The Apartment Store #14

Chapter 7, Part 2; in which Lydia has a cocktail and meets a reporter, two things that often go together

The Apartment Store is the story of Lydia, a little girl who lives in a ramshackle attic apartment, in a ramshackle apartment building, down the ramshackle end of town. All Lydia wants is a proper Christmas, but it doesn't seem likely until a new tenant arrives in their building and changes Christmas for everyone in it.

The Apartment Store is a book length Christmas story of twelve chapters, split into twenty four episodes for Advent.

They were standing in one of the quiet, elegant squares of the New Town, outside a quiet, elegant building of white stone, with quiet, dark windows and and elegant, white arch over the door. Steps came down from the front door to black railings, that ran along the edge of a steep drop down to the basement level. But at the far end of the railings was a little gate, and a set of steps leading down underground and a small neon sign: “Harry’s Bar”.

Artie led Lydia down the steps and into a dark basement, dimly lit with yellow lights, with the only bright spot being a long, mahogany bar that sparkled with glasses and strange bottles of all shapes and sizes. The rest of the room was divided up into booths by benches with tall wooden backs that reached up almost to the ceiling. From these booths came the murmur of unseen conversations and laughter. A couple of voices called out ‘Otto!’, and from somewhere in the back came a strange clacking sound, like someone rattling teeth in a cup.

“Mr Krampus,” said the young man behind the bar, “I don’t know if Harry would be that happy with kids in the bar.”

“You know I’d be able to talk him round, Matthew,” said Artie.

The young man stroked his beard and smiled.

“True enough, but you have to be gone by six,” he said.

“Oh, we’ll be gone long before then, “ said Artie, “Is she here?”

“Usual place,” said the young man, nodding towards the back of the bar, “Can I get you anything?”

“A glass of champagne, I think,” said Artie and then a voice said,

“Allow me,” and a large, red faced man squeezed himself out of a booth and wheezed up to Artie, “I’ll get that, and whatever the young lady will have.”

“You know what you should try, Lydia, a Virgin Bellini, you can make a non-alcoholic one, can’t you, Matthew? You ever had one? You’ll love it. Matthew here is one of the best cocktail mixers in the town, no, make that the world, am I right?”

“Never argue with a customer,” said Matthew with a grin.

“And make it a bottle of champagne,” said Artie, “And two glasses.”

“Still the same old Otto Krampus,” said the fat man.

“And you’re still one of the men who voted me out of my own store, Knudsen,” said Artie, with a grin, “But I’ve changed. I’ve got a whole new project that’s going to blow you and your stores out of the water. Hang on to your pocketbook, because it’s all about to change.”

“Hey, no hard feelings, eh, Otto,” said the fat man, “It’s all just business. Always keen to talk business, you know me, if you’ve got something new.”

“Have I? Listen…”

And then Matthew the barman started doing something loud with a cocktail shaker full of ice and Lydia couldn’t hear what they were saying. Finally the fat man puffed his way back into his booth and Artie picked up the bottle of champagne and the glasses from the bar.

“Oskar Knudsen,” he whispered to Lydia, “Is a foolish great oaf, but he is also a very rich foolish great oaf who thinks he has a shrewd nose for business and likes to get in on the beginnings of things. A useful person to bump into but not why we are here.”

“Why are we here?” said Lydia, and, “Is this made with peaches? It’s delicious. Thank you, Matthew.”

“We are here to beard the dreadful dragon in her lair,” said Artie, leading the way down the bar, “And she is a spiteful and wily dragon, so we come bearing gifts. A glass of champagne, mademoiselle?”

They had come to the final booth, right in the darkest corner of the bar. Here, under a single dim light, was a sharp faced young woman in a tight grey suit, who was typing away furiously, making a clattering, unpredictable rhythm. Opposite her sat an owlish looking man who was sitting in front of large camera mechanically eating peanuts one by one.

“Beware of griefs bearing gifts,” said the woman without stopping typing, “No, that doesn’t work. Mitt?”

“It’s Greeks,” said the man, after a moment of contemplation, “Greeks bearing gifts.”

“I know that,” said the woman, “I was trying to find something else that might describe a washed up old department store owner who might have a grief with the newspaper that agitated for his dismissal. What do you want, Krampus?”

“To say thank you, Maddie,” said Artie, sliding into the booth next to the man, “Have a seat, Lydia,” he gestured at the seat next to the typing woman, “I didn’t bring you a glass, Mitt.”

“No one ever does,” said the man, mournfully.

