by Melissa Hill
Turning, she left the room and headed again in the direction of the larger bedroom, the one in which she’d tried to find useful mementos for Aidan on her last visit.
She flung open the doors to the walk-in closet and turned on the light to check if her suspicions about the smaller bedroom being an overflow were correct. In front of her was yet another wide assortment of men’s clothes. She pulled a shirt off the rack and examined the label. Valentino. Nice.
Placing the shirt back where she’d found it, she looked around briefly again and turned the light off, closing the closet door behind her.
Darcy turned to her left and found herself in the master ensuite bathroom. Here, too, she immediately noticed that everything looked perfect, as if it hadn’t been touched in days.
Granted she was not the most experienced of girlfriends, but every guy she’d ever been involved with had at least offered her a drawer if ever she stayed over, someplace to store spare underwear and socks, or a toothbrush.
But Darcy realised now, despite her initial impression that Aidan lived here with a female companion, there were no women’s clothes anywhere, no stray shoes, or any make-up or face creams in the master bathroom. Actually, now that she thought about it, other than the flowers in the hallway, there were few feminine touches anywhere in the house. Despite herself, Darcy was heartened by the notion.
Perhaps he preferred to live alone then? While he was a guy who clearly had no shortage of female attention, she guessed he enjoyed his own space, preferred things the way he liked them – particularly his books and his organic food and fancy cookware . . .
Well, Darcy couldn’t blame him. If she was lucky enough to own a house like this, to say nothing of what was inside it, she’d be quite possessive of them too.
She opened the bathroom cabinets and idly ran her gaze across the contents, which consisted of a typical selection of toothpaste, and luxurious male toiletries such as Tom Ford pore gel and Bulgari aftershave, though one of the bottles gave her pause.
Rogaine? Darcy frowned as she studied the hair-loss treatment bottle. Picturing Aidan’s healthy head of hair, she wondered why on earth he would need this. Or was his glossy mane in fact a good advertisement for the product? If so, the company should definitely use him in their marketing campaigns, she thought, smiling at the notion. But it was a curious find all the same.
Her attention moved to a small container of pills immediately recognisable as some form of prescription medicine.
‘Diamox . . .’ Darcy read the words on the label out loud and was wondering what the pills were for and if by chance their absence might be affecting Aidan’s memory recovery, when she noticed that they were in fact labelled as effective for altitude sickness.
Altitude sickness . . . No doubt for all that high-adrenaline travel, in mountainous places like the Swiss Alps or indeed, scaling the heights of Mont Blanc.
She found herself craving to hear Aidan – in that lovely lilting voice – tell her about what it was like to have reached the top of K2 or Everest even, and bring those adventures alive for her. She frowned. What was she really doing here? Poking around in someone else’s life? She should be out there, concentrating on her own. Was all of this helping of Aidan actually an excuse to put her own run-of-the-mill existence on hold?
Feeling slightly maudlin, she closed the bathroom cabinet and headed back into the bedroom, finding herself in front of the large bay window which overlooked some of the balconies in the luxurious apartment building across the road. She soon discovered that if she leaned to the far right side of the window, shoved her shoulder into the corner and slightly tilted her head to the left, she could just about make out the inside of some of those residences.
Peering into the windows of the homes across the way, she saw that some had Christmas trees displayed, others had lights strung round their windows and piles of wrapped packages piled on the window seats. There were vast, open loft spaces and tight, tidy family kitchens, all well-lit and festive, fairy lights blinking on the trees. In one, kids played games on the floor, and in another, an elderly couple sat reading companionably side by side on the sofa, the way Darcy’s mum and dad used to do; in others, people were wrapping presents, baking cookies or simply sipping coffee by the window while gazing across at snow-covered oak trees in the Park.
She could have stayed there all day, watching families go about their daily business. Darcy loved watching families period, and wondered if she’d ever have one of her own, to help recreate some of those special times she’d enjoyed before her parents’ death.
She turned away from the window then, suddenly uneasy about making herself too comfortable here, to say nothing about prying beyond what was necessary.
But on her way out of the bedroom, Darcy’s eyes were drawn to a small cabinet in the corner; it was set into an alcove which made it difficult to see when you first walked into the room. As she approached, she could see that it was a brass and glass display case sitting on top of an antique rosewood table.
The back of the case was lined with etched mirror and Darcy thought that it had probably sat proudly in one of Fifth Avenue’s finest furniture stores once upon a time. Inside the case was a selection of medals and medallions, set apart from each other in an obvious display.
She was about to check what the accolades might be for when her eyes landed on a framed photograph just alongside the medals. It was a group shot of people mostly dressed in sports gear, and the location was obviously somewhere with a hot climate, judging by the camera subjects’ tanned skin, sunglasses and hats protecting them from the glare of the sun.
Darcy scanned the faces, trying to seek out Aidan; it was a huge group, probably about 150 people. Some of them were adorned in colourful tribal dress, with dark complexions and bare feet. What exotic location was it this time? she wondered, taking in the oxide red dust beneath their feet. Several white-skinned members of the group could possibly be him, given the clothing, but it was difficult to pick anyone out at the distance the photograph had been taken to get the entire group in frame.
