_Monday, April 6
9:56 A.M.
_
Ally stepped out of the cab, holding the large leather-bound portfolio,
and checked the number on the card against the bronze plaque above the
door. Winston Bartlett lived like a nineteenth-century robber baron.
The building had five stories and was adorned with Italian marble
window lintels that glowed like mother-of-pearl.
Already she liked his sense of style. Bartlett was New Money, but this
place had the solemn dignity of Old Money. The front door was eight
feet tall and solid mahogany. The odd thing was, there were two
doorbells. One read w. BARTLETT and the other read E. BARTLETT.
That was when she remembered she had read somewhere that he had a wife
named Eileen. But why did she have a separate doorbell? Winston
Bartlett had a tabloid reputation as a womanizer. Perhaps they lived
apart. If so, there it was, for all the world to see.
She found herself examining the late Greek Revival columns on either
side of the door. They were marble and meticulously cleaned of soot,
whose ubiquitous presence in New York meant that eventually everything
not regularly scrubbed turned gray. It told her that Winston Bartlett
liked things to be immaculate and that he was a stickler when it came
to details.
She glanced up and noticed that she was being observed by a security
camera. She was reaching out to push the bell for w. BARTLETT when the
door magically opened. A tall, trim Japanese man in a crisp black suit
was standing in the doorway. But he had a muscular build that would be
more appropriate for a bodyguard than a butler.
"Hello," she said. "I have an appointment with--"
"Yes." He nodded, appearing to know exactly who she was. "He's upstairs
in the library. Please . . ."
She'd expected a grand central staircase in the Palladian design, but
instead there were elevators off to the left of the entryway. But even
without an obvious staircase, the ground floor and its fifteen-foot
ceiling were palatial in every sense of the term. The marble floors
were covered with antique, and expensive, Persian rugs, and the light
tan wallpaper was flecked with gold leaf, giving the feeling it could
have been meticulously stripped from some palazzo in Venice. The
lighting fixtures were a row of chandeliers down the middle of the vast
room, and at the back was a dining table that appeared to be large
enough to seat thirty dinner guests. The architecture was a showpiece
for the extravagant taste of some Victorian "enemy of the people."
But what really set it apart was that the walls were lined with
exquisitely severe antique swords and armor from Japan. In a way, the
room felt like the foyer of a boutique museum, an adjunct of the Asia
Society.
The Japanese man directed her to one of the elevators, and then got in
with her. She still couldn't decide whether he was a butler or a
bodyguard. He had the polished demeanor of the first, but the strapping
body and deft movements of the latter. Maybe he was both. In any case,
he looked like he would be quite at ease brandishing one of those long
samurai swords.
The elevator had dark paneling and smelled of freshness, partly fresh
wood and partly fresh lacquer. It was utterly silent as it glided up to
the third floor. When the door opened, she stepped into what appeared
to be a large den/library, except that there was a huge four-poster
antique bed at the far corner, with its drapes drawn around the side.
It was definitely something out of another place and time. Was this
Bartlett's bedroom? The space was magisterial.
In the other corner was a wide mahogany desk covered with phones and
papers and two computers. From his photos, she recognized the man
rising to greet her as Winston Bartlett. Seeing him in the flesh, she
first noticed that there was something in his eyes that in another man
might be called ruthless, but in him it merely came off as determined.
They were eyes that were accustomed to getting what they wanted--be it a
company, a building, a woman.
"Fine, Ken, and please have them hold my calls," Bartlett said nodding
to the Japanese man, who tipped his head in acknowledgment and
disappeared back into the elevator. Then he turned to her and extended
his hand. "Ms. Hampton, I appreciate your making time for me. I'm
possibly your newest fan. After Grant told me about you, I had a couple
of my people do some research. You've been responsible for some very
interesting, even elegant interiors. Grant may have told you I have a
big project down the road that you might wish to bid on. But for now,
as a way of getting to know each other, I wanted to talk to you about a
more modest undertaking."
She thanked him, attempting to take it all in. She was trying not to
admit to herself that Winston Bartlett was an attractive man, in the
way that power brings charisma. "I'd be happy to hear about what you
have in mind. I don't necessarily take every job that comes along. I
always look for challenges."
She listened to herself and wondered why she was starting off the
meeting in such a confrontational manner. Probably, she thought, it was
because she didn't want to seem intimidated. Doing high-end interior
design, you come across a lot of wealth and power, but this was a whole
new level.
