Jane’s call suggesting breakfast before work was a welcome one; worry about The Campanile—and what the future might hold—made for a sleepless night and I wanted reassurance from her, or from anyone, that we would be able to navigate the tricky shoals we were currently crossing.
The Campanile was a beautiful and graceful old building and although my claim to it was definitely in the minority I was still concerned that the wonderful dream of owning it—along with the cheery group who constituted the partnership—would disappear in a flood of lawsuits, penalties, punishments and fees.
We met on College Street near Spadina and opted for our favourite greasy spoon. I would later be able to walk down to the office long before the daily routine got too hectic.
Jane was all business, black coffee and bagels. We would need to obtain a mortgage on the property and we needed it done quickly. We could mitigate any ongoing problems by forking over the settlement to the condominium board adjacent to The Campanile and—Jane had high hopes here—asking them to relent on taking most of our front yard. While plans for a new, broad semi-circular driveway were being bandied about by the condo board, we were certain that historical leanings would encourage them to sell our own front yard back to us.
“Nobody will pay fancy rent to live in a building that sits behind someone else’s parking lot” Jane explained. “We have to work on that damn condo board and we should expect a hard, difficult fight.” Jane was all business when it came to numbers. She looked Queen Street West, of course, but she was very much a Bay Street girl when it came to commercial matters.
We would have to apply to raise the rents above the allowed increase, and some of our longer-term tenants—more than 40% of the tenants fell into this group—would see their rent discounts ended. The Campanile was “haemorrhaging cash” and this needed to stop. Rent discounts had been negotiated by some long-term residents who argued that since they lived elsewhere for up to half of the year a regular, annual increase wasn’t warranted. Under the reign of The Secretary this had been allowed.
Jane’s gloomy outlook wasn’t over. She sipped her coffee and returned to her notes.
The staff would have to drastically reduced. Given the declining occupations of most tenants there was no need for the number of car jockeys, valets, cleaners, engineers and others who populated the monthly payroll. With many of our tenants decamping to Florida, Arizona, Mexico or other warmer winter climes there was a corresponding drop in the level of service expected at The Campanile. Two car jockeys would suffice now, and some work would be spread among the remaining staff. Jane would deal with staff matters personally, as she didn’t live at the building.
Jane saved the best news for last.
“Sorry, Kiddo, but you’re going to have to pay rent to live at The Campanile.”
The mortgage payments would require a hefty monthly amount to keep the building solvent and under our ownership. As a fractional owner with the smallest ownership tranche, my rent was affordable but it meant that my plans for interior decoration and car ownership were no longer feasible.
“Ardie will get worse news this afternoon, if that is a comfort” she said, between gulps of coffee. Packing to leave she added, “He’s going to have to pay to live in 12B or we need to rent it out, we can get a fortune for that unit and we need the cash flow.”
I paid for breakfast—since Jane was looking after the books for free it was the least I could do—and strolled down through Chinatown to the office. There was no need to hurry as Miss Cousins was away and not expected back until the next week.
Work was a blur; preparing the catalogues for two upcoming gallery events kept everyone busy. By the end of the day I was surprised to note the time, and looked forward to going home and spending a quiet night hunkered down in front of the television.
Ardie had left a note for me with the doorman; supper at 8?
I had time to shower, have a drink, and arrived at 12B from the lobby. Getting to Ardie’s apartment involved taking the elevator from 7A down to the lobby, buzzing Ardie up in 12B, and then riding the same elevator directly into his hallway. It was a gracious arrival.
Ardie was frantic. His meeting with Jane had been “a bloody nightmare” when he found out that he would need to “rent my own damn apartment in my own damn building” or else find himself “living above a sewer-grate with the best antiques in town!” Jane, he claimed, had been “unreasonable” to his entreaties to understand the position he was in. “She only cares about the building!”
Jane had spent a busy day. She had breakfast with me and then she had a lengthy long-distance chat with Miss Cousins on the telephone. Miss Cousins was the majority shareholder and, under the strict terms of the late Secretary’s will, could “pull rank” on us and dictate—to a certain extent—how business would be transacted.
Ardie would be paying rent to live in the luxury that was 12B.
Ardie exhaled a long, malodorous plume of second-hand smoke and gestured around the living room. “Take a look at what might have been!”
Ardie mixed a pitcher of strong cocktails and we sat in the living room—“it was going to be something, really something”—while Ardie reported on the scene last night Chez Grade.
“He stood up, mentioned something about Leesa’s car backfiring or needing a boost, and then marched right out. Rose was just serving supper” and he had “never seen anyone walk out on my sister Beebe before.” He smoked furiously.
Supper following Jack’s hasty departure was a less-than-gay affair. In the absence of Jack, poor old Tom Standish was left without any visible means of support and his conversation with Clemmy turned awkward. It turns out that they both hated wet weather and were prone to headache when the barometric pressure changed quickly. “Hardly the chatter that leads to romance,” commented Ardie, while pointing out that “Tom Standish is very handsome but terminally dull.”
Margery was quiet and Beebe and Ted were more than a bit surprised that Jack hadn’t managed to sit through a few bites of supper—“after all, he arrived late and unexpected and a place was set for him”—before dashing off to “save that Mitzvah girl” from having to deal with the auto club by herself.
Over a cold supper Ardie began to plot. He had no intention of leaving 12B and even less intention of “going down without a fight.”
Ardie, you see, was industrious where his lifestyle was concerned.
“There’s no getting around it; I’ll have to start dropping in on shivas again,” Ardie intoned, as if he had just announced he intended to parachute behind enemy lines, “because I can always make money at a shiva.”
No comments:
Post a Comment