The Apartment Store #22

Chapter 11, Part 2; in which Lydia is interviewed

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.

Artie. She had to find Artie. He'd know what to do.

She hadn't seen him anywhere in the house so she ran straight out of the building's front door and onto the pavement. It was already getting dark in the little square but shoppers were still milling around the front of the Delian opposite.

There was no sign of Artie, but then she caught something out of the corner of her eye, a small red spark dancing about in the darkness down a close at the end of the street. It was, she realised, the end of a cigar. She ran towards it.

It was Artie, but he wasn't alone, he was talking to someone. A tall man in a raincoat with his back to Lydia.

"It's a good pitch," Artie was saying as she came up, "It's early days and I'm not saying there haven't been some issues, but it sells, you know, as an idea... Lydia!"

Artie spotted her coming towards them and the tall man turned. He had a beard. A big black beard, the same beard Lydia had seen hanging around the  Apartment Store. But before she could say anything Artie took the man by the hand and started shaking it.

"Thanks for your interest," he said, "Always glad to meet a satisfied customer."

The man seemed taken by surprise by this and didn't quite know what to do, so he just ducked his head in acknowledgement and then walked quickly away, brushing past Lydia but deliberately not catching her eye.

"What's a pitch?" asked Lydia, who wasn't quite sure what the word meant.

"Shop talk, or rather, market talk," said Artie, "It means where you set up shop, where you put out your stall in a market, that's your pitch. You weren't looking for me to ask word definitions, though. You look troubled. What's up?"

"Not all the customers are satisfied," she said, "I don't think they're even our customers to be honest."

Artie just told the Problem that the complaints department was just over the other side of the square on the third floor of the Delian and packed him off to make their lives difficult instead.

"I bet that's where he got it from anyway," said Artie, "A candle that smells of childhood. They deserve customers like him."

"I can think of some other people who might," said Lydia.

“This sounds ominous,” he said, “What’s up at the Lydian, Lydia?”

“Everyone’s being so mean,” said Lydia, “I was trying to figure out what to do with that stupid man and his stupid candle and no one would help me. All they would talk about was themselves and their stupid shops. They’re even arguing with each other.”

“I’m afraid that, Lydia, is the sound,” said Artie, “Of success. They’re taking themselves seriously at last, they’re taking their departments seriously, they’re taking the competition seriously, they’re taking the Lydian seriously. This is what we’re selling, remember: them - not just what they make. They need to figure out who that them is that they’re selling, they need to figure out how to be that person and how to sell it. It’s not going to be easy.”

“It’s already being horrible,” said Lydia.

“If it was fun they wouldn’t call it work,” said Artie, “But these are just growing pains, Lydia of the Lydian, they’re still figuring out how they all fit together, how it all works.”

“Well, I wish it worked better,” said Lydia, “It’s boring having to run everyone’s errands for them.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” said Artie, “You’re still even figuring out what being Lydia is.”

“It’s not being the person who runs up and down stairs,” said Lydia, “I know that much.”

“I know one thing it is, though,” said Artie, “It’s being the girl interviewed in the papers.”

“Being what?”

“Come on,” said Artie, “We have somewhere to be and someone to talk to.”

What they needed, Artie said, as the two of them walked down the hill, was a fresh publicity campaign. Not about the store, this time. No, this time, it was about them, about Lydia’s friends.

“The point is,” Artie said, waving his arms about, a dangerous thing to do on the narrow pavements of the Old Town, “That the Lydian is not about shopping, it’s about the experience. It’s not about the things we sell, it’s about the people who make them. What we sell aren’t things in a store, they’re souvenirs of having been somewhere special, met someone special. An expert, a craftsperson, an artist. So that’s what we need to publicise: the people, not the place.”

“But I thought the point was that we didn’t want to get all crowded like before,” said Lydia, “There are still lots of people coming, and they’re all spending loads of money, even more than before. Even the dogs are spending loads of money.”

“Aha,” said Artie, “Which is where we come to the difference between advertising and publicity. You’re right: we don’t want any more people to come, but we do want more people to want to. We want people to want to be the kind of people who shop at the Lydian.”

“Wait,” Lydia was confused, “We want people to want to shop at the Lydian but not to actually shop at the Lydian? What’s the point of that?”

“Profile,” said Artie, like it was a triumphant reveal of a secret.

