The Address, page 5
“How many will be on staff, once it’s up and running?”
Mr. Douglas took a moment to answer, configuring the number in his head, apparently. “One hundred and fifty.”
She recoiled. “I’d be in charge of one hundred and fifty people? What would they all do?”
“Let’s see, this is a good test for me.” Mr. Douglas chuckled, as if it were all a silly joke. “Elevator staff, doormen, janitors, porters, watchmen, resident laundress with staff, gentlemen’s tailor, two painters, cabinetmaker, electrician, plumber, dining room staff. I think that’s everyone. Practically a city within a city, no?”
“Don’t forget the carpenter and glazier,” added Mr. Camden.
The two men discussed the schedule for installing the finishing touches on the Otis elevators for a few minutes, until Mr. Douglas turned on his heel and exited down the hall, puffing like a train.
Mr. Camden went to the wall and rang a button. “Well, that’s exciting news, isn’t it?”
She was frozen on the spot, unsure of how to answer. She was to be responsible for the entire staff and the well-being of hundreds of tenants.
“Fitzroy will be here in a moment and can show you to your office. I think you’ll prefer it to the garret you had at your previous employer’s. I designed the interior myself.”
For a moment, she ached for the small office at the top of the hotel, where she had showed up every day knowing exactly what was expected of her. “I’m not sure I’m right for this position.”
“Then you’ll be on the first steamer back.”
She blanched, and he laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous, give it a whirl. Douglas is in a pickle. You’ll do it, right?” Before she could reply, Fitzroy appeared.
“Sir?”
“Take Mrs. Smythe to the front office. And, Mrs. Smythe, first order of things is to find a new resident housekeeper. Off you go.”
Dutifully, she followed Fitzroy back down the stairs. He moved nimbly for his age. “I’ll have to bring you through the basement, as they’re causing a ruckus in the courtyard.”
She nodded, unable to speak. Her throat had tightened and she wanted a cup of tea desperately.
They descended to the lowest level of the building. Even though they were underground, the place was bright with natural light.
“How are there windows underground?” she asked.
“There’s a waterless moat around the building. But that’s not the only source. If you look up”—he pointed at the ceiling—“you can see the skylights set in the courtyard fountains.”
Fitzroy carried on with the tour, pointing out the water pipes that powered the lifts, she wasn’t sure exactly how, and dozens of small rooms. “Here’s where the tailor will go, and here will be a storage room for the tenants’ trunks. A ramp on the west side of the building allows for deliveries to be made directly to the basement.”
They took an elevator up one flight and Fitzroy unlocked the door to an office off the reception room, flinging it open.
Mr. Camden was correct. No expense had been spared. On the mahogany walls were handsome wood bookshelves, beside which sat a matching desk. The tableau was more suited to an old schooner, the place where the captain of a ship plotted the navigation. Piled on top of the desk were stacks of papers and unopened envelopes. Several had fallen to the floor.
“What’s all this?”
“Bills, requests from tenants, that sort of thing. The manager was supposed to have been here a week ago, so we’re a little behind.”
Fitzroy picked up the envelopes from the floor and laid them carefully on one of the shorter piles. “Did Mr. Camden mention the staff meeting?”
“No. No, he did not.”
“Right, then.” He checked his timepiece. “The entire staff will be arriving shortly and meeting in the dining room in one hour to receive their orders.”
“Mr. Douglas’s way of leading the charge?”
“Mr. Douglas?” Fitzroy looked at her askance. “No, Mrs. Smythe. You’ll be heading the meeting. You’re leading the charge.”
The next thirty minutes were spent rifling through the piles of papers, sorting them out by invoices, resident requests, vendor notices, and the like. It didn’t speak much to the organization of the place that Mr. Douglas had assigned her these duties without telling her exactly what was expected of her. She doubted he even knew. Everyone was starting from scratch with this apartment-house-that-ran-like-a-hotel nonsense. As far as she could tell, her job as lady managerette was to keep the Dakota Apartment House afloat. How that broke down into responsibilities was beyond her, and was probably beyond Mr. Douglas as well, who was busy with his own deadlines and duties.
She knew how to manage housemaids, nothing more than that. All right, perhaps more than that, as Mr. Birmingham at the Langham had presented her with additional responsibilities over the years. Particularly those he disliked, like hiring and firing staff and dealing with the more finicky guests.
She’d fought her way up to housekeeper there, so why should she not jump on this opportunity as well?
Because she might fail, horribly, and have to return to Fishbourne with her tail between her legs, as her mother expected.
A girl with strawberry-blond hair peered in from the doorway. “Mrs. Smythe?”
Sara nodded. “May I help you?”
The girl walked in, followed by a thin, reedy woman. They couldn’t have been more different from each other. The younger one was soft and round with a smattering of pale freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks. Her expression was curious and eager, like that of a girl who’d just walked into a bakery full of pastries. The older one’s mouth turned down at the sides, and her plain gray frock had the unfortunate effect of turning her skin tone rather ashen.
“I’m Daisy Cavanaugh, your assistant,” said the girl. “This is Mrs. Haines, who is also your assistant.”