“This is a child,” the woman stopped typing and stared at Lydia, “I object to children. On hygiene grounds mostly, they are nothing but walking petri dishes of bacteria. A person gets a child and the next thing they get a disease. I know people who have been ill for years. And aesthetics. They’re too small. Everything is always too big or too high or too difficult. They ought to be of more appropriate dimensions. It’s just untidy,” she looked at Lydia closely, “You look neat enough. What’s your name?”

“Lydia,” said Lydia, “Who are you?”

“Hey, I do the questions here,” said the woman, “Maddie Sharpe, I write for the Argus. I write things that are not nice about your friend here, even when he buys me champagne. Which I am not going to feel guilty about, even when I drink it. You cannot guilt me into doing you a favour, so you can cut it out with the puppy dog eyes, Krampus. It looks unseemly on a man your age. This one isn’t doing it and she could get away with it. In fact she’s is giving me what I believe is colloquially termed the stink eye. What’s riled you, half pint?”

“Why do you write mean things about Artie?”

“Artie,” said Maddie, “Artie, Mitt.”

“Artie,” agreed Mitt.

“It’s what my friends call me,” said Artie, “You wouldn’t know, Maddie.”

“Touché,” said Maddie, “A palpable hit. I tell you though, Lydia friend of Artie, I write mean things about the big guy because I admire him. Because he came to this town with nothing and built that store and his fortune with his own wits. And then he squandered it. He got fat and lazy and bored. See, I admired the wit, but I despair of the twit. The Krampus had become just another stale old institution. I hate institutions. They are for mad people and married people. If you can tell the difference. It needed gingering up. He needed gingering up.”

“And gingered I certainly have been,” said Artie, “I’m not here to make you feel guilty or pull on your heartstrings for a favour. In fact, I’m here to do you one, as a thank you.”

“He’s coming across all magnanimous and he’s got a waif and stray in tow,” said Maddie, “Why do I feel like a mark?”

“Because you’re a mark,” said Mitt.

“What’s the spiel, Krampus?” said Maddie.

“Lydia is here because she represents the Lydian,” said Artie, “And what is the Lydian?”

And he told her.

“This is not,” said Maddie, crammed into the back of a taxi with Mitt and Artie and Lydia, “In any way a favour. I do not in anyway feel guilty or generous, even after a glass and a half of your champagne. Which we have left in the bar, incidentally.”

“I got it here,” said Mitt, opening his coat to reveal the neck of the bottle sticking out of an inside pocket.

“I only work with the best,” said Maddie, “And that is because I have a reputation to up hold. And what holds it up is stories. Good stories. If this is not a good story, it does not hold up..." she jabbed a finger at Artie,  "Understand?”

“It’s a good story,” said Artie, “Trust me. And pay for the cab.”

They pulled up outside the Lydian to find themselves behind a big black car Lydia hadn’t seen before. Door was standing next to the car talking to the driver and a man with a big black beard who Lydia hadn't seen before. Door and the driver were drinking coffee.

“We have a customer,” he said, gesturing at the big car as Artie and Lydia got out of the taxi. The man with the beard turned and started walking away.

“Mrs Mountjoy,” said Artie, “If I’m not mistaken.”

“She’s been in there for ages,” said the driver.

“It’s a kidnapping case,” said Maddie.

“Who’s this?” said Door.

“She’s a reporter,” said Lydia, “She’s come to do a story about the Lydian. This is my father, we live on the top floor.”

“So you’re to blame for this small human, are you?”

“And no compensation, either,” said Door.

“Mitt, let’s get them both, while we’re out here, in front of the sign, just in case” said Maddie.

Mitt brought up his camera.

“Right, the kid and her dad. Perfect, now with Krampus. Great. All three. Smile, Dad. Thanks. Just the kid. Make happy, kid. Make like the sign, swinging the bag. That’s it.”

“Want to meet a customer?” said Artie, “I’m sure she’ll be happy to talk to the press.”

“Just remember anything she says can be used as evidence against you,” said Maddie, “Lay on, MacDuff, lay on.”

They tried the Christmas department first, where they found Mrs M in a state of great excitement.

“We had a customer, Mr Krampus, Lydia, she bought pastries and a glass of punch and was very kind to the children.”

“This is a reporter,” said Artie, carefully, “From the Argus, this is Mr M and Mrs M who own the Olympic downstairs and started this whole thing.”

“And this is your apartment? This Christmas… experience?” said Maddie, “How does that feel, having strangers walking through your home, buying things?”

“She did not buy anything from the Olympic,” said Mr M, despondently.

Mitt starting taking photographs of the decorations and arranging the little Ms and Granny M round the tree in different poses.