“Like seeing someone from the side?” said Lydia.

“Like seeing someone at all,” said Artie, “Take Ivy, for example.”

“I wish someone would,” said Lydia.

“She couldn’t sell those dresses we bought in. She just couldn’t believe in them. Quite right, quite right too, they’re not hers and that’s what we’re selling, right? Her. So what if those dresses, instead of being designed by someone else had been designed by Ivy? Then she could sell them, right?”

“Well, no,” said Lydia, “I mean she might want to, but Ivy is terrible at selling things.”

“Actually,” said Artie, “She’s brilliant at selling things, she’s just a terrible shop assistant. So let’s say we take those boxes of dresses Ivy has designed and give them to the Delian to sell, or Krampus, where they have the best shop assistants in the world. Ivy can stay hidden away in her fashion apartment in the Lydian, seeing her special customers and still sell hundreds of dresses she’s designed. But to do that, you need profile. Which is where we’re going now, to start building the profile of the Lydian.”

Where they were going, in fact, was back to Harry’s Bar in the New Town, and to the rear booth where Maddie Sharpe was wedged in once again behind her typewriter.

“A pot of coffee and an Old Fashioned,” said Maddie without looking up.

“I’m we only do new fangled,” said Artie, sliding onto the bench opposite her and motioning Lydia to follow him.

“You’re early,” said Maddie, “Scram.”

“No, we’re on time,” said Artie, “You’re late,” a waitress appeared at Lydia’s elbow and Artie leaned across, “Champagne, a virgin Bellini for Lydia here and a pot of coffee.”

“Never mind that,” said Maddie, “Get me the phone. Then bring the coffee.”

Lydia watched as Maddie argued with the telephone. Apparently she was late about sending someone something. The idea, according to Artie, was that he and Lydia were going to be interviewed by Maddie as publicity for the Lydian, but Lydia was suddenly not sure she wanted to be interviewed. Maddie seemed so cross and sharp tongued. Lydia nudged Artie.

“What if she asks me a difficult question?” she whispered, “What if I get the answer wrong?”

“It’s an interview,” hissed Artie back, “There’s no wrong answers. The right answer is what Lydia would say. You’re the only person who can give a right answer and all your answers will be right.”

“For five minutes,” said Maddie, glaring at them as she slammed the phone down, “There will be absolute silence. There will be no whispering, giggling, slurping or wriggling. I am going to finish this piece and so help me if anyone disturbs me, I shall dip my pen in acid and etch the final words on their burning skin. Six minutes, tops.”

And she began to pound the typewriters keys in fury. Lydia barely dared breathe. Even the waitress, approaching with a tray loaded with drinks, froze on the spot.

“Not you,” shouted Maddie without looking up, “Bring coffee. Do it now and without let or hindrance. Pour me a cup, don’t worry about their drinks. Line up a glass of champagne too. You, half pint, put your head down, I can feel you looking at me. Krampus stop breathing. Someone go outside and hold up the traffic.”

The keys drummed to an end of line crescendo, then the ding of a bell, and the grind, zip, thunk of the carriage return as Maddie swiped at the typewriter and then, like a running man, pursued by the police, taking a corner in an abrupt swerve, she was off again, the rattling rhythm building once more across the page.

“Which is why…” She began to narrate her typing, her fingers stabbing at the keys in time to her voice, “This paper has to ask… what did he… know… and when… did… he… KNOW… IT! Full stop! End of paragraph! Right. On. Time!”

There was a bang as someone slammed the door of Harry’s Bar open and footsteps came dashing down the room. A young man came screeching to a halt by the booth as Maddie ripped the paper from the typewriter, grabbed another few sheets from the table beside her and flung them at him.

“Take the copy and run!” She shouted after him as, without speaking, the boy turned on his toes and pelted back the way he had come. The door opened and slammed closed again. There was a pause as if the whole bar was holding it’s breath.

“Champagne,” said Maddie.

And life returned to Harry’s Bar.

“Don’t look at me like that, half pint,” said Maddie as she put down her now empty champagne glass, “It’s a living. No, wait, it’s not just a living, it’s a vocation. I’m a journalist, a member of the fourth estate, I speak up for the little guy, I speak truth to power, I ask the awkward questions. I don’t have to justify myself to you, pip squeak.”

