by Karen Swan
‘Supposedly. But Lacey seems to want to do most of it. Henry’s organizing the honeymoon and Anouk’s doing the rings.’
‘Are you?’ Cassie asked.
‘Of course. I’m using pink gold,’ she said. ‘Twenty-two carats. Gorgeously pure.’
‘Wow, so he’s really keeping it all in “the family”, then,’ Cassie muttered. With Kelly behind the financing for his trip, she wondered how she could contribute in some way, but, as ever, she seemed to have nothing to offer.
Chapter Nineteen
Winter had the city in its grip, and Christmas Eve sailed in on storm clouds. The blazing, fluttering magnificence of fall – which tinted the city in every hue of gold, amber, caramel and ochre – had blown away with the north winds, and all that was left was naked structure and fleshless bones. The trees were stripped back to hardy bark, the littering leaves that danced down the avenues were at their most friable, the sky was an ominous dove-grey and swollen with unspilled snow.
Cassie and Luke jogged up the vast, wide steps to the library holding hands, darting past the famous lions and through the thick wide marble pillars, eager to find refuge again from the ice in the air.
‘Why do we have to do this?’ Luke asked as they swept in and the humming warmth of the library enveloped them like a blanket.
Cassie smiled and put a hand on his arm. ‘Because it’s on the list.’
‘I don’t get what’s so important about this list.’
‘It’s an adventure, showing me how to get under the covers of the city. You know, feel its pulse. And anyway, it’s thanks to that list that you and I are together. You should show it more gratitude,’ she said, kissing him into submission.
‘Fine.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘At least it’s warm in here.’
‘Thank God.’ She fished around in her pocket and took out the list, which was now as close to collapse as the leaves on the ground. ‘Right. It says I’ve got to ask for Robin and read A Christmas Carol.’ She looked at him and pulled a face. ‘I don’t think he means the whole thing.’
‘I hope not! I’ve got to finish my Christmas shopping. Couldn’t you have done this another day?’ Luke asked, walking forwards and staring up at the lofty gilt-decorated ceiling.
‘Absolutely not! My father always read it to me on Christmas Eve. It’s tradition.’
Cassie looked around at the imposing landmark. The library was fast approaching its centenary, and she could practically feel the weight of history contained within it. The air in here felt different somehow, thicker, and sound seemed to travel differently – amplifying the shuffle of pages being turned, the vibration of murmured conversations, the muffled thwump! of books hitting tables.
‘Come on, let’s ask at one of the desks.’ She started walking, still staring up at the ceiling. It had frescoes that made you think you were looking through to the sky. ‘My God, this place is so huge.’ The Reading Room looked as long as a city block, with rows upon rows of tables running down it. ‘We could spend the day in here.’
‘Not likely,’ Luke said, coming up and patting her bottom.
They walked over to one of the wooden arches that swooped down to the librarians’ desks. A bald man in his mid-forties was standing there, working at a screen.
‘Hi,’ Cassie smiled. ‘I’m looking for Robin.’ She hoped that would be enough information. Henry hadn’t supplied his surname.
The librarian stared at her, mildly surprised by the request. ‘And you are . . . ?’
‘Uh, well, my name’s Cassie, but he doesn’t know me.’
‘Robin is the Chief Archivist of Rare Books, ma’am. He’s very busy. Perhaps I can help you?’
‘Well . . . it says specifically to ask for Robin,’ she hesitated. ‘My list, you see.’
She held it up feebly, aware that it looked more like a shopping list than a ticket to the heart of New York. ‘Maybe if you tell him Henry Sallyford sent me. They must know each other.’ She shrugged hopefully.
The man hesitated a second, his breathing impatient, then picked up a phone. ‘Robin, it’s Doug. I’ve got a lady here asking to see you. Says she was sent by . . .’ He cupped the receiver and raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Henry Sallyford,’ Cassie whispered.
‘A Henry Sallyford. Uh-huh . . . uh-huh . . . Okay.’
He replaced the receiver and looked back up, his eyes sweeping the length of her curiously. ‘He’s coming up.’
