Morning Call

There were a few bright spots to my new part-time job. The money wasn’t exactly a fortune but it was solid cash for the effort expended, the atmosphere was fun—and how!—and it sure beat waiting tables. Depending on her schedule in the morning I might hike over to Miss Cousins’ apartment and drive her to work. This would be determined the night before and announced by a message from The Secretary.

Driving downtown with the boss saved me both subway tokens and the issue of searching out breakfast in the morning. Miss Cousins was never quite ready when I arrived and invariably I would be offered a cup of coffee and a glass of juice. If it looked like she was going to be very late I could expect her housekeeper to up the ante and toss in some raisin toast, or maybe a bagel with cream cheese.

I should make something clear about her; she did drive on occasion. She managed to ferry herself back and forth to cottage country each weekend; she kept a cottage about two hours outside of the city and tried to visit often in the summer. She rarely drove if there was someone handy to do it for her and she would hand the keys over in an unspoken invitation to get behind the wheel. She used her time in the car with me to make telephone calls, attacking a list of messages written on pink “While You Were Out” notes.

Miss Cousins lived in midtown, not far from my faux-charming basement digs located just north of St. Clair on Bathurst Street. It wasn’t exactly a dump, but I had been promising myself that I would find a new apartment as soon as school was over. The problem was that my post-secondary education was a fluid affair; graduation had been postponed twice already and I was still living like a mole.

Miss Cousins had hired Ardie Beebe to “do up” her place when she moved in 25 years earlier. It could have been updated a bit, but the good bones of the building coupled with Ardie’s deft touch had created a perfect stage for her. The building—an early condominium called The Fairholme—offered residents a good address, door staff, valet parking and an understated residence that whispered rather than shouted.

Her apartment—half of a floor overlooking the city—had direct elevator access and a back door leading to a service staircase. Exiting the elevator guests stepped into a long gallery that ran the length of the apartment and featured a veritable treasure trove of her artwork. Large works filled one wall and were all signed Adelaide Cousins. The floor throughout was a luxurious marble checkerboard of black and white.

I wasn’t offered a tour or anything like that, but I did visit the kitchen (eat-in and with a window) and the living room. A dining room, den, two bedrooms and four bathrooms completed the layout. There was an unused maid’s room—Lourdes lived out—and another bathroom off of the kitchen.

I am not a math genius by any means (talk to Jane for that) but I could estimate that my entire apartment would fit inside her kitchen.

It goes without saying that I coveted the damn place from the first moment I stepped out of the silent elevator adorned with a Persian carpet and wood paneling. My apartment was across the hall from the laundry room in my building; I felt like I had gone through some later-day Oliver Twist experience the first time I was asked up for a cup of coffee to wait for the boss.

Miss Cousins had a BMW sedan that she leased and she replaced her car every two years. (I was envious of that, too, if you must know.) She always ordered the same model, in the same colour scheme, without visiting the dealership. This was a morsel that Jane passed on; she paid the bills, remember?

So what did I actually do all day? I wondered when you would ask that.

I was kept pretty busy, actually. The office was a busy place and there was always something going on. I increased my stature somewhat when I demonstrated my prowess with computers—specifically of the laptop variety—and subsequently was given more than mere errands to look after. It just sort of happened that I ended up spending more time with Miss Cousins and she did seem to like me.

Most of the time I proofed documents or did other office-cum-administrivia tasks. No one got near the books except Jane but I did sometimes deputize for The Secretary. Her job description was more obscure than mine. She was not a secretary in the conventional sense; chiefly because I now looked after all of the correspondence and mail. The Secretary had worked for Miss Cousins for almost 30 years and was clearly indispensable. She looked after all of the details of Miss Cousins’ life including the catalogue of work that made up her artistic output. Other duties might include attending a business meeting on the boss’ behalf, or dealing with tenants in the building where the office is located.

Did I forget to mention that? Our office was located in a building downtown that Miss Cousins owned in partnership with “some friends.” She had done okay for herself—Our Adelaide—and as soon as suitable space became available in the building she had begun to plan for the move.

Jane was out for the rest of the week and but for that fact I would not have been at the bank making a deposit when Ardie strolled through the front door. He spotted me right away and waved a hello, raising his eyebrows in recognition.

I wondered if he would remember my name.