The Nanny Diaries

The Nanny Diaries

ByEmma McLaughlin andNicolaKraus

PROLOGUE

TheInterview

Every season of my nanny career kicked off with a round of interviews so surreally similar that I'd often wonder if the mothers were slipped a secret manual at the Parents League to guide them through. This initial encounter became as repetitive as religious ritual, tempting me, in the moment before the frontdoor swungopen,either tokneelandgenuflector say, "Hit it!"

No other event epitomized the job as perfectly, and it always began and ended in an elevator nicer than most NewYorkers'apartments.

Thewalnut-paneledcar slowlypulls me up,like a bucketin a well, toward potential solvency.As I near the appointed floor I take a deep breath; the door slides open onto a small vestibule which is the portal to, at most, two apartments. I press the doorbell. Nanny Fact: she always waits for me to ring the doorbell, even though she was buzzed by maximum security downstairs to warn of my imminent arrival and is probably standing on the other side of the door. May, in fact, have been standing there sincewe spokeonthetelephonethreedays ago.

The dark vestibule, wallpapered in some gloomy Colefax and Fowler floral, always contains a brass umbrella stand, a horse print, and a mirror, wherein I do one last swift check of my appearance. I seem tohavegrownstains onmyskirtduring thetrainridefrom school,butotherwise I'm pulledtogether. win set,floralskirt,andsomeGucci-knockoffsandalsI boughtintheVillage.

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She is always tiny. Her hair is always straight and thin; she always seems to be inhaling and never exhaling.Sheisalways wearing expensivekhaki pants, Chanelballet flats, a FrenchstripedT-shirt, and a white cardigan. Possibly some discreet pearls. In seven years and umpteen interviews the I'm-mom!casual-in-my-khakis-but-intimidating-in-my-$400'shoes outfit never changes. And it is simply impossible to imagine her doing anything so undignified as what was required to get her pregnant in thefirstplace.

Her eyes go directly to the splot on my skirt. I blush. I haven't even opened my mouth and already I'm behind.

She ushers me into the front hall, an open space with a gleaming marble floor and mushroom-gray walls. In themiddle is a roundtablewith a vase of flowers thatlookas if they mightdie, but never dare wilt.

This is my first impression of the Apartment and it strikes me like a hotel suite. mmaculate, but impersonal. Even the lone finger painting I will later find taped to the fridge looks as if it were ordered from a catalog.(Sub-Zeros with acustom-colored panelaren't magnetized.)

She offers to take my cardigan, stares disdainfully at the hair my cat seems to have rubbed on it for goodluck,andoffersme a drink.I'm supposedto say, "Waterwouldbelovely,"butam oftentemptedto ask for a Scotch, just to see what she'd do. I am then invited into the living room, which varies from baronial splendor to EthanAlien interchangeable, depending on how "old" the money is. She gestures me to the couch, where I promptly sink three feet into the cushions, transformed into a five-year-old dwarfed by mountainsof chintz. Shelooms above me, ramrod straightin a very uncomfortable-looking chair,legscrossed,tightsmile.

Now we begin the actual Interview. I awkwardly place my sweating glass of water carefully on a coaster that looks as if it could use a coaster. She is clearly reeling with pleasure at my sheer Caucasianness.

"So,"shebeginsbrightly, "how didyou come totheParentsLeague?"

This is the only part of the Interview that resembles a professional exchange. We will dance around certain words, such as "nanny" and "child care," because they would be distasteful and we will never, ever, actually acknowledgethat we are talking about my working for her. This is the Holy Covenant of the Mother/Nanny relationship: this is a pleasure. ot a job. We are merely "getting to know each other," much as how I imagine a John and a call girl must make the deal, while trying not to kill the mood.

The closest we get to the possibility that I might actually be doing this for money is the topic of my baby-sitting experience, which I describe as a passionate hobby,much like raising Seeing Eye dogs for theblind.As theconversation progresses I become a child-development expert. onvincing bothof us of my desire to fulfill my very soul by raising a child and taking part in all stages of his/her development; a simple trip to the park or museum becoming a precious journey of the heart. I cite amusing anecdotes from past gigs, referring to the children by name?I still marvel at the cognitive growth of Constance with each hour we spent together in the sandbox." I feel my eyes twinkle and imagine twirling my umbrella a la Mary Poppins. We both sit in silence for a moment picturing my studioapartmentcrowdedwith framedfinger paintings andmydoctorates from Stanford.

She stares at me expectantly, ready for me to bring it on home. "I love children] I love little hands and little shoes and peanut butter sandwiches and peanut butter in my hair and Elmo. love Elmo?and sand in my purse and the "Hokey Pokey". an't get enough of it!. nd soy milk and blankies and the endless barrage of questions no one knows the answers to, I mean why is the sky blue? And Disney! Disneyismysecondlanguage!"

We canbothhear "AWholeNewWorld"slowlyswelling inthe

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background as I earnestly convey that it would be more than a privilege to take care of her child. t wouldbeanadventure.

She is flushed, but still playing it close to the chest. Now she wants to know why, if I'm so fabulous, I would want to take care of her child. I mean, she gave birth to it and she doesn't want to do it, so why would I? Am I trying to pay off an abortion? Fund a leftist group? How did she get this lucky? She wants to know what I study, what I plan to do in the future, what I think of private schools in Manhattan, what my parents do. I answer with as much filigree and insouciance as I can muster, trying to slightly cock my head like SnowWhite listening to the animals. She, in turn, is aiming for more of a Diane-Sawyer-pose, looking for answers which will confirm that I am not there to steal her husband, jewelry,friends,or child.Inthatorder.

Nanny Fact: in every one of my interviews, references are never checked. I am white. I speak French. Myparentsarecollegeeducated.I haveno visible piercings and havebeentoLincoln Centerinthelast twomonths. I'm hired.

She stands with newfound hope. "Let me show you around ..."Although we have already met, it's time

for theApartment to playits role tofull effect.As we pass througheachroomit seems tofluff itself and shimmy to add shine to the already blinding surfaces. Touring is what this Apartment was born for. Each enormous room leads to the next with a few minihallways just big enough for a framed original so-and-so.

Nomatter if shehasaninfantor ateenager. hereisnever atraceof achildtobefoundontheTour. In fact, there's never a trace of anyone. ot a single family picture displayed. I'll find out later that these are all discreetlytuckedintosterlingTiffanyframesandclusteredartfully in acornerof theden.

Somehow the absenceof a pair of strewn shoesor an openedenvelope makes it hardto believe thatthe sceneI am beingledthroughisthree-dimensional; itseems like aPotemkin apartment. I

consequentlyfeel ungainly andunsure of how todemonstrate the appropriateawe thatis expectedfrom me,withoutsaying, "Yes'm, it's awl soawflyluverly,shoreis,"in a thickcockneyaccentandcurtsying.