‘Oh, right, thanks,’ Cassie said gratefully, shoving her hands into her pockets and turning away from his scrutiny.
They stood waiting for a few minutes, watching as people came and went, alternately bracing themselves for, and shaking off, the cold.
‘Hi. Cassie.’
She turned around. A tall, lanky man, thirtyish, was smiling down at her, his hair in a long bob. ‘I’m Robin.’
‘Hi. Nice to meet you.’ She shook his hand. ‘This is my friend Luke.’
She saw Luke throw a glance at her. Except for that one time when she’d slipped up in front of the girls, she absolutely refused to call him her boyfriend.
‘Thanks so much for coming to meet us,’ she smiled, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed to be interrupting someone’s work day for a list. ‘Uh, so this is probably going to sound completely mad, but my friend Henry Sallyford told me to come here and ask for you . . .’
‘Sure. He told me you’d be coming.’
‘He did?’
‘He did,’ he smiled. ‘Follow me.’
They walked back to the desk where she’d spoken to the librarian, and Robin began writing something on a slip of paper. ‘Thanks, Doug,’ he said, handing it to his colleague.
Doug glanced at the slip and then tilted his head as though double-checking the request.
‘If you wouldn’t mind . . .’ Robin nodded. He led them to a door and punched in a code, opening it on to a staircase. ‘I hope you’re wearing suitable shoes,’ he said, glancing at her boots. Thankfully, she’d switched into Uggs now that the pavements were getting icy. ‘It’s a bit of a walk.’
‘Oh, trust me, my fitness has improved no end since I’ve been here – thanks to Henry,’ she chuckled.
‘He’s had you on goose chases all over the city, has he?’ Robin asked, leading them down one flight of stairs after another.
‘You could say that.’
They walked further and further down before arriving in an enormous room.
‘My God, where are we?’ Cassie gasped.
‘We’re in the storage extension, under Bryant Park now.’
‘I can’t believe I haven’t got my camera,’ Luke muttered as they walked past row upon row upon row of dark, narrow alleys all lined with books. ‘I mean, when do I ever come out without it?’
‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t have been possible anyway,’ Robin said. ‘The stacks are closed to the public and many of the books here have to be stored in special conditions. Light from camera exposures can degrade them quite badly.’
‘How many books are there?’ Cassie wondered aloud. It was so different down here, cramped beneath the building, compared with the vaulted, expansive space of the majestic Reading Room. Trolleys stacked with books stood motionless in some of the aisles, and a poster of the library rules, dating back to 1921, was still taped to one of the walls.
‘In total? About five million.’
‘Wow. Don’t say they all have to be dusted?’ she joked.
‘Well, it’s not in my job description.’
They carried on walking. There were literally miles of shelving stacked around them, and every row looked the same as all the others. She wondered how he could find his way around them all so effortlessly.
‘So how do you know Henry, Robin?’ she asked, letting her fingers trail lightly over the spines of some of the books. Luke was a few steps behind.
‘Oh, we’ve overlapped many times. He finds and we collect, so we often bump into each other,’ he said. ‘Many of his private clients a
re also our benefactors, and I often see him at Christie’s.’
He came to a stop by a nondescript stack. ‘Right, it should be . . . yes . . . there it is.’
They walked towards a small desk positioned halfway down one of the rows. A shaded lamp was already switched on and a maroon leather-bound book was placed on it. Several pairs of white cotton gloves were on the table.
‘Here, you’ll need to wear these,’ Robin said, handing them each a pair.
‘Why?’ Cassie asked as she pulled on hers.
‘This is a first-edition copy of the book. It’s one hundred and sixty-eight years old. Charles Dickens himself used to read from this at public readings.’
‘He didn’t!’ Cassie gasped, staring down at the antique pages.
‘He did. This is an extremely rare privilege. Only a very few people have had access to this book.’
‘And Henry’s one of them?’ Cassie sounded incredulous.
‘Well, like I say – he’s an old friend. And he helped us purchase some of Charles Darwin’s unpublished field notes from the Galapagos. I’m more than happy to extend him this favour.’