"Well, I guess I'm the same way." He smiled. "A lot of the things I've
done over the years have ended up being a challenge. And a risk. But
now and then, something is worth it." He gestured toward a couch.
"Please, we have a lot to talk about."
He returned to the chair behind his desk and turned off the laptop
computer he had been using.
"I brought a portfolio," she began, "with photos. There's also a DVD
with virtual walk-throughs of some of our projects. I'm not sure what
you have in mind, but this should give you some idea of the kind of
thing we--"
"I'll look at it," he said, setting the portfolio aside unopened. "I'm
sure you live up to your reputation. Like I said, I have two jobs
pending, so first let me outline the smaller one. This building was
built just before the prior turn of the century, and it was intended to
house a small workforce of cooks and nannies and seamstresses below
stairs. The rooms were lit with town gas, and coal was used for heating
and cooking. Then in the twenties, everything was gradually switched
over to electricity and oil and natural gas. But very little effort was
made to accommodate the change aesthetically. It was just retrofitted."
"That's typically how it was done."
"And I haven't really cared until now," he went on. "But lately I've
decided I want to redo this place properly. Starting below stairs and
moving up. It's mainly the kitchen down there that concerns me now. I
want to remove all the outdated fixtures and go state of the art.
There's nothing original there anymore; just somebody's idea of a
'modernization' back in the fifties. So nothing of historic value will
be lost. I don't want a restaurant kitchen precisely, but I want a
range with enough Btu's that it could be. Granite countertops are all
the rage these days. . . ." He paused, then grinned sheepishly. "I
promise I won't start telling you how to do your job. Work up some
ideas without any interference from me, and then we'll see where we go
from there."
"Do you have any blueprints of this building? The original plans?"
He smiled, as though to say you ask good questions. "As a matter of
fact, they were filed downtown, in a little-known cranny of the
Department of Buildings and I had an expediter I know track them down."
He paused. "Ms. Hampton, there is one little matter I want to clear
with you in advance. I know that the newspapers occasionally print
things about me that might be termed unsavory. You came to meet me
here, so that tells me something about your feelings toward me. But I
have discovered that I am a somewhat controversial figure in certain
circles. I'd just like to know if you think of me as controversial."
She found this unexpected new tack in the conversation puzzling. Was he
trying to get a rise out of her?
"I barely know you, Mr. Bartlett," she said. "And, frankly, the private
life of a client is none of my business. So that question is entirely
unnecessary."
"Very well." He smiled. "Like I said, there's a much larger job now in
the planning stage. I have a building on Park Avenue in the Seventies
that I'm planning to convert into a museum. It would be a private
undertaking at first, but in the long run, who knows? The job will
require extensive alterations of the building, and I also plan to have
a museum cafe in the lower level. Anyway, there's a lot of work ahead,
and I thought this would be a good way for us to get acquainted.
Redoing the first floor here would give us both some idea of whether we
could work together on a larger project."
She listened and found herself wondering what he was really up to. This
conversation felt like he thought he needed to have plenty of bait on
the hook.
First Grant and then him, a tycoon who's a perfect stranger. Why?
_Monday April 6
10:38 A.M.
_Winston Bartlett was not finding himself entirely satisfied with the
way things were going. As he looked her over, he had a lot on his mind.
This was the woman who shared his rare blood type and could represent
his last hope. So far, she seemed smart and courageous. Given the
gravity of what he'd heard about her heart condition from Karl--which
you'd never realize by just looking at her--she had to be courageous to
continue on with her kind of spirit. But that was not necessarily all
to the good. She might not be so easy to manipulate.
Inevitably he found himself comparing her to Kristen. For starters,
Alexa Hampton seemed to have a lot more self- assurance. Kristy liked
to appear tough on camera, but she was riddled with an aspiring
actress's insecurities. Which had played a large part in the current
tragedy. But you could say she brought that on herself. Alexa Hampton
was struggling with something she had nothing to do with. And to look
at her, you'd never know it. That was spunk.
In truth, this was the kind of woman he'd often wished he'd married--
someone who shared his own gusto for life. God had dealt her a
particularly lousy hand, and yet she still had drive. She had more
courage in her little finger than that monster upstairs, Eileen. And
the fact was, she was more appealing than Kristen. But don't even think
about going there.
"Coincidentally," he said, beginning a new tack, "there's a totally
unrelated matter I wanted to discuss with you. I understand Grant has
already told you about the clinical trials currently winding up at the
Dorian Institute, which is part of one of my companies. He told me
about your heart condition and about your mother's Alzheimer's. We're
working on a new procedure that could be very relevant for both of you.