Luckily she is in perpetual motion and the opportunity does not present itself. She glides silently ahead of me and I am struck by how tiny her frame seems against the dense furnishings. I stare at her back as shemoves fromroomtoroom,stoppingonlybrieflyineachtowaveherhandaroundin acircleandsay theroom's name,towhichI nodtoconfirmthatthis is,infact,thediningroom.

Two pieces of information are meant to be conveyed to me during the Tour: (1) I am out of my league, and (2) I will be policing at maximum security to ensure that her child, who is also out of his or her league, does not scuff, snag, spill, or spoil a single element of this apartment. The coded script for this exchange goes as follows: she turns around to "mention" that there really is no housekeeping involved and that Hutchison really "prefers" to play in his room. If there were any justice in the world this is the point when all nannies should be given roadblocks and a stun gun.These rooms are destined to become the burden of my existence. From this point on, ninety-five percent of this apartment will be nothing more than a blurred background for chasing, enticing, and point-blank pleading with the child to "Put theDelftmilkmaid down!!" I am alsoabouttobecomeintimatewith moretypesof cleaningfluidthanI knew there were types of dirt. It will be in her pantry. tocked high above the washer-dryer. hat I discover peopleactually importtoiletbowlcleanser fromEurope.

We arrive inthekitchen.It isenormous.With a fewpartitions itcouldeasilyhouse a familyof four. She stops to rest one manicured hand on the counter, affecting a familiar pose, like a captain at the helm about to address the crew. However, I know if I asked her where she keeps the flour, a half hour of rummaging throughunusedbakingutensils wouldensue.

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NannyFact: shemaypouranawfullotof Perrier inthis kitchen,butshenever actuallyeatshere. Infact,

over the course of the job I never see her eat anything. While she can't tell me where to find the flour, shecanprobablylocatethelaxatives inhermedicinecabinetblindfolded.

The refrigerator is always bursting with tons of meticulously chopped fresh fruit separated into Tupperware bowls and at least two packs of fresh cheese tortellini that her child prefers without sauce. (Meaning there is never any in the house for me, either.) There is also the requisite organic milk, a deserted bottle of Lillet, and Sarabeth's jam, and lots of refrigerated ginkgo biloba ("for Daddy's memory"). The freezer is stocked with Mommy's dirty little secret: chicken nuggets and popsicles.As I peer into the fridge I see that food is for the child; condiments are for the grown-ups. One pictures a family meal in which parents meekly stick toothpicks into a jar of Grace's sundried tomatoes while childgorgeson a feastof freshfruitandfrozendinners.

"Brandford's meals are really quite simple," she says, gesturing to the frozen food as she closes the freezer door. Translation: they are able to feed him this crap in good conscience on the weekends because I will be cooking him four-course macrobiotic meals on the weeknights. There will be a day to come when I stare at the colorful packages in the freezer with raw envy as I resteam the wild rice from CostaRicaforthefour-year-old's maximumdigestive ease.

She swings open the pantry (which is big enough to be a summer home for the family of four who could live in the kitchen) to reveal an Armageddon-ready level of storage, as if the city were in perpetual danger of being looted by a roving band of insanely health-conscious five-year-olds. It is overflowing with every type of juice box, soy milk, rice milk, organic pretzel, organic granola bar, and organic raisin the consulted nutritionist could think up. The only item with additives is a shelf of Goldfishoptions, includinglow saltandthenot-so-popularonion.

There isn't a single trace of food in the entire kitchen big enough to fill a grown-up hand. Despite the myth of "help yourself," it will take a few starving evenings of raisin dinners before I discover THE TOP SHELF, which appears to be trip wired and covered with dust, but contains the much-coveted gourmet housegifts thathave beenleftfor deadby women who seechocolateas a grenadein Pandora's box. Barneys' raisinettes, truffles from Saks, fudge from Martha's Vineyard, all of which I devour like crack-cocaine in the bathroom to avoid the crime being recorded by a possible security camera. I picture the footage being played on Hard Copy: "Nanny caught in the act. eady with delusions of entitlement. reakscellophanewrapperon '92 EasterGodivas."

It is at this point that she begins the Rules. This is a very pleasing portion of the event for any mother because it is "a chance to demonstrate how much thought and effort has gone into bringing the child this far. Shespeakswith a raremixtureof animation, confidence,andawesome conviction. heknows this much is true. I, inturn, adoptmymost eager,yet compassionate expressionasif tosay "Yes, please tell me more.'m fascinated" and "How awful it must be for you to have a child allergic to air." So beginstheList:

Allergictodairy.

Allergictopeanuts.

Allergictostrawberries.

Allergictopropane-basedshellac.

Some kindof grain.

Won't eatblueberries.

Will onlyeatblueberries. liced.

Sandwichesmust becut horizontallyandhavecrusts.

Sandwichesmust becut inquarters andhaveNOcrusts.

Sandwichesmust bemadefacingeast.

Shelovesricemilk!

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Hewon't eatanythingstartingwith theletterM.

All servingsaretobepre-measured. O additionalfoodis

permissible.Alljuiceistobewatereddownanddrunkoutof a sip glass over

thesinkor inthebathtub(preferablyuntilthechildis

eighteen).Allfoodistobeservedon a plasticplacematwithpapertowel

beneathbowl,bib onat all times.Actually, "if you couldgetLucien nakedbeforeeating andthen

hose her down afterward, that would be perfect." NO food or drink within two hours of bedtime. NO additives. NOpreservatives. NOpumpkin seeds. NOskins of anykind.NOraw food.NOcookedfood. NOAmericanfood.

and . . . (voicedropsto apitchonlywhalescanhear)NOFOODOUTSIDETHEKITCHEN/

I am nodding gravely in agreement. This makes total sense. "Oh, my God, of course," I find myself saying.

Thisis PhaseI of bringingme intothefold,of creatingtheillusionof collusion. "We're inthis together! Little Elspethisourjointproject!Andwe're goingtofeedhernothingbutmungbeans!" I feelasif I am nine months pregnant and just finding out my husband plans to raise the child in a cult. Yet I am somehow flattered that I am being chosen to participate in this project. Completion Phase II: I am succumbingtotheallureof perfection.

Thetourproceedstothefarthestpossibleroom. Thedistanceof

the child's room from the parents' room always runs the gamut from far away to really, really far away. In fact, if there is another floor this room will be on it. One has the image of the poor three-year-old awakening from a nightmare and having to don a pith helmet and flashlight to go in search of her parents'room, armedonly with a compass andfiercedetermination.

The other telltale sign that one is moving into the Child Zone is the change in the decor from muted, faux Asian to either a Mondrian scheme of primary colors or Bonpoint, Kennedy pastels. Either way Martha has been here. ersonally. But the effect is oddly disquieting; it's so obviously an adult's conception of a child's room, as evidenced by the fact that all the signed first edition Babar prints are hungatleastthreefeetabovethechild's head.