‘Crikey,’ Cassie whispered.
‘Here, take a seat,’ Robin said, motioning to the chair.
She sat down carefully. ‘Oh, I love that smell,’ she said, inhaling the musty old scent from the book. ‘I love nothing more than going in to antiquarian bookshops and just smelling the pages.’
‘Yes. I know what you mean.’
‘Modern books just don’t smell the same, do they?’ she asked. ‘It must be the paper quality or printing process, or something.’
‘Both. But it’s also what we call VOCs – volatile organic compounds. It’s actually the smell of the paper degrading.’
‘Oh no,’ she said, looking down at the old book.
‘Don’t worry. This book’s kept in perfectly controlled conditions.’ He smiled. ‘You can read some of it if you like.’
‘I can?’
‘Sure. Just tell me when to turn the pages for you.’
She looked back down, but she didn’t need to read it to know what it said.
‘Marley was dead to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that,’ she intoned, her eyes closed, her father’s voice resonating in her head. He had always read her a chapter a night up to Christmas Eve when she returned to Hong Kong from school, and she could still hear where he made his stresses. It was Christmas to her. ‘Best first line of a book in my opinion,’ she said, looking over at Luke. ‘Have you ever read it?’
He shook his head and she looked back down, disappointed. She read the first chapter, resisting the urge to race through it, even though she sensed that she was keeping him waiting.
But soon enough, she was done.
‘Thank you so much Robin,’ she said finally, sitting back. ‘I can’t tell you what a thrill it’s been to see this. To think that Dickens himself read this book.’ She placed her gloved hands lightly on the pages, as though communing with the words. ‘Just wait till I tell my mother.’
She looked up at Luke, who was leaning against a pillar. ‘Can you believe we’re one of the handful of people in the entire city who’ve had access to this?’
Luke nodded tersely. ‘It sure is a heck of a list,’ he said reluctantly.
She stood up. ‘It sure is.’ She extended a hand to Robin. ‘Thanks so much for your time, Robin. I’m sure you’ve got a lot more to be getting on with besides chaperoning a Brit abroad.’
He shook his head, laughing. ‘Not at all. It’s always intriguing to get caught up in Henry’s adventures.’ He smiled, shaking her hand, then Luke’s. ‘And before I forget, he told me to give you this.’
He handed over a small square white envelope. Inside was a charity Christmas card with a robin on the front. She opened it and read the message.
‘Oh my,’ she murmured, looking up at Luke.
‘What now?’ he asked, dread hanging off his words like cobwebs.
She handed it over to him.
That was your Christmas Past.
For Christmas Present, go to Tiffany’s on Fifth.
The ultimate New York experience.
Love, Henry x
‘Do you think he’s got me a present?’ she asked excitedly.
‘No,’ Luke said flatly.
She deflated like a burst tyre. ‘Oh. But why not?’
‘You said he was just a friend.’
‘He is.’
‘I don’t buy my friends presents from Tiffany’s, Cass,’ he said pointedly.
‘You don’t buy your girlfriends presents from Tiffany’s either,’ she teased. ‘But you can rectify it whilst we’re there, if you like,’ she laughed, pulling his arm into her.
‘I’m not happy with this,’ he said in a low voice. Jealousy bounced off him like sparks.
‘He’s just an old friend, and he’s engaged,’ she reassured him for the umpteenth time as she checked her watch. ‘You should see his fiancée. In fact, you’ve probably photographed her.’ And she shook Robin’s hand again and bounded back through the stacks, hell-bent on getting to Fifth Avenue before the store closed for Christmas.
There was only half an hour till closing time once they got there, but it was as busy as if it was the first day of the sales. Every counter was crammed, mainly with men in heavy cashmere overcoats and pensive expressions making costly last-minute purchases in the hope that the ‘wow factor’ of the distinctive blue box would compensate for any lack of originality on their part.
‘What now?’ Luke asked, stopping just inside the doors. He had settled into a belligerent sulk, thoroughly put out that he and his girlfriend were making their first pilgrimage here under another man’s instructions – even if he was only a friend.