But curiously, right beside the photograph and on its own stand was a book entitled Born to Run. Darcy scratched her head as she thought of all the expensive first edition classics and collectors’ items downstairs – yet here in the only lockable display case was a very ordinary-looking paperback.
Curious . . .
But taking all of the contents in the case into account she realised that there was a definite theme forming.
The large medallions and belt buckles with various logos and dates all detailed running competitions and races of some kind. Western States Endurance Run: 100 miles – 1 day read one of the large silver belt buckles. 100 miles in one day? Who in their right mind would undertake such a thing? Darcy thought incredulously, reminding herself that merely walking ten or so blocks put her out of breath. Yes, she managed to stay reasonably fit from cycling, but compared to Aidan, she was an absolute slouch.
Yet it fit with the photographs she’d seen in the living room, the prescription pills and what she suspected Thrill Seeker Holdings was all about. Aidan was indeed one of those adventure-loving, adrenaline-seeking activity types.
She reached for the clasp on the side of the display case and giving it a gentle tug, found the door was unlocked. Opening it, she thought about poor Aidan in the hospital bed, and so many hard-earned, precious memories out of his reach. The only thing Darcy could think of worse than having to run 100 miles was running 100 miles and not being able to remember it.
Deciding immediately to bring one of these medals back to him, she looked through them, trying to select the best one.
There were certainly lots to choose from: the first, detailing the ING New York City Marathon, was a race Darcy recognised well, recalling the inconvenience of closed streets and inaccessible parks one weekend every November. Several other medals on thick ribbons recorded similar achievements from various years – all attached to a wooden holder that looked like it
could have been custom-made.
Where on earth did he get the time to maintain a hugely successful career, sit and enjoy the wonderful contents of his own private library, and at the same time train to run hundreds of miles? Trying to figure out who Aidan Harris really was, was turning out to be a true conundrum.
Darcy knew for sure which hobby she’d prefer, she thought, picking up the book – the one thing in the case she had some chance of understanding.
The book jacket was not pristine or particularly attractive: it was cream with a black imprint of a bare foot, and the title printed within the footprint beneath the outline of a man running partly silhouetted against the sun.
She held it in her hands, guessing that it was easily the least valuable book in the house by a mile. Then she opened the first page and saw two signatures, one by Christopher McDougall the author, and beneath this the name ‘Cabello Blanco’.
Well, it might seem insignificant to her, but it must mean a lot to Aidan if it was the only book on display. Carefully placing the book in her bag to take back to the hospital, Darcy was about to close the cabinet when an inscription on one of the medals caught her attention.
NYRR. Which Darcy knew stood for New York Road Runners.
Joshua often spoke of the running club – his health-conscious medical family were all avid runners and all members of the club. His dad even sat on the board apparently, and Joshua often joked that no matter what time you went to Central Park there was always a Bishop running around it.
She looked again at the contents of the cabinet – so many proud mementos of races Aidan had run. And she thought again about how he seemed so full of contradictions.
Every time Darcy thought she was getting closer to figuring out who Aidan Harris was, something else came along to blow her assumptions out of the water.
Chapter 25
All those who wander are not lost. J.R.R. Tolkien
Trying to think like Miss Marple, but actually feeling more like Goldilocks, Darcy left the master bedroom and ventured back down the hall to the room she had to assume was a guestroom. She took in every detail and decided that yes, someone had been sleeping in this room, recently. Strange . . . with the other room available to them as a first choice, no one would realistically pick the smaller room.
She entered the guest bathroom and was again confronted with signs of use. Taking in the aftershave, the deodorant and the nose-hair trimmers, she deduced that it had to be a man.
‘Have you recently had a house-guest, Aidan?’ Darcy murmured into thin air.
Maybe someone had been staying at the house and had been locked out since Aidan hadn’t returned after the other day.
Feeling anxious now, she wondered where this person could be. Her thoughts flashed to Aidan’s phone, out of action for the last few days. How horrible it would be if his house guest had been trying to get in touch with him, thinking he’d disappeared or that something bad had happened to him. Darcy thought of hanging around for a while longer, just in case the person might come back.
But then again, how would she know if they were who they said they were?
Too many confusing thoughts were bumping around Darcy’s head, and she was starting to feel overwhelmed.
Casting a final glance at the room, she headed in the direction of the office she’d glanced through the other day. It hadn’t held her interest at the time as it contained little other than filing cabinets, the heavy wooden desk and Aidan’s laptop. But this time, on her way in she noticed another photograph, tucked away on a shelf nearby.
A striking woman – again incredibly radiant and beautiful – was pictured in a gold string bikini, evidently in some tropical location. Sunshine glistened off her blonde hair and she was deeply tanned. Darcy made a face as she took in the woman’s model physique. Difficult to be 100 per cent certain, as this image was in colour, but it seemed likely to be the same blonde that she’d seen in the other photograph shut away upstairs in Aidan’s bedside drawer.
‘OK, it’s official,’ Darcy sighed. ‘The girlfriend is beautiful.’
She glanced balefully down at her own frame and tried to imagine what she would look like in that same bikini. There was a litheness about this woman that she knew she would never have.