The clinical trials are scheduled to conclude in just a few days from
now, but I spoke with the lead researcher there, Dr. Van de Vliet, and
he said there's still time to get you into the program."
"Yes, Grant came to see me and brought me a brochure."
"Your brother is very concerned about you and your mother, and he
specifically asked me to inquire if you had any questions about the
procedure that I might be able to answer for you."
He was watching her carefully, all the while trying to keep his tone
casual.
"Well, I think my mother is interested. Quite frankly, she doesn't have
much to lose, though she may be in denial about that. In my own case,
I'm not so sure. I still don't know anything about Karl Van de Vliet."
She's still toying with the bait, Bartlett thought. I can't yank the
line just yet, but she's close. She's so close.
"Truly, the best thing you could do would be to talk to him," Bartlett
said getting up from his desk and walking over to the window and
pulling the curtains aside. The mid-morning light streamed in, a
momentarily blinding presence. I've got to shake this up, he told
himself. "As a matter of fact, I'd like for you to meet with Karl
before we go any further with this job. We need to get you well first.
And your mother. He's had some truly amazing successes with both
Alzheimer's and Parkinson's."
"It's just that this is all so experimental. Aren't there any side
effects? New drugs or new medical procedures always have side effects."
Well, he thought, now you've hit on it. But that part is best left to
Karl.
"If you have questions, that's all the more reason to check out the
clinic," he declared. Time to close the sale. He came back and sat down
behind the mahogany desk. "I've seen a lot of medical innovation over
the years, including a good bit in my own companies. But there's never
been anything that remotely compares to the promise of stem cell
technology. And these stage-three clinical trials have shown how many
miracles are in the realm of the doable."
"Grant said Dr. Van de Vliet wanted to include someone with my specific
condition in the--"
"Let me be frank with you." He looked across at her and smiled. "You
would be a perfect fit. But the trials are going to be over very, very
soon, so he's anxious to get started."
"Truthfully, I'm thinking about taking Mom out there," she said. "And
since we're all being so frank, let me say I'm getting the impression
that my going out to your clinic is really the reason you wanted to see
me today. It's--"
"It's the second reason," he said. "The design job is uppermost in my
mind, but I see nothing wrong with having two purposes in seeing you.
As someone once said, commerce is the mutually beneficial exchange of
worth."
Was she agreeing to see Van de Vliet? Playing the mother card may have
done the trick.
"Well, why don't we stick to tangible worth," she said. "Let me take a
look at the space downstairs. But you'll have to tell me some more
about what you have in mind."
"I propose we do it the other way around. You go down and look around,
take measurements, make sketches, whatever it is you do, and then get
back to me with some ideas. That'll be our starting point." He picked
up a walkie-talkie on his desk and punched a button. "Ken, could you
please come up. I'd like you to show Ms. Hampton the service floor." He
clicked it off without waiting for a reply. "I'm due down at the
office. When I get there, I'll have them cut a check for five thousand
dollars as a retainer and messenger it over to your shop."
Is this going to work? he wondered. Maybe I should be pushing harder. .
. .
He examined Alexa Hampton one last time as he rose to leave. Yes, she's
a rare woman. Wouldn't it be ironic if Karl actually could do something
for her heart?
_Monday, April 6
10:49 A.M.
_
As Ally watched Winston Bartlett sweep from the room, she was still
trying to take measure of the man. What troubled her was why Grant and
Bartlett were both so anxious to get her and her mother out to the
clinic. But give Bartlett his due. He could charm the birds off the
trees.
She looked around the room, wondering what the old kitchen and staff
quarters would be like. Certainly not like this. The library/bedroom
had a rich, over-the-top feeling, with a beautifully molded plaster
ceiling, a virtual bas-relief of fruits and birds and clouds all
meticulously painted. It wasn't the Sistine Chapel but had some of that
feeling. The paneling and wainscot were burnished mahogany, and the
floor was a mix of hardwoods worked into an isometric design. She
decided it was probably the most luxurious private residence she had
ever seen.
CitiSpace was mainly known for its creative handling of lofts in the
abandoned commercial buildings of SoHo and TriBeCa. These old mansions
of the nineteenth-century moguls were an entirely different world. It
was intimidating, but she was sure she could do something below stairs
that would retain the period flavor of the building while creating the
kind of semiprofessional space he said he wanted. Still, it was
different from anything else CitiSpace had ever done, so he had no way
of knowing whether or not she could pull it off. Again that question:
why on earth would he hand her this plum job?