“I…” Lydia felt like she was being unjustly accused of something, “I didn’t ask you to.”

“Sounds to me like you’re arguing with yourself there, Maddie,” said Artie.

“Who else have a got to argue with?” said Maddie, “The rest of you are idiots.”

“Even the ones who provide the champagne?” said Artie, pouring her a fresh glass.

“Especially those,” said Maddie, “You’re only making it worse for yourselves. What a life though. You have a point there, peewee.”

Maddie raised her glass to Lydia, who wasn’t sure what point she might have made or whether it might be a good one or not.

“Speaking of which,” said Maddie, putting down her glass, “What about your life? Isn’t that what we’re here for? Life as a department store?”

“Apartment Store,” said Artie.

“Who am I interviewing, Krampus, her or you?” Maddie turned to Lydia, “OK, kid, listen: I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking what everyone thinks. Everyone. They say it to me every time ‘Oh,’ they say ‘I’m sure no one wants to hear what I think.’ And you know what? They’re wrong. They’re wrong on two counts. Firstly they’re sure of nothing of the kind. Secretly they think everyone should want to know what they think because they’re the most important person in their world, after all. They’re the most important person in their world and that’s the only world they know, so everyone must want to know.

“And more importantly everyone does want to know. They really do. Not because they think you’re important or they’re specially interested in what you have to say, but because they are nosy. People are nosy damn monkeys. They want to know what everyone’s doing, so they can make sure they’re not missing out on something, so they can compare themselves to you, so they can distract themselves from their own miserable lives for a moment.

“The reason I am saying this is because interviews go two ways. I ask the questions, you give the answers and I don’t want you worrying about whether it's the right answer or what so and so would say because if I wanted to know what someone else thought, I’d be asking them. I want to know what you think because everyone wants to know what you think. You are the one being interviewed, no one else, capiche?”

“Capiche?” Lydia wondered what it meant. It sounded like some kind of flan, or maybe seafood.

“Understand,” said Maddie, “Do you understand that I am asking you whether you understand?”

“I understand,” said Lydia, “Both things.”

“Excellent, smart kid. Right, let’s start at the beginning,” Maddie opened the notebook on the table nest to the typewriter, “You’ve always lived in that building, right?”

“My whole life,” said Lydia, “Dad says I was born there, but not in the apartment that we live in now. We used to live in the apartment that George Joseph lives in. But I don’t remember that. My Mum and Dad lived there and John and Fairuza lived in the apartment Ivy lives in. But I only remember the apartment we live in now.”

“That was before your mother died, wasn’t it?” said Maddie, “Still a small apartment for a young family. You can’t have been well off, even then.”

“Dad always says that we were poor but happy,” said Lydia, who rather suspected that her father thought that being happy made up for being poor in some way. She wasn’t convinced.

“It must have been wrapping yourself in homespun homilies that kept you warm,” said Maddie, “By which I mean, were you happy? In your little apartment with your Dad?”

“Well,” said Lydia, “Everyone’s lovely and they’re all my friends…”

“But,” said Maddie.

“But,” said Lydia, “I mean nothing much ever happened and, you know, we never had anything, we could never go anywhere. Dad always said we had to be careful. He meant cheap, you know, he meant we couldn’t have new things or nice things, so I never went anywhere much else other than the apartments and school.”

“No holidays?” asked Maddie.

“Oh yes,” said Lydia, “Everyone has holidays. You know, school stops and you all go home for a bit.”

“Not away,” said Maddie, “For the holidays?”

“Away where?” said Lydia.

“So,” said Maddie, shooting a glance at Artie, “Life got more interesting when Mr Krampus got booted out of his own store and washed up in your attic?”

“Oh yes,” said Lydia, “Much more interesting! I mean it was interesting to just have a new neighbour, really, even though it means we have the share a bathroom.”

“You have to share a bathroom with this man?” said Maddie incredulously.

“Not at the same time,” said Artie.

“He gets up very early,” said Lydia, “And he sings in the bath.”

“That’s enough,” said Maddie, “That’s more colour on Otto Krampus than anyone needs, least of all me.”

“But he is interesting,” said Lydia, “I think he’d be interesting wherever he was, even if it wasn’t somewhere really boring.”

“But your apartment isn’t boring any more, is it?” said Maddie, “Now it’s a store?”

