier than a winter sky over Manhattan in December. It was so blue it almost hurt to look at it, and the
crispness in the air made the pedestrians smile, red scarves bright and matching berets crisp, as they passed Darcy’s little lunch table for one on the East Side.

That morning at work she’d printed out a copy of some of the most prestigious ballet academies in Manhattan, as suggested by Grace’s old dancer friend Abe Chalmers, who was still in
the business.

The name Melanie didn’t immediately ring any bells with him amongst the New York City Ballet professionals he was aware of, he’d told Darcy the other night at the theatre when she
had enquired, but that didn’t necessarily mean she didn’t exist.

‘It merely suggests that she may be part of a company elsewhere. Bring your photograph along to the academies,’ he told her. ‘If she happened to attend any of the schools in
the past, then somebody is sure to recognise her.’

She’d planned to visit the others after work later, but there was one on the Upper East Side, not far from Chaucer’s, that she was heading to now during her lunch break.

The spot was cubist and modern, all glass and chrome, and Darcy could see a ballet class going on as she walked off the street straight into a blindingly white reception area. Initially she got
a shock, thinking she had hit pay dirt on her first stop; the receptionist was an almost spitting image of the woman in the photo.

Stiff and pale and dressed all in black, with strawberry-blonde hair pulled back severely from a thin but moon-shaped face, she took one look at Darcy’s blue jeans and worn coat, and a
veil of frost seemed to crystallise across her already stiff face.

‘Class has already started,’ she said, looking back down at some kind of sleek, paper-thin tablet on her desk.

‘Oh, that’s OK, I don’t attend a class here.’

The woman glanced up, gave her the once-over and made a ‘that’s obvious’ sneer. ‘So, why are you here then?’

The frosty exterior and haughty tone put Darcy a little off-kilter. ‘I’m enquiring about someone who might have been a student here,’ she babbled, visibly wincing as she did
so.

She started reaching into her messenger bag for the photo, realising she should already have it out, when the frosty woman – who probably wasn’t all that much older than Darcy
– inched back in her chair. ‘Hold up,’ she said. ‘You understand I can’t give out any information about students who go here. It’s against policy, and in any
case you could be some kind of . . . stalker.’

That word again.
‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Keeping in mind that you outweigh most of these girls by a good twenty-five pounds and—’

Darcy threw her hands up and turned around. ‘All right, all right, forget I asked.’

She left, rounding the side of the building, and leaned against a wall just out of sight of the sheer glass wall facing the street. She sighed, looking at the picture.

What would it take, she wondered, to penetrate this woman’s glittering world?

Where had she and Aidan met? At a party after one of her performances? Or some fancy benefit do at which the good, great and most attractive Manhattanites gathered to admire each other?

She looked so flawless, pale and chic, her smile beaming and confident as the Revson Fountain sparkled behind her.
‘Who are you?’
Darcy muttered to herself as the glass door
to the ballet studio opened, and a dozen or more spindly legs stampeded down the steps.

As the dancers split off into the wind, she called out to whoever might listen. ‘Excuse me, can you help me?’ She held out the photo to three girls who had stopped, impatient but
standing still, at least. ‘I’m looking for this dancer.’

Before even glancing at the picture one of the girls, taller than the rest and looking sharper somehow, asked, ‘Why?’

Having taken time between being rebuffed by the secretary and the end of the dance class to concoct a vaguely realistic story, Darcy said confidently. ‘I saw her a few weeks back at a
benefit performance and she was just stunning. But I had to leave before it was over and couldn’t approach her myself. I was hoping she might stage an encore show for a private
audience.’

The girl blinked and thought for a second. ‘Who is this private audience for?’

Darcy blinked back. ‘Well, it wouldn’t be very private if I told you that, now would it? But it means a great deal to my client. You see, he’s researching a part for his new
movie and I know she’d be just perfect.’

She surprised herself at how easily the fiction tripped off her tongue, but at the mention of the word ‘movie’ the girls all straightened, as if auditioning themselves. Darcy felt
vaguely guilty about the fib, but if it got her one step closer to her quarry, and she wasn’t promising these girls anything, who was it hurting?