“A lady like that would never have come to the Olympic before,” said Mrs M, “It was a pleasure to have her here.”

“Do you know where she’s gone?” asked Artie.

“She liked Fairuza’s cards, so I sent her upstairs,” said Mrs M.

“Excellent, that’s exactly right,” said Artie, “Come on everyone.”

Fairuza was at her counter happily drawing reindeer when they got up to the Art and Cookery apartment.

“We had a customer!” she said, “She ordered a whole mixed selection of cards.”

“And she’s taken a whole load of recipe cards too,” said John, coming through from the kitchen, “I gave them for free, but I did point out Mr M stocked most of the ingredients.”

“This is a reporter from the Argus,” said Artie, “She’s doing a story on the Lydian.”

“I know,” said John, “You’re Maddie Sharpe. I’ve written for the Argus a couple of times. Just freelance, John Childeric.”

“And now you’re welcoming strangers into your kitchen to watch you cook,” said Maddie, “You think this is a good idea?”

“It’s a terrific idea,” said John, “You know, I write freelance a lot which means I’m often working at home, and it’s so great to actually have people here, to be talking to your clients, and with what Fairuza and I do - Fairuza’s an artist, she’s drawn all these posters and cards here - it’s so much about our personalities, you know, about us as people, so where better to show that off that our own home, you see?”

“Plus, you know, we’re already paying rent here,” said Fairuza.

“Mitt, get these two,” said Maddie, “All covered in ink and flour, you look great, both of you.”

“Mrs Mountjoy must have gone up to see Ivy,” said Artie.

But Mrs Mountjoy wasn’t there. Ivy was still sitting on the floor where Lydia had last seen her this morning, poring over the dresses of the Misses Pleasaunce.

“I haven’t seen anyone since the Misses P left,” said Ivy, “And my legs have gone to sleep, can someone help me up?”

“Her car’s still out front,” said Lydia, looking out of the window.

“I’ve found her,” said Door from the landing, “She’s down with the Misses Pleasaunce.”

They discovered Mrs Mountjoy sitting in one of the tiny green chairs in the living room, with Peony and Pansy perched on the sofa, and, of all people, George Joseph squatting on a footstool, all of them drinking tea. There was a bowl of green Turkish Delight on the table between them. George Joseph had icing sugar on his fingertips.

“Otto,” cried Mrs Mountjoy as they came in, “This is utterly, utterly delightful. What a delightful idea this all is. Peony and Pansy, I do hope you don’t mind me using your first names, but I feel like we are old friends already, they have been giving me such excellent advice on my conservatory, you know. It has got so old feeling, so staid, and they have such delightful ideas. And this splendid young man has been telling me all about what kind of tennis racket to buy for Martin.”

“He’s left handed, you see,” said George Joseph, “With a strong backhand, so it’s important…”

“This is Maddie Sharpe, you know,” said Artie, “From the Argus.”

“Mrs Mountjoy, is it?” said Maddie, “So what do you think of Mr Krampus’ Apartment Store?”

“I think it’s utterly delightful, everyone is so kind and friendly and welcoming. And so talented. There is a lovely lady who makes the most delightful Christmas Cards, you must see her. It really is excellent, Otto.”

“Don’t congratulate, me,” said Artie, “This isn’t my idea, this belongs to everyone here, even Peony and Pansy Pleasaunce. They weren’t even intending to open their apartment to customers and yet here we are, because that’s the kind of people who make an apartment store work. Generous, talented people. But most of all, the Lydian owes everything to Lydia herself.”

“Ok, I get it,” said Maddie, “Get her and the ladies, Mitt. What do you think to all this Lydia?”

“I think it’s fantastic,” said Lydia, trying to talk and smile for the camera at the same time, “It’s so exciting having everyone working together and people coming here. It’s usually just me and my Dad.”

“Lydia’s mother died,” said Artie in Maddie’s ear.

“And what does your Dad do?”

“He makes toys,” said Lydia quickly, before Door could say anything.

“You make toys,” said Maddie, looking at Door’s apron with the name of the Olympic across the front. 

“I do?” Lydia glared at him and Door crossed his arms, covering up the name, “Well, I make Lydia toys for Christmas every year, so I guess I do. Why not?”

“Why not?” echoed Maddie, “Why not, indeed. Why not start a store in your apartment block? What have you got to lose if you’ve got nothing to lose? If you’re living in a run down apartment block in a run down part of town, nothing but run down jobs and run down luck. Why not try something extraordinary? Who knows what will work? Why not?”

“Told you it was a good story, didn’t I?” said Artie.