After having received the Rules I am braced to meet the boy in the bubble. I expect to see a full-out intensive care unit complete with a Louis Vuitton IV hookup. Imagine my shock at the ball of motion that comes hurtling across the room at us. If it's a boy the movement is reminiscent of the Tasmanian Devil, while a girl tends toward a full-tilt Mouseketeers sequence, complete with two pirouettes and a grandjete.Thechildis sentintothisroutinebysomePavlovian responsetothemother's perfume asshe roundsthecorner.Theencounterproceedsasfollows:(1) Child (groomedwithinaninchof his/herlife) makes a beeline directly for mother's leg. (2)At the precise moment the child's hands wrap around her thigh the mother swiftly grabs the child's wrists. (3) And she simultaneously sidesteps out of the embrace, bringing the child's hands into a clappingposition in frontof thechild's face,and bends down to say hello, turning the child's gaze to me. Voila. And thus the first of many performances of what I like to call the "Spatula Reflex." It has such timing and grace that I feel as if I should applaud, but insteadmove directlyintomyPavlovian responsesetoffbytheirexpectantfaces. I drop tomyknees.

"Whydon't you twogettoknoweachother a little ..."Thisis THE NANNY DIARIES

the cue for the Play-With-Child portion of the audition. Despite the fact that we all know the child's opinion is irrelevant I nevertheless become psychotically animated. I play as if I'm Christmas and then some until the child has been whipped into a foaming frenzy of interaction, with theadded stimulant of a rare audience with mother. The child has been trained in the Montessori approach to fun. nly one toy is pulled from its walnut cubicle at a time. I over-compensate for the lack of normal childhood chaos by turning into a chorus of voices, dance steps, and an in-depth understanding of Pokemon. Within moments the child is asking me to go to the zoo, sleep over, and move in. This is the mother's cue to break in from where she has been sitting with her mental clipboard and Olympic score cards on the edgeof thechild's bed toannouncethatit is "Time to saygoodbye toNanny. Won't it be funto play with Nannyagain?"

The housekeeper, who has been folded into a child-size rocking chair in the corner this entire time, offers up a dejected storybook, making a meek attempt to match my display of fireworks and delay the inevitable crash.Within secondsthere is a replayof a slightly more sophisticated version of theSpatula Reflex,this time encompassing amaneuvering of both motherandmyself outside theroom,punctuated by a slammed door, all in one seamless motion. She runs her hands through her hair as she leads me backintothesilenceof theapartmentwith along,breathy "Well..."

She hands me my purse and then I stand with her in the foyer for at least half an hour, waiting to be dismissed.

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" This is the cue for the Play-With-Mother portion of the audition. She is in for the night. here is no mention of a husband's imminent arrival or plans for dinner. I hear about her pregnancy, Lotte Berk, the last Parents' Night meeting, the pain-in-the-ass housekeeper (left for deadintheChildZone),thewilydecorator,thestringof nannydisasters beforeme,

andthenurseryschoolnightmare. Completion PhaseIII: I am actually excitedthatI am notonlygetting a delightfulchildtoplaywith,I'm getting anewbestfriend!

Not to be outdone, I hear myself talking. rying to establish my status as a person of the world; I name-drop, brand-drop, place-drop. Then self-consciously deprecate myself with humor so as not to intimidate her. I become aware that I am talking way, way too much. I am babbling about why I left Brown,whyI leftmylastrelationship. otthatI'm aleaver no,no,no! I picksomething, I stickwith it! Yessiree! Did I tell you about my thesis? I am revealing information that will be dragged up repeatedly for months in awkward attempts to make conversation. Soon I am just bobbing my head and saying "Okay-ay!" while blindly groping for the doorknob. FinaRyshe thanks me for coming, opens the door, andletsmepress fortheelevator.

I am caughtmid-sentenceastheelevator doorstartstoclose,forcingme toshovemybaginfrontof the electronic eye so I can finish a meaningful thought on my parents' marriage. We smile and nod at one another like animatrons until the door mercifully slides closed. I collapse against it, exhaling for the firsttime inanhour.

Minuteslater thesubwaybarrels downLexington,propellingmetowardschoolandbacktothegrindof myown life. I slump against theplastic seat,imagesfromthepristine apartmentswimming inmyhead. Thesesnapshotsare sooninterruptedby a man or woman. ometimes both. hufflingthroughthecar begging for change while gripping their worldly possessions in a shredded shopping bag. Pulling my backpackup ontomylap,mypostperformance adrenalinelevelingout,questionsbegintopercolate.

Just how does an intelligent, adult woman become someone whose whole sterile kingdom has been

reduced to alphabetized lingerie drawers and imported French dairy substitutes? Where is the child in

thishome?Whereis thewoman inthismother?

Andhow,exactly, am I tofitin?

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Ultimately, there would come a turning point in every job when it seemed that the child and I were the

only three-dimensional people running around on the black-and-white marble chessboards of those

apartments. Makingitinevitablethatsomeonewouldgetknockeddown.

Lookingback,itwas asetup tobeginwith.Theywantyou.You wantthejob.

Buttodoit wellis toloseit.

Hitit.

PART ONE

Fall

Then, with a long, loud sniff,thatseemed to indicatethatshe had made up her mind, shesaid:"l'U. take

theposition."

"For all theworld,"asMrs. Bankssaidtoher husbandlater, "asthoughshewere doingusanhonour."

. ARYPOPP1NS

CHAPTER ONE

anny for Sale

"Hi, this isAlexis atthe Parents League. I'm just calling to follow up on theuniform guidelines we sent

over . .." The blond woman volunteering behind the reception desk holds up a bejeweled finger, signaling me to wait while she continues on the phone. "Yes, well, this year we'd really like to see all your girls in longer skirts, at least twenty inches. We're still getting complaints from the mothers at the boys' schools in the vicinity... Great. Good to hear it. Bye." With a grand gesture she crosses the word "Spence"offher listof threeitems.

She returns her attention to me. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. With the school year starting we're just

crazed."Shedraws a bigcirclearoundtheseconditemonherlist, "papertowels." "CanI help you?" "I'm here to put up an ad for a nanny, but the bulletin board seems to have moved," I say, slightly confusedasI've beenadvertising heresinceI wasthirteen.

"We had to take it down while the foyer was being painted and never got around to moving it back. Here, let me show you." She leads me to thecentral room, where mothers perch at Knoll desks fielding inquiriesaboutthePrivate Schools. Beforemesitsthefull

THE NANNY DIARIES range of Upper East Side diversity. alf of the women are dressed in Chanel suits and Manolo Blahniks, half arein six-hundred-dollarbarnjackets,lookingasif theymightbe askedtopitch anAqua Scutumtentatanymoment.

Alexis gestures to the bulletin board, which has displaced a MaryCassattproppedagainst the wall. "It's all a bit disorganized at the moment," she says as another woman looks up from the floral arrangement she's rearranging nearby. "But don't worry. Tons of lovely girls come here to look for employment, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding someone." She raises her hand to her pearls. "Don't you have a sonatBuckley?You looksofamiliar. I'mAlexis?

