‘So far, the total of today’s requests could pay off the debt of a third world country.’
‘This is le livre.’ Charles shrugs as though to say “whatcha gonna do?” Only with a little more French flair.
Le livre, or the book, often referred to in the most hallowed of terms, is actually an online diary pertaining to the residents of Wolf Tower’s needs. Each apartment comes with a tablet linked to the concierge department computer system, and if they’re away from home when a need arises, well, they can just use the handy-dandy app they can download onto their phone. Anything they need help with, be it a maintenance issue or an item they need sourcing or a reservation they’d like made, they can just pick up their handy tablet and pass the job to someone else.
Pass it off to me, in fact. Or Charles. Or whoever else is on shift. And the concierge desk aims to meet those needs 24/7. And I don’t mean their very ordinary needs, like bread and milk and eggs. I’m almost certain the people who live in Wolf Tower think the food they eat just magically appears. Those who look like they know what food is, I mean. But those items, the most basic of necessities, are usually ordered via the apartment’s housekeeping tablet by their personal housekeeping staff.
The concierge desk deals with a whole other level of needs. We’re told that the most precious commodity available is time, and apparently, this is even more so for the uber-wealthy. And here at the concierge desk, our sole aim is to protect the time of our residents.
We help them get back precious time without the aid of a time machine.
If you ask me, the whole concept is hokum because most people who live here don’t appear to work. Or if they do, they don’t seem to work more than a couple of hours each day. I know this because I spend most of my time on the phone with them or answering their hundreds of demanding and whiny emails. As I see it, my job is to help the rich to spend their vast amounts of money.
Need a last-minute anniversary gift for the wife? Or a I’m sorry I can’t screw you this weekend because it’s my anniversary sweetener to your bit on the side? Then you just pick up the phone to contact me, give me a ballpark figure, and I put in a call to Zegg et Cerlati or maybe Cartier. Or I’ll take myself for a walk along the Place du Casino and do a little window shopping in the high-end stores, and because I’m wearing my natty Industries du Loup scarf, me and non-couture clothing won’t be sneered at in my Zara dress or my Gap pants. I might not be shopping for myself unless it’s an apple from Condamine Market, but I’m still shopping. It’s also a little time out of the office where I get to wander through streets, soaking up the sunshine as I people watch the portly Midwesterners rubbernecking at supercars to James Bond lookalikes who step from them. It’s kind of like a tourist to trillionaire tour.
But my job isn’t all shopping for the tycoon who needs time like he needs air.
Need a last-minute private jet to take you to Paris for the weekend?
Then I’m your (wo)man.
Desperate for front row seats to La bohéme in Milan instead?
How about a helicopter ride there?
Your wish is my command.
Or maybe it’s a table at the Ivy when you’re in London next week?
Consider it booked.
Or else I might consider joining the unemployment lines. At least, according to Olga, head of the concierge department.
Speaking of which.
‘Charles, you already see to the Petrov’s dog?’ The woman herself strides into the office in her skyscraper heels. And what a delight she is. She never smiles, probably because her lips have so much filler, she can barely close her duck bill, I mean, mouth. Which I suppose is efficient because she never stops complaining—usually about me. I don’t know why, but I am not her favourite person, yet I have no idea what I’ve done to deserve her ire. Although, come to think of it, yesterday she was slightly less caustic after lunch. She must’ve had champagne with her food. Or maybe edibles.
‘I engagé a new dog walker.’ Charles doesn’t move his attention from his computer screen. ‘A male dogwalker,’ he adds meaningfully. ‘Per’aps Alexi can keep on the trousers