And where was his wife? Although he liked to be photographed with blond
starlets, the tabloids always reminded you that he had a wife
someplace. The two doorbells were a tip-off that that someplace was
here. Best guess: she probably had the top floors.
My God was Madame Bartlett going to get involved in the renovation? A
lot of women with superrich husbands and too much time on their hands
come to assume that that happenstance creates in them a natural gift
for interior design. Big problem.
But whatever happened, this could be a sweetheart job. And maybe she'd
get a crack at that museum he'd talked about. That was the kind of
thing an architect-turned-interior- designer dreamed about.
She looked up to see the Japanese man--Bartlett had called him Ken--
stepping into the room. He was all business.
_Monday, April 6
11:08 A.M.
_Winston Bartlett was on the phone to Van de Vliet the moment he
stepped into his limo to head downtown.
"She said she's thinking about bringing her mother out to the
institute, Karl. I believe she's ready to do it. Before she changes her
mind, I want you to talk to her and schedule an appointment for
tomorrow morning, if you can."
"I'll put in a call to her office."
"Karl, she's not there now. Try her cell. Grant has the number. We need
to get moving on this. I've done about all I can at the moment." He was
watching the midmorning traffic that was clogging the avenue. He always
felt claustrophobic in a limo, even a stretch. The only time he felt
free was when he was in the McDonnell Douglas chopper. When he was
flying the chopper, against all the laws of civil aviation.
"Don't you think that's a little pushy, W.B.? We shouldn't seem too
anxious. Believe me, I've had a lot of experience with ambivalent
patients."
"All right. She should be back at her office sometime after lunch."
"I'll wait awhile and put in a call there." He paused. "When was the
last time you saw . . . Beta One? The situation at Park Avenue?"
"I don't want to discuss it over a cell, Karl." This conversation was
definitely a bad idea. "She comes and goes. I think it's getting
worse."
"I'll try to get over there late this afternoon and look in on her,"
Van de Vliet said. "I want to see her every day."
"Karl, we can't give up hope. Never give up hope."
He clicked off the phone and thought about his crapshoot with God.
Kristen had wanted to play, to experiment with the Beta. But nobody
made her undergo the procedure. She should never--
His cell phone rang.
"Yeah."
"Mr. Bartlett," came a female voice with a Brooklyn accent, "it's Bernd
Allen calling."
"Put him on."
Shit, Bartlett thought, this is news I don't want to hear.
Bernd was a Brit who was in charge of day-to-day accounting for
Bartlett Medical Devices. He was forty-seven and not a risk taker and
he was always worried about something. That was his job. These days he
had plenty to be worried about
He had been running a weekly projection of the cash flow at BMD, and
the drawdown was now getting perilous.
The flagship product of Bartlett Medical Devices had been the
"balloons" used in heart angioplasty that inflate and expand clogged
arteries. They were marketed together with stents, miniature metal mesh
supports that keep coronary arteries open after angioplasty. The
problem was that in 27 percent of the cases, the stents manufactured by
BMD caused scar tissue to form, a process called restenosis, and re-
block an artery, requiring a repeat of angioplasty or even a bypass
operation. Other manufacturers' numbers were not any better. But a few
months back, out of the blue, Hemotronics, a competing company near
Boston, had introduced stents coated with drugs that prevented
scarring. BMD's piece of the $2.6 billion angioplasty market had
plummeted from 13 percent to 4 percent and was still dropping like a
stone.
Add to that, two titanium joint replacements for arthritis patients
that they'd pinned their future on--along with millions in cash--still
had at least two years of human trials left before
they could hope for FDA approval. Long story short, BMD was in a mature
product cycle with its most lucrative hospital hardware, with nothing
major in the pipeline for at least two years. They had bet the ranch on
the stem cell research at Gerex.
"W.B., I just got last week's numbers back from the green- eyeshade
chaps downstairs. As you asked, I had them refine all the assumptions.
Remember the union contract. There's going to be a three percent wage
increase for all hourly personnel at the end of the month. And we
didn't hedge our Euro exposure and now it's going against us. That's my
own bloody fault. And since we don't have any pricing flexibility in
that territory at the moment it's like a four percent haircut right off
the bottom line. Remember we ran that in a worst-case scenario a while
back. Well, chances are we're about to see it for real."