"Hi,"I say. "I'm Nan.Actually,I tookcareof theOleasongirls. I thinktheylived nextdoor-toyou."

She arches an eyebrow to give me a once-over. "Oh...Oh, Nanny, that's right," sheconfirms for herself, beforeretreatingbacktoherdesk.

I tune out the officious, creamy chatter of the women behind me to read the postings put up by other nanniesalsoinsearchof employment.

Babysitter needchildren

verylikekids

vacuums

I lookyour kids

Manyyearswork

You callme

The bulletin board is already so overcrowded with flyers that, with a twinge of guilt, I end up tacking myadover someone else's pink paper festoonedwith crayon flowers, but spend a few minutesensuring thatI'm onlycoveringdaisies andnoneof her pertinentinformation.

I wish I could tell these women that the secret to nanny advertising isn't the decoration, it's the punctuation. t's all in the exclamation mark. While my ad is a minimalist three-by-five card, without so muchas a smiley faceon it, I liberally sprinklemy advertisement with exclamations, ending eachof mydesirabletraitswith thepromise of a beamingsmile andunflaggingpositivity.

NannyattheReady! ChapinSchoolalumna available weekdayspart-time!

Excellentreferences!Child DevelopmentMajoratNYU!

TheonlythingI don't haveis anumbrellathatmakesme fly.

I do one last quick check for spelling, zip up my backpack, bidAlexis adieu, and jog down the marble stepsoutintotheswelteringheat.

As I walk down ParkAvenue theAugust sun is still low enough in the sky that the stroller parade is in full throttle. I pass many hot little people, looking resignedly uncomfortable in their sticky seats. They are too hot even to hold on to any of their usual traveling companions. lankies and bears are tucked intobackstroller pockets. I chuckletomyself atthechild who waves awaytheofferof a juicebox with a flick of the hand and a toss of the head that says, "I couldn't possibly be bothered with juice right now."

Waiting at a red light, I look up at the large glass windows that are the eyes of Park Avenue. From a population-density point of view, this is the Midwest of Manhattan. Towering above me are rooms. ooms androoms androoms.Andtheyareempty. Therearepowderrooms anddressingrooms andpiano rooms and guest rooms and, somewhere above me, but I won't say where, a rabbit named Arthur has sixteenfeetsquareall tohimself.

I cut across Seventy-second Street, passing under the shade of the blue awnings of the Polo mansion, andturnintoCentral Park.

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Pausinginfrontof theplayground,where a fewtenaciouschildrenaretryingtheir bestdespitetheheat,

I reachinmybackpackfor a small bottle of water. ustassomethingcrashesintomylegs. I lookdown

andsteadytheoffendingobject,anold-fashionedwoodenhoop.

"Hey, that's mine!" A small boy of about four or so careens down the hill from where I see he's been posingfor aportrait withhis parents. His sailorhattopplesoffintothepatchygrass asheruns.

"That's myhoop,"heannounces.

"Are yousure?" I ask.Helooksperplexed. "It couldbe awagonwheel."I holdit sideways. "Or a halo?"

I holditabovehis blondhead. "Or a reallylargepizza?" I holditouttohim,gesturingthathecantake it.

He's smilingbroadly atme ashegraspsitinhis hands.

"You, silly!" Hedrags itbackupthehill, passinghis motherasshestrolls downtoretrievethehat.

"I'm sorry," she says, brushing dust off the striped brim as she approaches me. "I hope he didn't bother

you."Sheholdsherhandout toblockthesunfromher paleblueeyes.

"No,notatall."

"Oh,butyourskirt? Sheglancesdown.

"No bigdeal," I laugh,dustingoffthemarkthehoopleftonthefabric. "I workwith kids, soI'm usedto

beingbangedup."

"Oh, you do?" She angles her body so her back is to her husband and a blond woman who stands off to

thesideof thephotographerholding a juiceboxforthe boy. His nanny,I presume. "Aroundhere?"

"Actually,thefamily moved toLondonover thesummer,so?

"We're ready!" thefathercalls impatiently.

"Coming!" she calls back brightly. She turns to me, tilting her delicately featured face away from him.

She lowers her voice. "Well, we're actually looking for someone who might want to help us out part-time."

"Really? Part-time wouldbegreat,becauseI have afull courseloadthissemester?

19

"What's thebest waytoreachyou?"

I rummage through my backpack for a pen and a scrap of notebook on which I can scribble down my information. "Here you go." I pass her the paper and she discreetly slips it in the pocket of her shift, beforeadjustingtheheadbandinher long,darkhair.

"Wonderful." She smiles graciously. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I'll be in touch." She takes a fewstepsup thehill andthenturnsaround. "Oh,howsillyof me.'m Mrs. X."

1 return the smile before she goes back to take her place in the contrived tableau. The sun filters through the leaves, creating dappled sunshine on the three figures. Her husband, in a white seersucker suit,standssquarelyinthemiddle,hishandontheboy's head,assheslidesinbesidethem.

The blond woman steps forward with a comb and the little boy waves to me, causing her to turn and follow his gaze.As she shields her eyes to get a better look at me I turn and continue on myway across thepark.

My grandmother greets me in her entryway in a linen Mao Tse-tung outfit and pearls. "Darling! Come in. 1 was just finishing my tai-chi." She gives me a kiss on both cheeks and a solid hug for good measure. "Honey, you're damp. Would you like to shower?" There is nothing better than being offered Grandma's buffetof amenities.

"Maybe just acoldwashcloth?"

"I know what you need." She takes my hand, weaving her fingers through mine, and leads me to her guest powder room. I've always adored howthe small lights of theantique crystal chandelier illume the rich peach chintz. But my favorite part is the framed French paper dolls. When I was little I would set up a salon under the sink, for which Grandma would provide real tea and topics for the discussions I wouldleadwith all of mylovely Frenchguests.

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She places my hands under the faucet and runs cool water over my wrists. "Pressure points for distributing fire," she says as she sits down on the toilet seat, crossing her legs. She's right; I begin to cooldownimmediately.

"Haveyoueaten?" sheasks.

"I hadbreakfast."

"Whataboutlunch?"

"It's onlyeleven, Gran."

"Is it? I've beenup since four.ThankGodforEuropeor I'd havenoonetotalkto till eight."

I smile. "Howhaveyoubeen?"

"I've been seventy-four for two months, that's how I've been." She points her toes like a dancer and slightly lifts the hem of her pants. "It's called Sappho. had it done atArden's this morning?what do youthink?Tootoo?" Shewigglesher coraltoes.

"Gorgeous,very sexy. Okay,asmuchasI wouldlovetospendtherestof thedayinhereI've gottodrag myself downtown and make my offering to the Tuition Gods." I turn off the sink and shake my hands dramatically over thebasin.

She hands me a towel. "You know, I don't remember having a single conversation like the ones you describe when I was at Vassar." She is referring to my endless history of tete-a-tetes with the administrative staffatNYU.