‘Let me see,’ said the tall girl, taking the photo from Darcy. ‘She looks familiar, but she doesn’t dance here. I might have seen her in
Swan Lake
last year, or
maybe
Serenade
but I can’t be sure.’

Another girl nodded. ‘Try Madame Song’s two blocks over. She looks like she could be one of her girls.’

And so later that day after work, Darcy bounced like a pinball from one ballet studio to the other. From Madame Song’s she went to the Studio Academy, and from the Academy Group she want
to Slippers Studio, and on it went . . . Some of the classes were held in little more than basements in the bottom of massive brownstones, others took up entire floors above Chinese restaurants or
dry cleaners.

It was a journey she’d never expected to take, through parts of Manhattan she’d never ever seen before; some exclusive, some gritty, some flashy, some classical.

She’d quickly learned never to actually go inside but instead to lurk around the corner, down the stairs, at the intersection or more effectively the juice bar a few doors down from the
class. As the girls filed out, she would usually find a cluster or a gaggle who were friendlier than the rest.

She got a lot of recommendations, but by the end of that day she was no closer to the dancer’s identity than when she’d started.

Later that evening, she sat across from Grace, sipping another cup of strong, hot, instant coffee that revived her as much as the sight of Bailey did on her arrival. ‘I’m really
having a hard time tracking this girl down.’

Grace nodded. ‘Well, of course you are, dear. This is a very busy time of year in ballet.’

‘It is?’

She nodded, smoothing out the lap of her pink housedress. ‘Oh yes. From private benefits to holiday performances and end-of-season extravaganzas, professional dancers hardly rest until
after the New Year.’

The butter cookies from Darcy’s plate disappeared but after a trip to the kitchen by Grace, more soon reappeared. She looked up, almost powerless to move after cycling to and from so many
dance studios on the island. ‘I don’t know what I ever did without you, Grace.’

Bailey sat next to the older woman on the sofa, his head on her lap. She petted him gently, cooing to him. ‘Believe me; you’ve already done so much. I’m really going to miss
this pooch when your fellow takes him back.’

‘He’s not my fellow,’ she corrected Grace. ‘He’s just somebody I’m helping.’

‘Are you sure?’ her neighbour asked, eyeing her shrewdly.

Darcy coloured. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘Well, forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but it seems to me that you’ve been going to an awful lot of trouble over the last few days to help out a man who is to all
intents and purposes a complete stranger.’

‘But it’s entirely my fault he’s in this situation, Grace,’ Darcy insisted yet again. ‘It’s three days till Christmas and he’s all alone in some
hospital bed, while the people he loves and who love him must be driven crazy with worry.’

‘Some would say that you’ve paid your dues by offering to take care of his dog. Nobody could expect any more. Unless . . .’ she glanced meaningfully at Darcy, ‘unless
your reasons have gone beyond mere obligation.’

Darcy sank back on the sofa and sighed. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s silly really, maybe I have developed a bit of a crush. I mean, Aidan is successful, obviously smart, handsome,
kind, well-read – pretty much everything a girl wants in a guy, I suppose. But it doesn’t matter what I think because from what little I have learned about Aidan’s life,
he’s definitely not available, and
of course
a man like him would be snatched up by someone. And
of course
that someone would just happen to be a drop dead beautiful
model-type with a perfect body, glamorous clothes and is likely super-successful to boot. Whereas I –’ she smiled crookedly. ‘Let’s just say I’m no catch.’

Grace shook her head. ‘Oh Darcy, come on, you know better than that. So you aren’t dripping in silly designers from head to toe, how many of us are? And who cares? I already know
that there is plenty about you that makes you special – your kindness, for one. Don’t ever sell yourself short like that,’ she finished earnestly.

Darcy was touched by her neighbour’s kindness. ‘Thank you, Grace, I appreciate you saying that and I appreciate your friendship too. I can’t believe we spent almost three years
living side by side, barely saying hello when we passed each other by.’