Sara rose. “It is quite a pleasure to meet you both. Please, sit.” She gestured to the two chairs. “I’m afraid I have yet to find the staff list. Can you tell me a little about yourselves and what your jobs entail?”
Maybe that would give her some clue about her own.
Daisy leaned forward in her chair. “I was told that I’m to do whatever I can to assist you. I assume my first order of business is to locate the staff list.”
She liked the girl already.
“Previously”—Daisy cocked her head—“I worked at the Cosmopolitan Hotel, assisting the manager.”
“This is an entirely different animal.” Mrs. Haines’s mouth barely moved when she spoke, as if she had problems with her teeth. “I worked at the Hubert Home Club for the past three years, and I assure you, managing an apartment house is quite a lot more work. My duties will include checking in guests and calling up to the owners to grant them permission to visit, as I did there. A gatekeeper, if you will, to keep out the riffraff. The switchboard shall be my domain.”
“Will you both be residing here at the Dakota?”
Mrs. Haines nodded. “We are moving in today, on the ninth floor.”
“Yes, our rooms are right around the corner from each other,” offered Daisy, looking pleased.
Mrs. Haines didn’t bother to mask her disappointment at the arrangement. The two women were unlikely to become bosom friends, but with luck they’d learn to work together.
The front bell rang and Mrs. Haines sprung up. “I’d like to get started, if that’s all right with you.”
Sara dismissed them, but Daisy turned back in the doorway. “Mrs. Smythe, is it true you came from London?”
“Yes, yes, I did.”
“That’s a long way.”
“Indeed.”
“I hate to speak out of turn, but Mrs. Haines told me she’d thought she would get your job when it came open. You might have your hands full with that one.”
Sara would not tolerate gossip.
“I’m certain Mrs. Haines and I will manage just fine,” she said. “I treat every member of my staff with respect and expect the same treatment in return. Which means that, in the future, Daisy, you need only inform me of matters that pertain directly to you or your duties.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Daisy bit her lip.
Sara did not regret chiding the girl; it was important to establish boundaries from the first. Still, she did not want Daisy to think her cruel or cold. It would be nice to have a friend in this peculiar place.
“Speaking of duties, I’m drowning in all of these papers.” Sara held up a thick stack of bills in each hand and offered Daisy a wry smile. “I’d surely love your help running through them. Do you mind pitching in?”
Daisy’s face brightened. “Of course not, Mrs. Smythe. Can I get you a cup of tea before we dive to the bottom?”
“That would be lovely, and fetch one for yourself as well.”
They made great progress in a short period of time. While Daisy focused on the invoices and began entering them in the ledger, Sara looked over the staff list the girl had found, miraculously, under the desk. In the few minutes before the tolling of the hour, they heard the employees shuffling in through the reception area.
“We should go.” Sara took a deep breath.
She led the way into the dining room, which was packed with men and women of all ages and sizes, from the mischievous-looking messenger boys to the resident laundress, easily recognizable by her chapped, red hands. Everyone stood, careful not to touch the walls or the silk-covered dining room chairs. She was glad they were meeting in this room, which held an awe-inspiring grandeur. Here she had some sway. Or so she hoped.
Mr. Camden loped in, nodding his head and weaving his way through the crowd. Sara noticed Daisy give a quick intake of breath. The man had a rough elegance about him, an unlikely combination.
“Thank you all for assembling,” he said. “I am Mr. Camden, part of the architectural team here. As a future tenant, I’ve also been put in charge of getting the place up and running, along with Mrs. Smythe, the resident managerette.” He gestured in her direction. “We are here to provide our tenants with the sense that they’re not living in an apartment house but instead in a mansion of their own, with everything they could possibly want at their very fingertips. My boss, Mr. Henry Hardenbergh, has created one of the most modern buildings in New York City. We open on October twenty-seventh. That’s very little time, and we will require your utmost attention and assistance.
“I’d like to turn the meeting over to Mrs. Smythe. Mrs. Smythe hails from London, where she worked at the grand Langham Hotel.”
The abrupt introduction threw her. Sweat beaded beneath her chemise and she was glad for the many layers that hid the signs of her terror. She should have been one of the women staring back at her now, expectant, wary, hoping to please.
She took a deep breath and surveyed the room, lifting up one eyebrow and lowering her chin just a bit, exactly as her mother used to do when passing a group of gossiping women in the village. She spotted Fitzroy, holding his cap in his hands, the one recognizable face.
“I am delighted to meet you and look forward to getting to know each and every one of you. As Mr. Camden has said, we are taking ownership of a flagship building, one that will be talked about by the citizens of New York City for years to come. It is under our control, each and every one of us, to make this a building that is admired and whose tenants are envied. The structure may be made of stone and wood, but you will be its heart. We must all do our jobs with pride, and work together.
“I’d like the heads of each department to see Miss Cavanaugh and make an appointment to meet with me in the next two days. From there, we will be able to devise a working schedule and goals and approach opening day with confidence.”
She turned to Mr. Camden. There really wasn’t much else to say.
He threw her a quick smile. “Well done,” he murmured under his breath. “Not only do you save little girls, you are a force to be reckoned with. I knew my instincts were good when it came to you.”