I follow behind her into the kitchen. "Today I'm prepared. I've got my Social Security card, my driver's license, my passport, a Xerox copy of my birth certificate, every piece of mail I've ever received from NYU, and my letter of acceptance. This time I won't be told I don't go there, haven't completed the last semester, haven't paid my tuition from last year, haven't paid my library fees, don't have the correct ID number,SocialSecuritynumber,proof of myaddress,therightforms, orsimply don't exist."

"My, my, my." Sheopensthefridge. "Bourbon?"

"Orangejuicewouldbegreat."

"Kids." She rolls her eyes and points me to her old air conditioner sitting on the floor. "Darling, let me

getthedoormantohelpyoucarryit."

"No, Gran, I got it," I say, trying valiantly to heave the machine into my arms before slamming it back downonthetile. "Yeah,okay,I thinkI'm goingtohavetocome backlaterwith Joshandgetthis." "Joshua?" she asks with a raised eyebrow. "Your little blue-haired friend? He weighs five pounds

soakingwet."

"Well, unlesswe wantDadthrowinghis backoutagain,that'sabout all I havetochoosefromintheboy department." "I chant for you every morning,darling," shesays, reachingfor a glass. "Come on. Let me whip you up

someEggsBenedict."

I glanceup at theold Nelson wall clock. "I wish I hadtime, but I've gotta get downtown before the line attheregistrarisaroundtheblock." She gives me a kiss on both cheeks. "Well, then bring that Joshua by at seven and I'll feed you both a

propermeal. ou're disappearing!"

Joshgroansandrollsslowlyontohis backfromwherehehasnearly

blacked out after dropping the air conditioner outside my front door. "You lied to me," he wheezes.

"You saiditwasonthethirdfloor." "Yeah?" I say, shakingoutmylowerarms whileleaningback

againstthetop stair.

Helifts hisheadaninchoffthefloor. "Nan,thatwassix flights.

Twoflights afloor,whichmakesthistechnically,like,thesixth

floor."

"You helpedmemove outof thedorm?

"Yeah,whywasthat? Oh,right,becauseithasanel-e-va-tor."

"Well, thegoodnews isthatI'm notplanningonmovingout of

here, ever. Thisis it. You canvisit meup herewhenwe're oldand gray."I wipethesweatoffmyforehead. THE NANNY DIARIES "Forget it.'ll be hanging out on your front stoop with the rest of the blue hairs." He drops his head

backdown.

"Come on." I pull myself up by the banister. "Cold beers await." I unlock all three locks and open the

door. The apartment feels like a car that's been sitting in the hot sun and we have to step back to let the

scorchingair blowpast usintothehallway.

"Charlenemust haveclosedthewindowsbeforesheleftthismorning,"I say.

"And left the oven on," he adds, stepping behind me into the tiny entryway that also does double duty

as akitchen.

"Welcome to myfully equippedcloset. Can I toast you a bagel?" I drop mykeys next to thetwo-burner

stove.

"Whatare youpayingforthisplace?" heasks.

"You don't wanttoknow,"I say, aswepushtheair conditioneracrosstheroomtogetherinlittleshoves.

"So,where's thehotroommate?" heasks.

"Josh,not all stewardessesarehot. Somearethematronlytype."

"Is she?" Hestops.

"Don't stop." We resume pushing. "No. he's hot, but I don't like you assuming she's hot. She flew to

France or Spain or something this morning," I huff as we round the corner to my end of the L-shaped

studio.

"George!"Joshcries outingreetingtomycat,who's sprawledoutonthewarmwoodenfloorindespair.

He lifts his gray, furry head half an inch and meows plaintively. Josh straightens up and wipes his

foreheadwith thebottomof his Mr. BubbleT-shirt. "Wheredoyouwantthissucker?"

I pointtothetopof thewindow.

"What?You a crazylady."

"It's a trickI learnedontheAvenue, 'so asnotto interferewith theview.'Thosewithoutcentral air goto

greatlengthstohideit, darling,"I explainasI kickoffmysandals.

"Whatview?"

"If yousmooshyourfaceagainst thewindowandlookleftyoucanseetheriver."

"Hey, you're right." He pulls back from the glass. "Listen?this whole Josh-heaving-heavy-machinery!

up-to-balance-on-sheet-of-glass-thing,notgonnahappen,Nan.I'm getting a beer. Comeon, George." Heheadsbackto the "kitchen"and Georgestretchesup tofollow him. I usethemoment aloneto grab a clean tank top out of an open box and pull off mysweatyone.As I crouchbehind theboxes to change I catch sight of the red light from my answering machine blinking in a frenzy from the floor. The word "full" glaresup atme.

"Runningthat900 numberagain?" Joshreachesover theboxtohandme aCorona.

"Practically. I put my ad up for a new position today and the mummies are restless." 1 take a swig of mybeerandslidedownbetweentheboxestohit play. A woman's voice fills the room: "Hi, this is Mimi Van Owen. I saw your ad at the league. I'm looking

for someone to help me look after my son. Just part-time, you understand. Maybe two, three, four days a week, half-days or longer and some nights or weekends, or both! Whenever you have time. But I just wantyoutoknowthatI'm veryinvolved."

"Well, that'sjustobvious, Mimi," Joshsays, slidingdowntojoinme.

"HithisisAnnSmithl'mlookingforsomeonetowatchmyfiveyearold!sonhe'snotroublereallyandwerunaveryrelaxedhousehold?

"Ouch."Joshputshis handsuptoshieldhimself andI forwardtothenextmessage.

"Hi. I'm Betty Potter. I saw your ad at the Parents League. I have a five-year-old girl, Stanton, a three!

year-old boy, Tinford, a ten-month-old, Jace,andI'm lookingforsomeonewhocanhelp me,

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sinceI'm pregnantagain.Nowyoudidn't mentionyourfeeinthead,butI've beenpaying six."

"SixAmericandollars?" I askthemachine,incredulously.

"Hey, Betty, I know a crack-whore down in Washington Square Park who'd do it for a quarter." Josh

swigshis beer.

"Hi, it's Mrs. X. We met in the park this morning. Give me a call when you get a chance. I'd like to talk

moreaboutthetypeof job you're looking for. We have a girl. aitlin. ut she's lookingtocuther hours

andyoumadequiteanimpressiononour son,Grayer. Lookforwardtotalkingtoyou.Bye."

"She soundsnormal. Call her."

"You think?" I ask as the phone rings, making us both jump. I pick up the receiver. "Hello," I say in

instantnannymode,tryingtoconveyutmost respectabilitywith twosyllables.

"Hello". y mothermatchesmydeep,fancytone?how'dtheair-conditioner mission turnout?"

"Hey."I relax. "Fine?

"Wait, hold on." I hear a scuffle. "I have to keep moving Sophie. he's determined to sit two inches

from the air conditioner." I smile at the image of our fourteen-year-old springer spaniel with her ears blowing out behind her like the Red Baron. "Move it, Soph. nd now she's sitting on all the research forthegrant."

