“You can hole up in the maid’s room. It’ll be great and you can oversee the work and I’ll pay you.” She paused. “As soon as the trust fund comes due.”
A paycheck. A place to stay. Melinda’s offer would solve a number of Bailey’s short-term problems. Even if it came with a heavy dose of drama.
“You turn thirty in October, right?”
“You betcha. At which point I’ll pay you in full and you’ll be able to start your own business. Fuck Tristan.”
Bailey had so far squandered all of her chances, and here was Melinda coming to the rescue. She reached over and hugged her across the table, breathing in the scent of Fracas perfume. This wasn’t exactly how Bailey had figured her post-rehab life would play out. But maybe Melinda was right.
Maybe this was just the fresh start she was looking for.
Bailey smiled at the doorman as they entered the Dakota—if she was going to be working here, she would need the staff on her side—but he didn’t respond. During her visits with her parents, she remembered the man stationed outside chattering away with them, handing out lollipops from a basket just inside the porter’s office. But then again, so much had changed.
Across the street, a gaggle of tourists aimed their cameras toward the Dakota. They hadn’t done that before Lennon’s murder, when the building was grand and mysterious but not marred by tragedy. Or at least a world-famous tragedy, she amended, recalling the murder of Melinda’s great-grandfather in the very apartment she’d be staying in.
“God, I hate this neighborhood,” Melinda said as they crossed the courtyard. Bailey wanted to stop, take a look up, and relish all the cornices, finials, and gargoyles. It was like walking through a time portal and ending up in 1800s Europe, but Melinda moved at a fast clip.
“Why? What’s wrong with the neighborhood?”
“It’s a wasteland. All crappy little bodegas and run-down brownstones. Walking down Amsterdam Avenue is like trudging through a pigsty. Last week, when I came out of the deli, a guy standing outside spit right in front of me. Gross.”
“That is gross.”
“I’d rather live on the Upper East Side. I absolutely hate having to say I live in the Dakota. Never mind the buses of tourists gaping into the windows.”
“You could move.”
“I figure I’ll sit it out for another few years, then sell. At least that’s what Fred advises. He says it’ll be worth a mint by then.”
“Fred’s still going strong?” Fred, the family’s advisor on all things financial and legal, had steered the trust for the past twenty years, after taking over from his father and grandfather.
“Still telling me what to do, just like he told my mother what to do. Old fart.” They exited the courtyard into the northeast corner foyer and waited for the elevator.
Bailey walked over to the stairway and ran her hand over the elaborately carved banister. “Gorgeous.”
“I guess so. Everything’s so heavy in here, it’s like a mausoleum.”
“But there’s so much history.”
“Whatever.” Suddenly, Melinda let out a string of curses. “Quick, follow me.”
Bailey looked outside into the courtyard to see a man with shaggy blond hair approaching. “Who’s that?”
“The super. He’s a total jerk. We’ve got to hide.”
Melinda pulled her down the hallway and around a corner, out of sight from the foyer. They heard the man enter and then start up the stairs. Once his footsteps faded away, Melinda exhaled.
“Why do you have to hide from the super?”
“He’s an ass. Hates me. I have no idea why. I give him a big tip every Christmas, but I think he wants more money, now that I’m renovating. You know how it is in New York. Everyone has their hand out.”
Not a good sign. Getting the super on your side was crucial to working in the city. Without his support, the job would fall apart. The super could revoke access to freight elevators, harass the workers over minor infractions, and make life generally miserable for everyone involved.
The door to the apartment was unlocked. From the foyer, Bailey could see directly into the library, which had been stripped of all furniture, the barrenness emphasizing the enormous windows that looked right out on the park.
“Hello? Anyone home?” Melinda called out.
The response was a thundering bang from down the hall.
“Jesus.”
Wanda’s head popped out from the living room. “Melinda? I didn’t know you’d be coming by today.”
“Surprise! I’ve brought your colleague. Or former colleague, I should say.”
Wanda stepped toward them. She was a ghost of a woman, with pale, flaxen hair and yellowish skin, and an unfortunate preference for neon colors that only served to enhance her pallor. She seemed to wilt perceptibly as she grew closer. Poor spineless Wanda. Tristan had probably been making her life impossible ever since Bailey left.
“Wanda, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
Wanda seemed near tears already. “Yes?”
“I’m letting you go. Tell Tristan the job is now in the hands of Bailey Camden, and she’ll be taking over from here.”
“I’m fired?”
“Yes. It’s time for a change of direction, and Tristan’s an ass for not giving Bailey a second chance, after all she did for him.”
“You want me to tell him that?”
“Yes. Now off you go.”
“But what about the workers?”
“They can stay on doing what they’re doing. Their contract is with me, not Crespo & O’Reilly. Now scat.”
Wanda gave a little shake of her head and skittered past them. Bailey couldn’t help but feel sorry for the woman. She was in way above her head when it came to dealing with the strong personalities of the New York upper class.
“Ouch.” Bailey waited until Wanda had closed the door behind her to speak. “That was harsh.”
“Whatever. She’s a peon. Now I can show you the masterpiece that I plan on building. You’re going to love it.”
They walked down the hallway, and Bailey looked into the living room, where the initial boom had come from. Two workers were up on ladders, prying a five-foot-long cornice from the top of the doorway that led to the library. It came loose and crashed to the ground.
“What are they doing? That’s original. Why are they letting it drop?” The floor was already littered with shards of wood. “Be careful, don’t let it break.”
The men looked over at Melinda.
“Carry on.” Melinda beckoned Bailey with her index finger, the nail of which was lacquered in fuchsia polish. “Come with me. I’ll show you your new digs.”
They turned right into the corridor that led to the kitchen. Bailey remembered there being several small rooms off of it, perfect for hiding when they were little. A bathroom, a pantry, a laundry room, she wasn’t sure which was which. Melinda opened the last door on the right.
The room possessed none of the grandeur of the apartment’s public spaces. In fact, it reminded her of her dorm at Silver Hill in its plainness and size, no bigger than a hundred square feet, with a small cot shoved against one wall. Maybe it would be a good thing to have some kind of continuity, to keep her baser desires in check. Still, it was depressing.
“You can stay here and oversee them so they don’t fuck up any more than they have.”
“Right. What exactly are you doing to the place?”
“That’s the fun stuff. Let’s sit down in the kitchen and I’ll show you.”
A binder lay on the kitchen table. Bailey recognized it as a client book from Crespo & O’Reilly. Wanda had forgotten to retrieve it in her haste to escape Melinda’s wrath.
They sat at the table and Melinda leafed through it. “It’s all cosmetic, we’re not moving walls or anything like that.”
“What’s the look you’re going for?”
“This place is dingy and dark and depressing. All that old wood is a bore, and Tony agrees that it could use a serious face-lift.”
The hair on the back of Bailey’s neck stood on end. “Face-lift?”
“Yes. We want it to be more of a Palm Beach feel, you know what I mean?”