She tried to remind herself of the statistics – that Supermodels were merely genetic abnormalities. Whereas she was normal and should be proud of it.
Still, Darcy couldn’t help but feel a pang. Despite the odds, why did it always have to be women like this who attracted men like Aidan?
She put the picture back on the shelf, deciding not to go there. Besides, everyone had cellulite, and Miss Universe probably did too, it’s just that the lens wasn’t picking it up. And everyone knew that PhotoShop could work wonders.
Determinedly putting Aidan’s love interest out of her mind, she wandered back to the desk, upon which sat a Vaio laptop, a considerably more expensive version than her ancient clunker. If by some miracle she could access Aidan’s computer, then a whole world of additional information would become open to her and him. She wondered if there was any point in packing up the laptop and taking it back to the hospital with her just in case his brain might remember how to access it. She knew the mind worked like that, that a person’s fingers sometimes automatically moved to the relevant keys, without having to think about what they were typing.
Darcy placed the bottle of water she’d been carrying on the desktop blotter and sat back in the chair, wondering where she might start looking for company information or stationery that would act as sufficient authorisation for Apple.
Seeing a drawer to her right, she reached out and grasped the handle. Tugged it gently, and then a bit harder.
Nothing happened.
Foiled yet again, she sat up straight in the chair and turned her attention to the phone on the desk. She wondered if a separate phone number was fed into the office, or whether it was just another extension of the downstairs phone. As she looked, she noticed that the message light on the phone was blinking again. Darcy started to scroll through the caller ID. Immediately recognising the Kensington number, she realised that this was indeed the same line as downstairs, but quite a lot of activity had taken place since the last time she’d checked it.
She was dismayed to see that there were now seven private number entries after the Kensington one, as well as a couple of others. Clearly somebody was frantically trying to get in touch with Aidan.
A small pad of paper sat next to the phone, along with a Mont Blanc pen, and Darcy quickly wrote down the numbers that came up, marvelling at how smooth the nib was.
Interspersed with the private number calls was a listing displayed as ‘Bennington’ with a 212 number, as well as ‘Cleaver-Parks’, also in Manhattan. Wondering if either of them might be the woman who was calling from the withheld numbers, Darcy scribbled the details down.
Then, feeling no sense of guilt this time around, she pressed Play on the answering machine.
Aidan, hey, it’s Nate. Just wanted to follow up. I heard you since made contact with my friend, and I hope all went well. I’ll try you on your cell but if I don’t get you, really happy that you got what you needed before the big day. Ciao.
Her eyes widened. Happy that you got what you needed before the big day?
Now Darcy was more certain than ever that Aidan had been on his way to meet someone and deliver that gift on the day of the accident.
She bit her lip. It was all her fault he never made it.
Hearing a beep and then some background noise she listened closely, feeling a sense of dread as she guessed it would be the woman again.
‘Pick up, goddamn you!’ said a female voice, clearly upset, and this time very angry. ‘I just can’t believe you’re ignoring me like this! If you wanted to end things, OK fine, but the least you could do is tell it to my face instead of this pathetic, idiotic . . . juvenile behaviour. Well forget it, I get the message. I’d like to say it was fun but I’d be lying. Have a
nice life, ass-hole. Oh, and this is Melanie by the way, just in case you’re having trouble keeping track.’
Darcy sat there, stunned. Clearly the meeting that Aidan had missed was very significant indeed. But, more importantly, she realised, playing the message back again, the mysterious caller now had a name: Melanie.
Melanie. Aidan and Melanie. Darcy turned the combination over in her mind. So Melanie had to be the gorgeous blonde in the bikini – the voice matched somehow. And she was a somewhat forbidding type, judging by her parting shot.
She guessed that beautiful women like that didn’t tolerate being messed around too easily, especially when there were bound to be lots of other men lined up to treat them as they expected to be.
But what event had Aidan missed the other day? Clearly it was something significant, to Melanie at least. She wished the woman hadn’t withheld her number though, since Darcy could have just called her up and told her that no, Aidan hadn’t done anything wrong, that it was actually all her fault, and if it hadn’t been for Darcy he would have made it to wherever he was supposed to be and delivered the gift to her.
But now she wondered again what the gift could be. She guessed that a woman like Melanie would have expensive tastes and habits. Which meant that the gift Aidan had chosen for her must have been something very special. Her mind racing, she thought of the other message, the one in which the man had mentioned about Aidan getting ‘what he needed in time’. Could this guy, this Cleaver-Parks person, be somehow involved in that?
Quickly scribbling down the caller’s number, she dropped the pen and tore off a piece of paper from the pad. But as she did so, Darcy’s elbow knocked against the open Fiji bottle, spilling water all over the blotter and on top of the desk.
She jumped up from her chair. ‘Oh crap! I’m sorry, Aidan, I’m sorry!’ she called out to the air. ‘I just keep ruining your stuff.’
Looking around desperately for anything to sop up the mess, she ran from the room and returned a moment later with a hand towel that she’d grabbed from a small washroom just off the hallway. Rushing to wipe up the blotter, she realised that she should be more concerned about the desk’s expensive-looking walnut surface.