I take a sip of beer. "How's thatcoming?"

"Ugh, it's toodepressing. ell me something cheerful." Since the Republicanstook office mymother's CoalitionforWomen's Sheltersgets evenlessmoneythanitusedto.

"I gotsomefunnymessagesfrommummies-in-need," I offer.

"I thought we discussed this." Her lawyer voice is back. "Nan, you take these jobs and within days you're up atthreeinthemorningworrying if thelittle princesshas tapdancingor a jamsessionwith the DalaiLama?

"Mom. Mommm. haven't eveninterviewedyet. Besides,I'm

notgoingtobeworkingasmanyhoursthisyear,becauseI havemythesis."

"Exactly!That's exactly it. You have your thesis, just like last yearyou hadyour internship and theyear before that you had your field study. I don't understand why you won't even consider an academic job. You shouldask yourthesisprofessor if youcanassist him. Oryoucouldworkintheresearchlibrary!"

"We have been over this a million times." I roll my eyes at Josh. "Those jobs are so competitive. r. Clarkson has a graduate student on full fellowship assisting him. Besides, they only pay six dollars an hour. efore taxes. Mom, nothing I do with my clothes on is going to pay this well until I get my degree."Joshshimmies andpulls offanimaginarybra.

My mother lucked out with a research assistant position that she held on to for all four years of her undergraduate work. However, that was when housing near Columbia cost as much as I am currently payingforutilities. "DoI havetogive youtheRealEstateTalk again,Mom?"

"Then, for the love of God, be a makeup girl at Bloomingdale's. Just punch in your time card, look pretty, smile, and get your pay-check." She can't imagine that one would ever wake at threeA.M. in a cold sweat, wondering if the shipment of oil-free toner had remembered to put on its Nighttime Pull-Ups.

"Mom, I enjoyworkingwith kids. Look,it's toohottoargue."

"Just promise me you'll think about it this time before you take a job. I don't want you graduating on Valium because some woman with more money than she knows what to do with left you her kid while sheranofftoCannes."

And I do think about it, while Josh and I listen to all the messages again trying to find the mother who soundsleastlikelytodojustthat.

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ThefollowingMondayonmywaytomeetMrs. XI make a quickstop atmyfavoritestationerystoreto stock up on Post-its. Today my Filofax only has two Post-its: a tiny pink one imploring me to "BUY MORE POST-ITS" and a green one reminding me that I have "Coffee, Mrs. X, 11:15." I pull off the pink one and toss it in the trash as I continue heading south to La Patisserie Gout du Mois, our appointed meeting place. As I cut across to Park I begin passing chic women in fall suits, all holding sheets of monogrammed stationery in their bejeweled hands. Each one walks in tandem with a shorter, dark-skinnedwoman,whonodsemphatically backatthem.

"Baa-llleeeet? Do-you-un-der-stand!" the woman next to me rudely shouts to her nodding companion aswewait forthelighttochange. "OnMondaysJosephinahasBaaaaaa-lleeeeeeet!"

I smile sympathetically at the uniformed woman to show solidarity. No bones about it, training just plainsucks.Anditsuckssignificantlyharder,dependingonwho you're workingfor.

Thereare essentially threetypes of nannygigs. TypeA, I provide "couple time" a few nights a weekfor people who work all day and parent most nights. Type B, I provide "sanity time" a few afternoons a weekto a woman who mothersmost days andnights. Type C,I'm broughtinasone of a cast of manyto collectively provide twenty-four/seven "me time" to a woman who neither works nor mothers.And her days remain a mysterytousall.

"Theagencysaidyoucancook.Canyou? Cook?" aPucci-cladmotherinterrogatesonthenextcorner.

As a working woman herself, the Type A mother will relate to me as a professional and treat me with respect. She knows I've arrived to do my job and, after a thorough tour, will hand me a comprehensive list of emergency numbers and skedaddle. This is the best transition a nanny can hope for. The child sobsfor,atmost,fifteenminutes,andbeforeyouknowitwe're bondingover Play-Doh.

TheType B mother may not work in an office, but she logs enough hours with her child to recognize it forthejob itisand,fol!

lowinganafternoonof hangingaroundtheapartmenttogether,her kidsare all minefortheseconddate.

"Nowthedrycleaner's number isonthereandthefloristandthecaterer."

"Whataboutthedoctorforthechildren?" theMexicanwoman nexttomeasks quietly.

"Oh. I'll getyouthatnextweek."

Suffice it to say that the quirk factor sharply increases as one moves along the spectrum from A to C. The only thing predictable about training with a Type C mother is that her pervasive insecurity forces everyone totakethelongestpossibleroutetogettinginsync.

I pushopentheheavyglassdoorof thepatisserieandseeMrs. Xalreadyseated,goingover her ownlist.

She stands, revealing a lavender knee-length skirt, which perfectly matches the cardigan tied around her shoulders. No longer in her youthful white shift, she looks older than she did in the park. Despite her girlish ponytail I'm guessing she's in her early forties. "Hi, Nanny, thanks so much for meeting me early. Wouldyoulikesomecoffee?"

"That sounds perfect, thank you," I say, taking a seat with my back to the wood-paneled wall and smoothingthedamasknapkinontomylap.

"Waiter,anothercafeau laitandcouldyoubringus abreadbasket?"

"Oh,youdon't needtodothat," I say.

"Oh, no, it's the best. That way you can pick what you want." The waiter brings over a Pierre Deux basketbrimming with breadsandlittlejarsof jam. I helpmyself to a brioche.

"They have the best pastry here," she says, taking a croissant. "Which reminds me, I prefer that Grayer

stayawayfromrefinedflour."

"Of course,"I mumble,mouthfull.

"Didyouhave aniceweekend?"

I quicklyswallow. "Sarah. y bestfriendfromChapin. ada

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little farewell party last night before everyone goes back to school. Now it's just me and the California

people. hohaveoff till October! Tell Grayer togotoStanford,"I laugh.

Shesmiles.

"So,why'd youtransferfromBrown?" sheasks,pulling oneclawoffhercroissant.

"They had a stronger child development program at NYU," I reply, trying to tread lightly here, in case

I'm talkingto a steadfastBrownalum, choosingnottomentionthehumanexcrement intheloungenext

tomyroom, oranyother of themyriad of charminganecdotesI couldshare.

"I reallywantedtogotoBrown,"shesays.

"Oh?"

"But I won a scholarship to UConn." She drops the croissant to play with the diamond heart dangling

fromher necklace.

"That's great," 1 say, trying toimagine a time whenshewouldhaveneeded ascholarship todoanything.

"Well, I'm fromConnecticut,so..."

"Oh!Connecticut'sbeautiful,"I say.

She glances down at her plate. "Actually, it was New London so ... Well, after graduation I moved here

torunGagosian. heartgallery."Shesmiles again.

"Wow. hatmust havebeenamazing."