‘I’m not sure,’ Cassie said reverently, taking in the scene. Everything was exactly as she’d seen it in films – the cherrywood cabinets and glass counters gleaming under the lights, a mammoth Christmas tree at the back of the shop with boxes artfully scattered all around. It did utterly epitomize the mega-watt glamour of New York society. ‘I guess we . . . mingle. Become part of it all.’
Luke shot her a puzzled look, but she just shrugged. As a native, he didn’t see it the way she did. It was just a store, about to close for the holidays. But to her – for whom Christmas shopping had meant new Arans from the farmer’s wife – it was the embodiment of all her city fantasies. Behind her, a choir from Harlem was singing carols beneath the massive crystal Baccarat UNICEF snowflake. In front, staff were circulating, offering flutes of champagne and truffles to customers as they browsed. Cassie felt as steeped in traditional Christmas cheer as a pear in port.
Luke shrugged and wandered off, preferring to shop on his own, and Cassie made a point of not watching him. She’d only been joking about him buying her a gift here – after all, he must surely have bought her present by now. But then, if he was anything like the dozens of men here, leaving it till the last minute . . .
She began walking slowly round the store, peering into the cabinets she could get close to. An assistant offered her a glass of champagne while she browsed, and she accepted as happily as if she’d been among friends. She admired highly polished silver bone cuffs by Elsa Peretti, jewel-bright cabochon rings by Paloma Picasso, diamonds sold by the yard, gold mesh collars that draped like velvet, and of course the famous engagement rings which glittered like the royal jewels in the centre of the store.
Steadily, as the clock ticked towards closing time, the crowds began to thin out, and Cassie looked around for Luke. She saw him examining a ribbon-patterned cheese plate, which she hoped to goodness he was buying for his mother.
She accepted another glass of champagne and ambled slowly towards the giant Christmas tree to wait for him and listen to the carols. The choir really was excellent. She was determined to hoover up every last atom of Christmas in New York.
She looked up at the tree, just about the only thing in the store she hadn’t scrutinized. It
was tall and plush with needles, with empty boxes of every size piled around the foot, adorned with sumptuous white satin bows that blossomed atop the lids. It was like stepping into a fantasy, and she wished she was wearing a cocktail dress and chignon, rather than jeans and a—
She blinked and looked more closely, blinking again for good measure. But her eyes weren’t deceiving her – for there, beneath the tree, in beautiful trademarked-blue, was an enormous box with a card dangling from the ribbon, and on it her name.
She bent over and stared at it more closely. It couldn’t be! And yet it was. Her name.
Cassie Fraser.
She looked around furtively – probably sending security into overdrive – and went to pick it up.
Instantly, a man was at her side. He didn’t say anything or make a scene – his hands were behind his back, his chin up, eyes ahead – but it was clear she wasn’t going anywhere with that package.
‘It is not permitted to touch the display, madam,’ he said quietly.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Cassie said apologetically, her voice almost a whisper. ‘But it just took me by surprise.’ She pointed to the label. ‘You see, that’s my name. That’s me!’
The man didn’t look at it. He just kept his eyes on the shop floor. ‘You’re Cassie Fraser?’
‘I am!’ she confirmed in a hurried whisper, feeling like a spy.
‘Are you able to produce some identification to corroborate that, madam?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she replied, rummaging in her bag for her purse. She pulled out her credit cards and driver’s licence. ‘See?’
The man finally looked at her. His eyes flicked down towards the name on the cards and a smile crept on to his face. ‘We thought you weren’t going to make it in time,’ he said. ‘We’ve had someone on watch all day for you.’
‘You have?’ Cassie was amazed. Tiffany’s had been waiting for her?
‘Oh yes. The gentleman was insistent that you must not pass unnoticed. You gave us all quite a scare. I was not looking forward to having to ring him and tell him you’d slipped through our fingers.’ He gave a sigh of relief and beamed at her. ‘Let me put that in a bag for you.’