Bartlett had been watching the rate of cash burn and trying not to let
the problem be evident. The logical thing to do, start laying off
workers in the fabrication divisions, was out of the question. If you
had a make-or-break deal cooking, you couldn't afford to look like you
were on the ropes.
"Give me some parameters," Bartlett said.
"You know we've already hit our credit lines at Chase about as hard as
we dare without them calling for a review. So unless we try to
refinance some real property, say the flagship building downtown--and in
this interest-rate environment any rational lender would put a gun to
our head--we've got to ink this deal with Cambridge Pharmaceuticals in
two months max. Right now we're living on borrowed money and it's about
to be borrowed time too."
You don't know the half of it, Bartlett thought. I'm already living on
borrowed time.
What's more, if word of the Beta gets out, we can kiss the buyout
_adios_. The adverse publicity and legal problems ... Nobody's going to
buy into that kind of liability. Not Cambridge, not anybody. Bernd
doesn't know about it yet. If he did, then he'd really be worried.
"Bernd, take a deep breath. We're on schedule and we've got to make
sure we stay that way. Get hold of Grant and tell
him I want him to double-check the regulatory situation for the
Cambridge deal. I know he already has, but I want a memo from our
attorneys by noon tomorrow. If there are going to be any roadblocks
cropping up, we need to know about them now. We can't afford to be
blindsided."
He clicked off the phone and tried to think. In the confines of a
limousine, it was hard.
What's it all for?
Unknown to the world--but, unfortunately, known to his wife, Eileen--
Winston Bartlett had a natural son. And that son, now in his own
career, despised Bartlett. It was one of many sorrows he had long since
learned to bear.
All the same, he increasingly regretted that he had made such a botch
of their relationship. The man who was his natural son had done very
well for himself professionally, had plenty of drive. And in fact
Bartlett believed he himself deserved some of the credit for that. What
he had done was let the boy fend for himself, which was exactly how
Bartlett was raised. Make it with your own two hands. How else are you
supposed to develop any character?
And it had worked. The pity was, he now hated Winston Bartlett's guts.
But Bartlett had begun thinking more and more about a legacy. What if
he could make peace with that son and bring him into the business?
Right now the closest thing he had to a son was Grant Hampton, and
Hampton was a little too slick and expedient. Bartlett knew a gold-
standard hustler when he saw one.
The more he thought about it, the more he was convincing himself to
make his natural son his sole heir.
Assuming there was anything left to pass on.
_Monday, April 6
11:20 A.M.
_
"Mr. Bartlett asked me to give you this," Kenji Noda said handing her a
large manila envelope as they stepped off the
elevator. "It's a copy of the original plans. And also, there's a
blueprint for the current layout, along with measurements."
She took it, looking him over again as she did. There was something
very fluid about his motions. He could have been a dancer. There was a
softness about him, and yet you got an unmistakable sense of inner
strength. She suspected he had something to do with Bartlett's
incredible collection of Japanese _katana_. He looked like he could
have a connoisseur's eye.
She walked into the below-stairs service space and looked around. The
back part, which was the kitchen, had stone walls that had been
whitewashed. There also were two massive fireplaces, which, she
assumed, had once housed coal-burning stoves. Large grease-and-soot-
covered gas ranges were there now.
But the space was fabulous. Massive load-bearing columns went down the
center, and a partition separated the front half of the space from the
back. The front traditionally would have been the nursery and sewing
room, in short, the maids' working quarters.
She turned to the man Bartlett had called Ken.
"Does Mr. Bartlett have a cook?" she asked. "This kitchen doesn't look
used."
"No," he said. "Actually, he almost never dines here, and Mrs. Bartlett
has her meals delivered from various restaurants. Though she does go
out sometimes as well."
This was the first time she had heard any mention of Eileen Bartlett.
"She resides on the top two floors," he went on. "She has her own
dining room up there, where she takes her meals, along with an
efficiency kitchen."
So the Bartletts did live completely separate lives. That explained a
lot.
"Okay," she said, "I want to look around and get a feeling for the
space and start putting together some ideas." She was starting to focus
on the job. The ceiling was lower than upstairs, but still the space
had enormous possibilities. "Off the top, I'd probably suggest we open
this out. Remove that dividing wall and make a great room. With the
right kind of kitchen, this could be a marvelous contemporary space for
semiformal dining and entertaining." Assuming, she thought, Winston
Bartlett actually wanted a renovated space to entertain. She still had
the nagging suspicion that he just wanted her. "I'd use materials that
have a really warm tone."
