The Address(18)

“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?”

“Pastels?”

“More than that. I want people to walk in and feel like they’re entering a beachfront Roman villa. Here.” She opened the binder. “We’re stripping out everything and then redoing it. I want lots of trompe l’oeil, so we’ll paint the columns as if they were marble, like with pink and gray veining. Tony’s friend has a company that does that kind of thing and it’s glorious. In the gallery, we’ll use this cool sponge technique on the walls. I think it should be ochre but Tony wants more orangey. We’ll decide once you get us swatches.”

Bailey swallowed. The thought of painting over the fine wood and taking off all the molding made her sick. “Huh.”

“I know, you’re speechless, right?” She turned to the back of the binder, where furniture spec sheets had been inserted into clear plastic sleeves. “You can still get a designer discount at the showrooms, right?”

“Sure.” Bailey flipped through. Gilt dining room chairs, armchairs covered in a leopard print, a Lucite coffee table. She didn’t even know where to begin. In Malibu this might work, but there was something unseemly about doing this in the Dakota.

She closed the binder. “Are you sure? There’s so much history in this apartment. Your family, Theodore Camden’s legacy. It feels kind of drastic.”

“I am so tired of hearing about Theodore Camden, blah, blah, blah. That was a hundred years ago. He’s dead. Times change. Everyone in the building is doing this kind of thing.” Melinda snorted. “Well, not everyone. There’s some old fuddy-duddies who won’t change a thing. But we have celebrities, musicians, artists, actors. It’s all shag carpets and white walls and stainless steel. You of all people should know that.”