"It was a lot of fun," she says, nodding, "but you can't really do it when you have a child. t's a full-

time life,parties, trips, a lotof shmoozing, a lotof latenights?

A woman in dark Jackie O sunglasses accidentally bumps our table as she passes, causing the china

saucerstoteeterprecariouslyonthemarble.

"Binky?" Mrs. X asks,reachinguptotouchthewoman's arm asI steadythecups.

"Oh, my God. Hi, I didn't even see you there,"the woman says, lowering her dark glasses. Her eyes are

swollen anddamp fromcry!ing. "I'm sorryI couldn't come toGrayer's birthdayparty. Consuelasaidit wasfabulous."

"I've beenmeaningtocall," Mrs. Xsays. "Is thereanythingI cando?"

"Not unless you know a hit man." She pulls a handkerchief out of her Tod's purse and blows her nose. "That lawyer Gina Zucker-man recommended couldn't help at all. It turns out all our assets are actually in Mark's company's name. He's getting the apartment, the yacht, the house in East Hampton. I'm getting four hundred thousand flat. hat's it." Mrs. X swallows and Binky continues tearfully. "And I have to supply complete receipts for every penny of child support spent. I mean, really.Am I supposed togetmyfacialsatBabyGap?"

"That's appalling."

"Then the judge had the nerve to tell me to go back to work! He has no idea what it means to be a mom."

"Noneof themdo,"Mrs. Xsays,tappingher listforemphasis,while I stareintentlyatmybrioche.

"If I had known he was going to go this far, I would have just turned a blind? Binky's voice breaks and she purses her glossy lips together to clear her throat. "Well, I've gotta run. onsuela has another 'appointment' for her hip replacement." She speaks with venom. "I swear, it's the third one this month. I'm really losing patience with her. Anyway, great to see you." She pushes her sunglasses back into placeand,with anair kiss, disappearsthroughthecrowdawaitingtables.

"Well..." Mrs. X stares after her, her face locked briefly into a grimace before returning her attention to me. "Well, let's just go over the week. I've typed this all up for you, so you can review it later. We'll walk over to school now, so Grayer can seeus together and get the sensethatI'm trusting you with him. That should relax him. He has a play date at one-thirty, so that'll give you just enough time to have lunchinthepark andyet not overwhelmhim. Then

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tomorrow you and Caitlin can both spend the afternoon with him, so you can get a sense of his routine and he can see the authority being shared between you. I'd appreciate it if you didn't discuss the transitionwith heratthis point."

"Of course,"I say, trying toabsorb itall, thebrioches,thebriefing,Binky. "Thankyouforbreakfast."

"Oh, don't mention it." She stands, pulling a blue folder that says "Nanny" out of her Hermes bag and sliding it across the table. "I'm so glad Tuesdays and Thursdays fit into your class schedule. I think it'll be great for Grayer to have someone young and fun to play with.'m sure he gets tired of boring old Mom!"

"Grayer seemsgreat," I say, recallinghis giggles inthepark.

"Well, hehashis littlethings,likeanykid,I suppose."

I gather my bag, glancing down and noticing her lavender silk heels for the first time. "God, those are beautiful!AretheyPrada?" Iask, recognizingthesilver buckle.

"Oh, thank you." She turns her ankle. "Yes, they are. You really like them?" I nod. "You don't think they're too ... loud?"

"Oh,no,"I say, followingher outof thecafe.

"My best friend just had a baby and her feet went up a whole size. She let me pick out what I wanted, but I... I don't know." She glances down at her shoes in consternation as we wait for the light. "I guess I've justgottenusedtowearingflats."

"No,they're great.You shoulddefinitely keepthem."

Shesmiles, delighted,assheslidesonhersunglasses.

Mrs. Butters, Grayer's teacher, smiles at me and shakes my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you." She looks down adoringly. "You are going to love Grayer, he's a very special little boy." She pats her corduroy apron dress, which fits loosely over her puffed-sleeve blouse. With her round,dimpled cheeks andplump, dimpledhandsshelooksmuchlike afour-year-oldherself.

"Hi,Grayer!" I say, smilingdownatthetop of his blondhead.He's wearing a littlewhite oxfordbutton!down Poloshirt, untuckedon oneside, containingthe evidence of a morninghard atwork: finger paint, whatlookslikeglue,andonelonemacaroni. "Howwasschooltoday?"

"Grayer, you remember Nanny? You two are going to have lunch at the playground!" his mother prompts him.

Heslumpsagainsther legandglares atme. "Go away."

"Honey, we can have snack together, but Mommy has an appointment.You two are going to have such a goodtime!Nowhop inyourstroller andNannywill give yousnack."

As we approach the playground he and I both listen attentively to the long list of Grayer's Likes and Dislikes: "He loves the slide, but the monkey bars bore him. Don't let him pick anything up off the ground. elikes todothat.Andpleasekeephimawayfromthedrinkingfountainbytheclock."

"Urn, what should I do if he needs to use the bathroom? Where should he go?" I ask as we pass under thedustywoodenarchesof theSixty-sixth Streetplayground.

"Oh,anywhere."

I'm justabouttoaskfor a littleclarification onthepeeingthingwhenher cellphonerings.

"Okay, Mommy's gotta go," she says, snapping her Startac closed. Her departure is like the suicide drills from gym class. very time she gets just a few feet farther away, Grayer cries and she scurries back, admonishing, "Now, let's be a big boy." Only once Grayer is in complete hysterics does she look ather watchandwith a"NowMommy's goingtobelate" isgone.

We sit on the only empty bench in the shade, while he sniffles, and eat our sandwiches, which have some sortof vegetable spreadin themand, I think,unbologna.As he raises his sleeve towipe his nose I notice for the first time, dangling from beneath his untucked shirttails, what appears to be a business cardpinnedtohis beltloop.

I reachout. "Grayer,what'swith the?

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"Hey!" He swats my hand away. "That's my card." It's dirty and bent and has clearly been around the block afew times,butI thinkI canmakeout Mr. X's nameinfadedtype.

"Whosecardis that,Grayer?"

"You know." He pounds his forehead, exasperated by my ignorance. "My card. Jeez. Push me on the

swings!"

By the time we're done eating and I've given him a few pushes it's time for us to walk over to his play

date. I wave as he runs into the apartment. "Okay, bye, Grayer! See you tomorrow!" He screeches to a

halt, turns around, sticks his tongue out at me and then runs off. "Okay, have fun!" I smile at the other

nannyasif tosay"Oh,that?That's justourtonguegame!"

Once I'm on the subway to school I pull out the blue folder, which has my pay envelope paper-clipped

inside.

MRS. X

721PARKAVENUE,APT. 9B

NEWYORK, N.Y., 10021

DearNanny,

Welcome! Theattachedis acopyofGrayer. scheduleofafter-schoolactivities. Caitlinwillshow

you theroutine, but I. sureyou. ebeentomostoftheseplacesbefore! Letmeknowifyouhave

anyquestions.