“Definitely not!” said Lydia, “It’s brilliant, it’s so much more interesting and everyone has things to do.”

“And that was your idea, I understand,” said Maddie, “The Apartment Store.”

“Well,” said Lydia, “I mean I called it that, I came up with the name.”

“It was Lydia’s idea,” said Artie.

Maddie shot him another look.

“I’m interviewing the girl, Krampus,” she said, “Not you.”

“But it was Lydia’s idea, don’t you remember?” Artie turned to Lydia, “We were in the Olympic.”

“Krampus,” said Maddie in a stern tone of voice, “I notice that Knudsen over there is waving at you. I think he wants to talk. I think you ought to find out what he wants.”

“Alright,” said Artie, “I get it, I’ll pipe down.”

“Knudsen, Krampus,” said Maddie and gestured over her shoulder with her thumb, “Or we call it a day right here.”

“Alright,” said Artie and he started edging out of the booth. Lydia got up to let him out.

“I’ll be just over there, Lydia,” said Artie as he stood up, “Just shout if you need me.”

“Between you and me, then,” said Maddie as Artie crossed the room towards a fat man in another booth, “Was it really your idea, not his?”

“I mean, Artie helped,” said Lydia, “But I suppose it was.”

“All yours,” said Maddie, “And I suppose you thought it would make things a bit more lively about the place, cheer everyone up.”

“Well it was exciting,” said Lydia, “I mean, it is exciting. Nothing ever happens and it’s a big thing to be happening, really.”

“And what did everyone else think?” said Maddie, “They’re all in, I take it? I mean everyone’s getting involved? Taking part?”

“Oh yes,” said Lydia, “Everyone’s joined in, even Mr Krebs.”

“Mr Krebs?”

“He’s in charge of the building, you know.”

“The supervisor?”

“Yes,” said Lydia, “I mean, I was always a bit scared of him, I mean he’s always angry and always tell you off, I mean me off, but even he joined in.”

“So everyone’s enjoying it?” said Maddie, “They’re all grateful you suggested it?”

“I suppose,” said Lydia, “I mean, they were at first but I’m not sure now. They must be, I suppose, because they’re all so obsessed, you know.”

Maddie’s pencil stopped for a moment and she looked up from her notebook.

“How do you mean?” she said.

Lydia was thinking of her afternoon chasing around the building trying to deal with The Problem and his strange candle.

“Well, there was a man who had a complaint and he was complaining to me, but I didn’t know what to do about it so I was trying to find someone to help me and none of them would. I mean not even Ivy, who always helps me when she can, not even Ivy would help, she just went on about her dresses and everything. It’s like now there are people coming all the time and telling her that’s she’s this amazing designer, which she absolutely is, but it’s all she can think about and they’re only dresses, you know. I mean, it was supposed to be a fun thing to do but everyone is taking it so seriously and they’re all getting all obsessed and cross.”

“Cross?” said Maddie, who was writing again but now without taking her eyes off Lydia.

“Like John and Fairuza, you know, who live downstairs,” said Lydia.

“Old friends of your parents, right?” said Maddie.

“Yes, I think so,” said Lydia, “They’re my friends too.”

“But now they’re cross with you?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Lydia, suddenly worried, “With each other mostly.”

“They’re fighting?” said Maddie, “About the store?”

“About who’s selling more things and who’s more popular,” said Lydia, “And it’s so stupid because they’re both brilliant and they’re supposed to be enjoying it and they’re just ruining it. They’re almost as a bad as Dad.”

“Your father?” said Maddie, “He’s not happy, either?”

“He’s never happy,” said Lydia, “I think he likes not being happy. He’s always being sarcastic and mean and making of fun of things. He always makes fun of Artie, Mr Krampus, and the store. All I wanted to do was to make things more interesting and more fun and to give him something to do, but he won’t do it. He ruins everything.”

“It’s a shame he isn’t supporting you,” said Maddie, “I guess some people just aren’t that adventurous, they’re not entrepreneurs like Krampus, out there seizing life and making things happen. I bet Krampus would make an exciting dad, don’t you think?”

“At least Artie is fun,” said Lydia.

“Am I,” said Artie, suddenly reappearing, “Glad to hear it. How we doing?”

“Oh,” said Maddie, “I think I have what I need.”