Cecelia Ahern - The Gift & Thanks for the Memories

He simply nods at her and then tries to concentrate on the conversation, picking up where he left off.

‘It will range from small individual portraits meant for the private home to the large-scale group portraits of members of charitable institutions and civic guards.’

He stops pacing and eyes the hamper suspiciously, feeling as though something is about to jump out at him.

‘Yes, Simon, in the Sainsbury Wing. If there’s anything else you need to know please do contact me here at the office.’

He hurries his colleague off the phone and hangs up. His hand pauses on the receiver, not sure whether to call for security. The small hamper seems alien and sweet, in his musty office, like a new-born baby in a cradle left on the dirty steps of an orphanage. Underneath the wicker handle, the contents are covered by a chequered cloth. He stands back and lifts it slowly, preparing to jump away at any moment.

A dozen or so muffins stare back at him.

His heart thumps and he quickly looks around his box-sized office, knowing nobody is with him, but his discomfort at receiving this surprise gift adds an eerie presence. He searches the basket for a card. Taped to the other side is a small white envelope. With what he realises now are shaking hands, he rips it rather clumsily from the basket. It hasn’t been sealed and so he slides the card out. In the centre of the card in neat handwritten script it simply says:

Thank you …

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Justin power-walks through the halls of the National Gallery, part of him obeying and the other part disobeying the ‘no running in the halls’ rule as he jogs three steps then walks three steps, jogs three steps and slows to a walk again. Goody Two-Shoes and the daredevil within him battling it out.

He spots Roberta tiptoeing through the hallway, making her way like a shadow to the private library where she has worked for the past five years.

‘Roberta!’ His daredevil is unleashed; disobeys the ‘no shouting in the halls’ rule, and his voice echoes and rebounds off the walls and high ceilings, deafening the ears of all in the portraits, loud enough to wilt van Gogh’s sunflowers and to crack the mirror in the Arnolfini portrait.

It’s also enough for Roberta to freeze and turn slowly, her eyes wide and terrified like a deer caught in the headlights. She blushes as the half-dozen members of the public turn to stare at her. Her gulp is visible from where he stands and Justin’s immediately sorry for breaking her code, for pointing her out when she wanted to be invisible. He stops his power-walking and tries to walk quietly along the floors, glide as she does, in an attempt to retract the noise he had made. She stands, stiff as a board and as close to the wall as possible like an elegant climber, clinging to the walls and fences, preferring shelter and not noticing its own beauty. Justin wonders if her behaviour is as a consequence of her career, or if being a librarian in the National Gallery had seemed attractive to her because of her way. He thinks the latter.

‘Yes,’ she whispers, wide-eyed and frightened.

‘Sorry for shouting your name,’ he says as quietly as he can.

Her face softens and her shoulders relax a little.

‘Where did you get this hamper?’ He holds it out to her.

‘At reception. I was returning from my break when Charlie asked me to give it to you. Is there something wrong?’

‘Charlie.’ He thinks hard. ‘He’s at the Sir Paul Getty Entrance?’

She nods.

‘OK, thank you, Roberta, I apologise for shouting.’ He dashes off to the East Wing, his daredevil and good side clashing again in a remarkably confused half-run, half-walk combination, while the basket swings from his hand.

‘Finished for the day, Little Red Riding Hood?’ He hears a croaky chuckle.

Justin, noticing he was skipping along with the basket, stops abruptly and spins around to face Charlie, a security guard, over six foot tall.

‘My, Grandmother, what an ugly head you have.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I was wondering who gave you this basket?’

‘A delivery guy from …’ Charlie moves over to behind his small desk and riffles through some papers. He retrieves a clipboard. ‘Harrods. Zhang Wei,’ he reads. ‘Why? Something wrong with the muffins?’ He runs his tongue over his teeth and clears his throat.

Justin’s eyes narrow. ‘How did you know they were muffins?’

Charlie refuses to meet his stare. ‘Had to check, didn’t I? This is the National Gallery. You can’t expect me to accept a package without knowing what’s in it.’

Justin studies Charlie, whose face has pinked. He spies crumbs stuck to the crevices at the corners of his mouth and slight traces down his uniform. He removes the chequered cloth from his hamper and counts. Eleven muffins.

‘Don’t you think it’s odd to send a person eleven muffins?’

‘Odd?’ Eyes wander, shoulders fidget. ‘Dunno, mate. Never sent muffins to anyone in my life.’

‘Wouldn’t it seem more obvious to send a dozen muffins?’

Shoulders shrug. Fingers fidget. His eyes study everybody that enters the gallery, far more intently than usual. His body language tells Justin that he’s finished with the conversation.

Justin whips out his cellphone as he exits to Trafalgar Square.

‘Hello?’

‘Bea, it’s Dad.’

‘I’m not talking to you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Peter told me what you said to him at the ballet last night,’ she snaps.

‘What did I do?’

‘You interrogated him on his intentions all night.’

‘I’m your father, that’s my job.’

‘No, what you did is the job of the Gestapo,’ she fumes. ‘I swear, I’m not speaking to you until you apologise to him.’

‘Apologise?’ he laughs. ‘What for? I merely made a few enquiries into his past, in order to ascertain his agenda.’

‘Agenda? He doesn’t have an agenda!’

‘So I asked him a few questions, so what? Bea, he’s not good enough for you.’

‘No, he’s not good enough for you . Well, I don’t care what you think of him, it’s me that’s supposed to be happy.’

‘He picks strawberries for a living.’

‘He is an IT consultant! ’

‘Then, who picks strawberries?’ Somebody picks strawberries . ‘Well, honey, you know how I feel about consultants. If they are so amazing at something why don’t they do it themselves, instead of just making money telling people?’

‘You’re a lecturer, curator, reviewer, whatever . If you know so much why don’t you just build a building or paint a damn picture yourself?’ she shouts. ‘Instead of just bragging to everybody about how much you know about them!’

Hmm .

‘Sweetheart, let’s not get out of control now.’

‘No, you are the one out of control. You will apologise to Peter and if you do not, I will not answer your phone calls and you can deal with your little dramas all by yourself.’

‘Wait, wait, wait. Just one question.’

‘Dad, I—’

‘Did-you-send-me-a-hamper-of-a-dozen-cinnamon-muffins?’ he rushes out with.

‘What? No!’

‘No?’

‘No muffins! No conversations, no nothing —’

‘Now, now, sweetheart, there’s no need for double negatives.’

‘I’ll have no more contact with you until you apologise,’ she finishes.

‘OK,’ he sighs. ‘Sorry.’

‘Not to me . To Peter .’

‘OK, but does that mean you won’t be collecting my dry cleaning on your way over tomorrow? You know where it is, it’s the one beside the tube station—’

The phone clicks. He stares at it in confusion. My own daughter hung up on me? I knew this Peter was trouble .