Mix different materials for the different parts of the kitchen and the
room, she thought. The cabinets could be mahogany, to echo the
extensive use of that wood upstairs, and the walls around the stove
area and the fireplaces could be an earth- colored slate. And that look
could be accented with polished granite countertops in a slightly
darker hue. There would need to be a high-Btu stove, probably a big
Viking, with a slate backsplash all around. A couple of stainless-steel
Sub- Zero refrigerators and a large Bosch dishwasher could be spaced
along in the slate and granite. And if Bartlett wanted it, there could
be a place for a temperature-controlled wine cellar. High-end design.
There also would need to be a large stone island--say a Brandy Craig--
with a couple of sinks and--depending on what he wanted--maybe another
high Btu stovetop there.
She turned to Ken. "If you have something else to do . . . I just need
to walk around and live in this space a little. Then I want to make
some notes on the plans. Possibly take a few photos."
"Take your time," he said. "I'll be upstairs."
He disappeared into the elevator, with his curious catlike gait, and
was gone in an instant.
As she looked around she realized the thing that was missing was light.
Wait a minute, she thought, there must be a garden at the rear of this
building. There are windows in the front, so why aren't there any at
the back?
She turned to examine the back wall. It was, in fact, clearly of recent
origin, and there was a door at one side. She walked over to the door,
which was locked with a thumb latch, and opened it.
And sure enough, behind the building was an unkempt space the width of
the building that ran back for a good thirty or thirty-five feet. When
she stepped out into the late-morning sunshine and looked at the back
of the building, she realized there also was a row of windows facing
the garden that had been bricked shut. What a travesty.
The whole design would depend on whether those windows could be
reopened. But if Bartlett would allow it, then there were tremendous
possibilities. With all this light, you could--
"Who the hell are you?" came a raspy, oversmoked voice from behind her.
"Are you his new tart? We agreed he would never bring his whores here."
Ally turned to see a tall, willowy woman, who appeared to be in her
mid-sixties. She had shoulder-length blond hair, clearly out of a
bottle, and a layer of pancake makeup that looked as though it had been
applied by a mortician.
"Perhaps it would be helpful if I introduced myself." She squeezed past
the woman in the doorway and walked over to the counter, where she had
left her bag. She extracted a business card and presented it.
The woman squinted at it, obviously having trouble making out the
print.
"I work with the design firm CitiSpace, and I was asked by Mr. Bartlett
to give him an estimate for some renovations." She had quickly
acquired the sense that the less said to this woman, the better.
"I'm his wife and I still don't know who the hell you are." She
squinted at Ally a moment, then glanced back at the card. "What is . .
. CitiSpace?"
"It's an interior-design firm."
"What are you, then? Some kind of decorator?" She grasped the door to
steady herself and Ally suddenly wondered if she was slightly tipsy.
"Actually, what we do is probably closer to architecture."
Ally was collecting her belongings, hoping to get out before Eileen
Bartlett decided to do something crazy.
"This is the first I've heard about all this." She turned and slammed
the rear door.
"Mind if I ask you a question?" Ally said. "Do you have any idea why
those back windows were bricked over?"
"It's for security," she said. "No one is ever down here."
That's obvious, Ally thought, which is why this job is so odd. This
space clearly isn't being used now, and the social dynamic here doesn't
bode well for a lot of cozy entertaining and dinner parties in the
foreseeable future. So why is he spending money to renovate? And in
this big hurry? And he just happened to pick me to do this as an
audition for designing an entire museum. No, this whole thing
definitely does not compute.
But of course it does. The job is a blatant bribe. To butter me up for
something.
"Look, Miss Whoever-you-are, I want you to leave. I don't appreciate
strange women walking around unescorted in my house."
"I'm going right now. Perhaps you should speak to Mr. Bartlett and
decide together what you want to do about this space."
"I'll tell you right now what I want to do. Nothing. For all I know,
he's fixing this up so he can move in some tart. We've lived here for
twenty-eight years and he's never done anything down here. So why is
that tightfisted SOB suddenly deciding to renovate?"
"That would be an excellent question to ask him."
"You're screwing him, aren't you?" she demanded, wrinkled brow furrowed
and dim eyes seething. "Like that other little whore of his. That's why
he hired you. Well, let me tell you something. I'll outlive you both."
Without another word she turned and got into the elevator.