Page 20 of Old Money
“Exactly. Can’t put out the newspaper until it’s been ironed by hand,” says Jamie, adding darkly, “That is also not a joke, by the way.”
But it still makes me snort with laughter.
“God, and then what? They all shared the one copy?”
“No, it just sat there all day!” Jamie whisper-shouts. “People get the news from their own papers—or phones or TVs. That’s the point, it was a lot of needless ceremony and zero efficiency. The younger members started to complain, and eventually forced the board to bring on some new management. ‘Additional’ management, not replacement.”
He gestures at himself.
“So, it’s like Brody’s the monarch and you’re the prime minister.”
“Basically. If the monarch still retained the right to decapitate someone for pouring wine from the bottle without decanting.” He holds up his hands. “I mean no disrespect to Brody. I get it—we’re here to serve our members, and the old-school crowd still likes doing things the traditional way. But the newer folks expect a little more service for their $50k. They want Wi-Fi.”
That, they still don’t have. Currently, the club operates on a hodgepodge of spreadsheets and leather-bound ledgers. If a member wants to book a function room, they have to call thefront desk and be transferred to the events manager (or more likely, his voicemail). If they want to reserve a tennis court, they have to call a different number to speak to the recreation manager (who, as it happens, is often outside). There is no such thing as online booking because nothing is online. Every form, list and menu is saved on paper, and most important records are written by hand—Mr. Brody’s, specifically. If a member needs to update their phone number, he must go in person to Mr. Brody’s office and dictate it to him while he inscribes it in the register. This is the kind of inefficiency thattheyhold dear. It’s tradition.
My job as “floating admin” is to streamline and digitize operations just enough to make life easier for the newer members, without disturbing those who still prefer to do things the old, annoying way.
“So, install an online booking system, and—what?” I ask, following Jamie down the spiral staff staircase. “Scan the paper records?”
He stops at the bottom, thinking.
“Uh, yeah. I guess that’s the bulk of it.” He gestures to the doorway, leading out of the staff hall and into the gallery. “I told you, you’re overqualified. I was just going to hire a college kid.”
“You thought you needed acollegekid for this? Simon could knock this out in a day.”
Jamie pauses, frowning.
“Simon,” I repeat, my little joke hanging a little awkwardly now. “Theo’s son—the younger one.”
“Oh,”Jamie says, shaking his head. “Right, no, I— Right.”
He heads into the gallery. I watch him for a moment, then hurry to catch up.
“Sorry, I spaced for a second,” Jamie says as we pass the pink ballroom. “Theo and I don’t hang out much anymore.”
“What? Really?” I ask, taken aback. “He didn’t tell me.”
Jamie shakes his head dismissively, looking ahead.
“Nothing to tell. I work here, and he’s doing his whole—” Jamie gestures in the air. “Our paths don’t cross a lot.”
He’s so flat and inscrutable that it takes me a moment to put two and two together: Theo’s becoming a big shot, and Jamie’s a concierge. It’s only now occurring to me how odd it must be working here, not just as a former staff kid, but a former Wheaton normie. He must cross paths with lots of old schoolmates, but no old friends.
“I guess you see Susannah though,” I blurt out into the silence. “She must be here a lot.”
“Hmm?” says Jamie, his face briefly, and reasonably, alarmed. “Oh. Not much. They don’t really—I mean, holidays, yes, but they don’t really—”
“Jamie.” I smile, patting his arm. “Relax. Andpleaseslow down.”
He stops short, his shoes scuffing softly on the felted carpet. We’re nearing the end of the gallery, and I glance toward the lobby, ensuring it’s still empty.
“The whole thing is beyond weird already,” I say, quiet but still smiling. “You can’t possibly make it weirder.”
He winces—a proper wince. And then he checks the lobby too.
“Wanna bet?”
***