Then he was gone, leaving her enveloped in a crush of voices and questions.
CHAPTER SIX
New York City, September 1985
Bailey had risen only halfway from the booth before Melinda wrapped her in her skinny arms, her jangly necklace digging into Bailey’s neck.
“I missed you so much,” she said, “and I’ve been thinking about you nonstop, you naughty girl.” The words were flip, but the embrace was genuine and fierce.
They finally untangled and Melinda sat in her seat, swishing her long hair back from each shoulder and tightening the scrunchie at the very top of her head, where a section of hair fanned out like a whale spout. The zipper on her jumpsuit revealed a plump cushion of tanned cleavage. “I should have visited you, I’m so sorry about that. You know I wanted to.”
“Please, I didn’t want any visitors. I had to work on myself.” More twelve-step jargon. Funny how sometimes that was the only way to explain it.
“I’m so glad you did. I heard that Tristan took care of the cost, is that right?”
“He did.” She couldn’t help but cringe, thinking of their conversation this morning.
“First things first. Tell me about Silver Hill. Meet anyone famous?”
“Liza was there. Lovely woman but, of course, I can’t say anything about it.”
That did the trick. Melinda looked both awed and chastised.
She’d have to remember that the next time someone asked.
The waiter poured water for the table and Bailey gulped down half her glass.
“It breaks my heart, what you went through.” Melinda’s eyes welled with tears. “I should have been there for you the way you’ve been for me. Remember when you pulled me out of the Roxy right before the cops swooped in?”
“Right. The Roxy. One of our many close calls.”
The waiter came by and handed them a couple of menus. Melinda didn’t bother to glance at it, kept her gaze rooted on Bailey. “Did you make any friends in rehab?”
“No. Not my type. Bunch of addicts and drunks.”
Melinda’s big blue eyes grew even bigger. “Don’t make fun. I know it must’ve been hard.”
Getting sympathy from Melinda made Bailey squirm. “The worst thing is not remembering much about my apparent night of infamy.”
Melinda let out a guffaw. “You were a trip, I have to say.”
“You were there?”
Bailey couldn’t remember much from that evening. She knew she’d had a few glasses of champagne and done some coke in one of the guest rooms at the Plaza. It was a big night out to celebrate Tristan’s birthday. They were to hit the Oak Room for martinis and then eventually end up clubbing at the Limelight, a former church from the 1800s where high-society families like the Astors and the Vanderbilts used to pray.
“Uh-huh. We ran into you guys in the Oak Room. Tony and I said hello and you were out of your mind already.”
A faint recollection of Bailey mimicking Tony’s English accent emerged through her hazy memory. She hadn’t liked Melinda’s latest boyfriend. He was one of those guys who always knew someone who knew someone, and liked to impress with how connected he was.
Bailey grimaced. “I was a bitch that night. Why did I insult Tristan’s top client?”
“Because she deserved it! You were completely right about the daughter’s apartment. That family never had any class.”
“She wanted her living room to have a rotating floor, for God’s sake.”
“I was at a party there a few weeks ago. Awful. You can’t buy taste.”
The waiter appeared. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Bailey ordered an iced tea, and Melinda paused for a moment before ordering the same.
“You don’t have to avoid alcohol on my account,” offered Bailey. “Feel free.”
“In that case, I’ll have a vodka on the rocks. I’m hitting Area later with Tony, so I’ll start slowly.”
“You and Tony are still good?” They’d been dating for a year now.
“You bet. I think marriage is in the cards. How do you feel about a new cousin-in-law?”
“If he makes you happy, I’m all for it. I’ll even babysit when you guys start adding to the family tree.”
Melinda giggled. “I guess I’ll have to produce at least one little rug rat for the sake of the Camden legacy. It’s not like Manvel is going to breed anytime soon. He’s way too in love with his creepy country artists.”
Bailey brushed some imaginary crumbs off the table. “Maybe he’ll find a nice girl in Alabama to settle down with.”
“I wouldn’t stop him, in any case,” said Melinda with a wink. “It isn’t as though I’ll be bumped down the line of inheritance if poor Manvel produces an heir. We each get an equal share, the day we turn thirty. Which is only a month away. Yee-haw, cuz!”
Melinda could play the family card all she liked, but she and Bailey weren’t actually related. Not by blood, anyway. Melinda and Manvel were real Camdens, heirs to the Camden money, co-owners of the Dakota apartment. While Bailey was extraneous. A fake Camden, whose grandfather was granted the family name but not the birthright, when he was taken in as a baby. “It’s not like we’re really cousins, cuz.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Our grandparents were raised together, as if they were siblings. That makes us cousins, in my mind.” Melinda took a sip of her drink. “Cheers to that.”
Bailey’s senses were overwhelmed by the glass in Melinda’s hands. The clinking of the ice cubes, pink lipstick on the rim the color of cake frosting. Her own iced tea proved a bitter disappointment.
“So what now for you?” Melinda asked. “Back to Crespo & O’Reilly?”
“No. They won’t have me back. Tristan made it clear that because of what I did, I’m a liability.”
