Holly smiled broadly. ‘That would be fantastic!’
‘Ever heard of Margot Mead?’
She shook her head. The name meant absolutely nothing to her. ‘Well, she’s pretty well known in society circles around Manhattan, and one of our regular customers, if you know what I mean,’ he added delicately, and Holly figured this meant that Margot was rolling in the moolah.
‘OK … ?’
‘She’s a collector. Adores jewellery. If there’s one woman who could help you identify a charm that distinctive, or indeed someone who has the means to come by it, it’s her. She has a lot of friends and, believe me, they buy a lot of expensive stuff.’
Holly looked at the egg again. It really was a marvellous charm; she was surprised that she hadn’t noticed how much more expensive it looked compared to some of the simpler pieces on the bracelet. She wondered if it had been bought to commemorate a particularly special occasion – a significant birthday, maybe?
She noticed Danny edging towards her and looking fidgety, and figured that was her cue to take her leave. ‘Well, Samuel, I really appreciate your help. I’ll see if I can track down this Margot.’
‘You’re welcome. Best of luck to you,’ Samuel said. ‘It’s a lovely bracelet and I’m sure the owner will appreciate your efforts.’
Holly was about to slip the bracelet back into her pocket, but then remembering how expensive it was, she instead carefully tucked it into the inside pocket of her handbag.
Margot Mead …
She sounded like one of those out-and-out New York society queens. How on earth was a lowly shop assistant like Holly going to inveigle an audience with someone like that?
14
At his parents’ house on Park Avenue, Greg paused at the threshold of their bedroom, a lump in his throat.
It was the place he had run to in the middle of the night as a child when he had a nightmare, or didn't feel well. Not to mention all the times he would sit on the big four-poster bed and watch his parents getting ready to go out to some fancy event or another.
The morning light began to illuminate the room. He looked around; every item and every fabric had his mother’s imprint on it. She loved bright colours, yellow especially, often saying that there had been little colour in Alphabet City, where she had been raised.
On the dressing table, amongst the various perfume bottles and lotions, he spied a framed photograph and picked it up. It was one of Jeff and Cristina taken before they married. His mother looked like a film star, Audrey Hepburn-like with a pretty print dress and gloves and hat.
‘Love you Mom,’ he whispered, carefully slipping the photo back on the dresser amongst her things.
Then, Greg swallowed hard and went back into the living room where his father waited.
‘Everything OK, son?’ Jeff Matthews asked, watching him carefully.
‘Sure,’ Greg nodded and, going to the drinks cabinet, poured his father two shots of his favourite thirty-year-old Scotch.
Taking in the surroundings in which he’d grown up, he realised that the place was a bit like the Scotch: richly familiar, and little had changed in the last few decades. As always, there were fresh sunflowers on the living-room table. He didn’t know where Jeff had got them, this time of year especially, but his father had bought his mother sunflowers every week of their marriage for the past forty years.
‘Here you go, Dad, just what the doctor ordered.’
He passed the leaded crystal rocks glass to his father, and took a seat across from him on the settee that his mother had picked out when they first bought this classic, pre-war apartment.
Jeff took a sip of the amber liquid and gave a small grimace as the liquid burned its way down his throat.
‘Actually, this is probably the last thing that the doctor ordered, son. But really, who wants to listen to that old bastard. If it were up to him I’d be on an all-greens diet with a water IV. No fun in that,’ he chuckled. ‘If I’m going to go out, I’m going to go out the good way: pickled in good Scotch and eating a cow.’
‘Dad. Come on: don’t joke about your health. And besides, you are as strong as a horse,’ Greg scolded, uncomfortable with such discussion. The past few months had been hard on everyone, and Greg still worried about his father rattling around in this huge apartment.
‘So,’ Jeff said, taking another sip of his drink and changing the subject. ‘You quit your job.’ He wore a serious expression that suggested: OK, let’s talk business.
Greg sucked in his breath, but his dad started to laugh, slapping his knee jovially, which finally elicited a smile. ‘Well damn, good for you! In my opinion you should have quit that sweatshop years ago. So what’s the plan now?’
Greg rubbed his hands together and reached for his own drink (a glass of red wine; he had never been much of a hard liquor drinker), took a sip and smiled. ‘I’m going to make a go of it on my own, with my photography. You know, it’s always been a dream of mine, and since that photo of the Flatiron sold, I have been playing with the idea. Of course, there is a risk … ’
‘Life is a risk. Don’t let that scare you - if you live your life always afraid of putting yourself out there. You should do what you love, because in this economy,’ he joked, ‘you're gonna be doing it for a long time. And you're good at it, I know that. Taking pictures, your mom reckons you were like one of those Hudson River painters, except with a camera.’
