Good Neighbours

I could move into 7A anytime I wanted. I had already packed up a few things from my cellar dwelling—not one piece of my furniture was actually worth moving—and I was waiting for a good time to tote some small boxes over.


I didn’t actually have any lots of cash for new furniture but Jane came to my rescue with an unused sofa and chair, and Ardie agreed to send over some tables and lamps. I would be living in a splendid apartment in a building that I partly owned using cast-off and borrowed furniture; I couldn’t have cared less.


Work had interrupted my real estate reverie and I was somewhat swamped at the office. Miss Cousins was keeping busy hours lately and with the untimely departure of The Secretary (RIP) I had inherited her job. One morning during the commute downtown Miss Cousins offered me the position—with a handsome bump in remuneration I might add—and I accepted at a traffic light.


I guess I do have to confess one thing: I quit school. I was never going to complete that damn degree and having two useless degrees did seem rather unnecessary. I resigned from all of my classes on the last day possible in an anti-climactic visit to the registrar’s office. I was now, officially, the secretary-cum-assistant to Miss Adelaide Cousins. Oh, and we were also business partners.


Miss Cousins seemed remarkably disinterested in The Campanile; Jane handled most of her day-to-day financial business and would be acting on her behalf for anything related to the building. She did not intend to move from The Fairholme but she did ask me a few questions about my “exciting new apartment!” and even asked me if I had any art to hang on the wall.


Jane was in the office that morning and we had lunch together at a sushi spot nearby. Jane had me sign some documents—including a lease on my new apartment—and informed me that I would be receiving a monthly cheque in the amount of $2,000.00 as profit from the building. It would have been more, she explained, but there were operating expenses and other costs. Ardie—who grabbed a floor up in the high-rents—would receive nothing on a monthly basis, but would get a share of any annual profits at end of our calendar year. (I made a personal promise to learn when our year-end was. I wanted to at least appear to be in the know.)


Two grand a month—on top of my salary from Miss Cousins—made me feel quite rich. Jane burst my bubble, somewhat, when she also informed me that she had already spoken to her financial advisor and I would now be investing $1,200.00 a month in something called an exchange traded fund. Visions of a new flat screen television disappeared in an instant.


I was also starting to see rather a lot of Ardie; he stopped by the office with two lamps for my apartment one day and told me to “enjoy them!” before sequestering himself in the inner sanctum with Miss Cousins. I spent a Saturday over at The Campanile cleaning my new apartment before moving in and he unexpectedly dropped by with a gorgeous console table and a bottle of vodka "for a toast."


I didn’t have any mix—not that he needed any—but I did have ice cubes and plastic cups. Ardie poured us each a solid shot over ice and walked into the living room to make a fast inspection. It was actually a bit early in the day for me to have a drink but I sipped along with Ardie as best I could.


“This unit has great bones but we need to consider adding some built-ins and maybe we could update that kitchen a bit; it’s looking tired.” Ardie was smoking (big surprise there) and was trailing ash across my Parquet de Versailles floors. I found a saucer and handed it to him silently.


Sitting down and readjusting himself unselfconsciously he scanned the space and quietly smoked. “I almost moved in here once, soon after I opened my antique shop. I would have, too, except that my piano wouldn’t fit in the elevator. I wanted to have it lifted up by a crane but the windows weren’t big enough.”


He wanted to use a crane to get his piano into an apartment?


“I didn’t know you played piano, Ardie,” I said.


“I don’t, Kiddo, but I do like the look of a piano in a living room because it is such a handy place for tchochkes. I know it is sacrilege, but you can also use a grand piano as a buffet in a pinch.”


Ardie asked me up to tour his apartment; he had some grand plans and wanted to “help me out” in any way he could. He envisioned the floors in a darker hue and new built-in bookcases in the dining room. The three bathrooms were outdated and Ardie suggested new fixtures, tubs, and flooring. Marble would replace tile and a shower stall would replace the bathtub in the ensuite. The kitchen—Ardie said it was bigger than he expected and benefited from a window—required new floors, counters, lighting, cabinets and appliances.


I told Ardie that my entire budget for decorating the new place was $2,350.00 if I stretched it. Frankly, the $350 was reserved for a party I wanted to have and I needed booze and the remaining two thousand was optimistic. Ardie took a long drag on his torch and turned his head a few degrees to exhale. He looked at me for a moment and smiled.


“Tell you what, Junior, we’ll talk to Jane and find a way to do this place up. Let’s make it a fun project,” said Ardie. We smiled in silent agreement; Ardie was going to be fun, I thought.


I actually liked Ardie but he did make me nervous. He was forever looking at me intently as if trying to peer right into my mind. I would catch him, sometimes, looking at me when I looked up and he would offer his cryptic smile and say nothing.


On this particular afternoon he was meeting his “dear friend” Esther Steinberg for lunch and would I like to tag along? We could view the apartment first; Esther was dying to see it and was particularly interested to see a full-floor unit at The Campanile before Ardie Beebe—The Master—reinterpreted the space and created a perfect residence for himself.


I should point something out about Ardie’s new apartment. Known as “12B” it was actually the 13th floor but the architect had ensured that The Campanile did not have the dreaded and potentially unlucky number thirteen anywhere on view and Ardie’s apartment was always called 12B. Ardie was living on the third-most top floor of the building with unobstructed views in most directions.


Esther was already upstairs—a visit discreetly announced by the doorman—when I stepped out of the elevator into 12B and felt the unmistakable feel of Ardie’s hand giving my bum a quick pat. Shocked and confused by this gesture I turned around quickly but Ardie only smiled in response.


“Hello, Esther—have you got time for a drink before the tour? Can’t have my girl getting thirsty!” said Ardie in his hale voice.


Esther squealed a hello and agreed that there was nothing wrong with a drink before the tour. Ardie had already moved in the essentials—glasses, booze, mix, olives and lemons—and quickly served up some Gin Martinis expertly mixed in a silver cocktail shaker.


I accepted my second drink of the day, and promised myself that I would be careful around Ardie and alcohol. He lived a wet lifestyle.