Page 19 of Old Money
“They sued the state over the ban,” Jamie explains, as if this is a totally normal thing to do. “Indoor smoking is now legal in all of Briar’s Green. Legalagain, I guess.”
He heads toward the center of the lobby, moving a hair faster than his usual fast clip. I have to speed-walk to keep up with his long-legged strides, my shoes skidding on the felted green carpet.
“Are you serious? The whole village?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry. They only smoke in here.”
Jamie narrates as he goes, pointing to the far-right corner.
“Cloakroom’s still there, next to the powder room. Fire exit’s in the back. Reception desk is on the left—not to be confused with theoldreception desk.”
He stops in the middle of the lobby, facing the grand marble staircase that swoops up to the second floor. There’s a small door carved into the base of the stairs, and in front of it, a matching marble desk, topped with a tidy vase of lily of the valley. Jamie gestures to it, lowering his voice.
“You remember the deal with the old desk, right?”
“It’s haunted.”
“Ha ha.”
“It’s electrified, and anyone who steps foot behind it will be zapped to death.”
The old reception desk was another subject of several childhood rumors—all started by the club itself. The real story was that marble had been crumbling off the side of the staircase for sixty years, and no one wanted to pay for all those tiresome safety repairs. Better to simply use the funds on a new reception desk, and keep children away from the old one with ridiculous horror stories.
“Do they still tell the one about the secret room behind it, where they torture kids who run by the pool?”
“Yes, and the archive full of cursed jewels and skeletons.” Jamie deadpans. “But seriously, don’t go back there. It’s coming off in chunks now.”
I nod soberly.
“Okay, second floor.” Jamie heads up the staircase, narrating as he goes. “We can skip the guest rooms—mostly just mice in there. Fire exit’s on the landing, left end of the hall is the airing cupboard, and staff steps are on the right. Sorry for rushing this.”
“We really don’t need to do this at all, Jamie,” I say, clutchingthe banister, steadying myself on the slick, worn marble. “I know where the fire exits are.”
The village is militant about fire safety laws, not for the sake of its citizens, but its precious old properties. I guess I’d be worried too, what with all the indoor smoking and roaring, unattended fireplaces.
“We really do,” Jamie counters, marching up the steps. “If you break an ankle on the staircase I need to be able to say I told you it was slippery and uneven.”
“Roger that,” I reply, still grasping the banister. Jamie nods me along.
“The grill starts serving Bloody Marys at ten, and I need us off the floor by then.” His voice rebounds off the marble and he drops into a murmur. “They’re fussy about staff tours ‘getting in the way.’ ”
They, I have gleaned, are the club’s old-guard members and its almighty board. Jamie may be concierge here, but he’s not one of them—far from it. His dad had worked on the overnight maintenance team, and Jamie started there too, at eighteen, chipping away at a hospitality degree during the day. But he was always aiming for management, and having grown up in the clubhouse, he knew the place inside-out. He’d proven a unique and invaluable resource, trusted by both members and staff, and soon he’d worked his way up so high that even the board had to agree—with great reluctance—to create a senior position for him.
“Conciergeisn’t really the appropriate title,” he explains as we walk down the long corridor that comprises the club’s second floor. “But that’s the one they agreed on. After nine board meetings.”
I laugh. He looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“I’m not joking.”
“God,” I say, half whispering again. “It’s like theyenjoywasting time.”
We stroll briskly past the row of guest rooms that line the upstairs hall—originally meant for overnight shooting parties and debutante balls. They’re cramped and stuffy, and the members never use them, but they’re always made up with fresh linens nonetheless. These people enjoy waste, period.
Jamie sighs, shrugging lightly.
“They sure do. Staff stairs are down here.” Jamie points us down the hall, continuing. “Before me, it was just Brody running the show, and they were fine with that. They loved it—all his formalities, rules for the sake of rules.”
“I remember,” I say, still chilled thinking of him. “An etiquette for everything. ‘Always time for manners.’ ”