Thanks,Mrs. X

p.s. ?I. ealsoincludeda listof somepossiblefunactivities

p.p.s. I reallyprefer itif Grayer doesn. nap intheafternoons

I glanceatthescheduleandshe's right.'m aveteran of every activity onthelist. MONDAY 2-2:45: Music lesson, Diller Quaile, 95th Street between Park and Madison (Parents pay an

astronomical sum for this prestigious music school where four'jear'olds usually sit in stone-cold silence astheircaregivers singnurseryrhymes in a circle.) 5-5:45: Mommy & Me,92ndStreetY onLexington (Asthenameimplies,mothersareexpectedtogo.Nevertheless, half of the groupisnannies.)

TUESDAY 4-5:00: Swimming lesson atAsphalt Green, 90th Street and East EndAvenue (One emaciated woman in aChanelswimsuit andfive nanniesinmuumuus all pleadingwith toddlersto "Getinthewater!")

WEDNESDAY 2-3:00: Physical educationatCATS,ParkAvenueat64thStreet (Deepinthebowels of acold, dankchurchthatsmells likefeet,thoroughly choreographedgamesforthepint-sized athlete.)

5-5:45: Karate,92ndStreetY onLexington

(Kids who quake with fear do fifty push-ups on their knuckles as a warm-up.The one class daddies

attend.)

THURSDAY

2-2:45: Pianolessonathome with Ms. Schrade("Music" tobetorturedby.)

5-6:00: FrenchClass,AllianceFrancaise,60thStreetbetweenMadisonand

Park

(Standardafterschoolactivities conductedinanotherlanguage.)

THE NANNY DIARIESFRIDAY

1-1:40: Ice skating,The Ice Studio, Lexington between 73rd and 74th Street (Coldas fuck. nd damp.

Struggle through a thirty-minute "Changeof Terror," sharp metal blades flying everywhere, sochildren cangetoniceforfortyminutesandcome backouttochangeagain.) I will letyouknowwhenheisscheduledforthe: Optician Orthodontist Orthodicfittings Physical therapist Ayurvedic practitioner Intheeventof a class cancellationthefollowing "nonstructured"outingsare permissible: TheFrick TheMet TheGuggenheimSoho TheMorganLibrary TheFrench CulinaryInstitute TheSwedishConsulate OrchidRoomof theBotanicalGarden NewYork StockExchangeTradingFloor

TheAngelika(PreferablytheGerman Expressionistseries,butanything

with subtitleswill do.)

I shrug and open the envelope, thrilled to discover that despite only working two hours, she's paid me for the whole day. The Envelope is a major perk of being a nanny. Traditionally, we're kept off the books and dealt with strictly in cash, which always keeps me hoping she'll stick in an extra twenty. A girl I knew lived-in with a family whose father slipped a few hundred dollars under her door whenever his wife dranktoomuchand "caused ascene."It's like

waiting tables. oujustnever knowwhenthecustomer mightbeoverwhelmed withappreciation.

"Caitlin? Hi, I'm Nanny,"I say. Mrs. X toldme thatmycolleague is blond andAustralian, which makes her fairlyeasy topick outamid theseaof facesthathavehadworkdoneandthefacesthatare doingthe work.I recognizeherfrom theXes'photosessioninthepark.

She looks up from where she sits on the school steps, sensibly outfitted in an Izod shirt and jeans, a sweatshirt tied round her waist. She's holding Grayer's apple juice in her right hand with the straw alreadyin it. I'm impressed.

Just as she stands to return my greeting, our charge and his classmates are released by his teacher and the courtyard becomes instantly animated. Grayer comes streaking through the crowd toward Caitlin, butscreechesto ahaltwhenheseesme,his enthusiasmvisibly drainingoutthroughhis Keds.

"Grayer, Nanny'11 be coming to the park with us this afternoon. on't that be fun?" I sense from her tone that she isn't quite convinced we're in for a laugh riot. "He's always a bit cranky when school lets out,buthegetsover itfineoncehe's hadhis snack."

"I'm sure."

It is chaos around us aschildren are snackedand play dates are made. I'm impressed by the finessewith whichsheworksGrayer fromsnacktostrollertogood-byes. Hemaintainsscreamingconversationwith three of his classmates while getting a sweater put on, a Baggie opened, homework unpinned from his lapel, and a stroller strapped under him. She's like a puppeteer, keeping the play in motion. I debate takingnotes. "Righthandonstroller handle,lefthandpulldownsweater,twostepsleftandsquat."

We headtoward theparkastheychatter away. Shepropelshim

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forward with ease, though he can't be a light load with his sand toys, school stuff, and backup supplies of snack.

"Grayer,who's yourbestfriendatschool?"I ask.

"Shut up, stupidhead," he says, kicking out at my shins. I walk the remainder of the way well outside his fieldof stroller vision.

After lunch Caitlin takes me around to meet the other nannies in the playground, most of whom are Irish, Jamaican, or Filipino. They each give me a quick, cold appraisal and I get the sense I won't be making alotof friendshere.

"So whatdoyoudoduringtheweek?" sheaskssuspiciously.

"I'm asenioratNYU,"I say.

"I couldn't figure out how she found someone who only wanted to work weekends." What? Weekends what?

She reties her ponytail while she continues. "I'd do it, but I wait tables on the weekends and, really, one needs a bit of a break by Friday. I thought they had a girl who worked weekends in the country, but I guess she didn't work out. Are you planning on driving out with them to Connecticut on Friday nights or takingthetrain?" ShelookspointedlyatmeasI starebackatherinconfusion.

Thenit is suddenlyclearto both of us whywe aren't meant to discuss the "transition." I'm not the pinch hitter,I'm thereplacement.A sadnessflickersover herfeatures.

I reachtochangethesubject. "So,what's with thecard?"

"Oh, that grotty old thing." She swallows. "He carries it everywhere. He'll be wanting it pinned to his trousers and in his pajamas. It drives the Mrs. crazy, but he refuses to so much as put on his underpants withoutit."Sheblinks a fewtimes andthenturnsaway.

We make it full circle back to the sandbox where another family, who I assume from their matching shell suitsandoverwhelming zestforlifearetourists,is playing.

"He's so cute. Is he your only child?" the mother asks in a flat Midwestern accent. I'm twenty-one. He's four.

"No,I'm his?

"I told you to get out of here, you bad woman!" Grayer hurls his stroller at me, screaming at the top of his lungs.

Blood rushes to my face as I retort with false confidence, "You ... silly!" The tourist clan focus intently on agroup sand-castleproject.

I consider taking a playground poll as to whether I should "get out" and, if I choose not to, does this, in fact,makeme a"badwoman"?

Caitlin rights the stroller as if his throwing it were part of a fabulous game we're playing. "Well, looks to me like somebody has a bit of energy and wants me to catch him!" She chases him all over the playground, laughing deeply. He slides down the slide and she catches him. He hides behind the monkey bars and she catches him. There is a lot of catching overall. I start to chase her as she chases him, butgive upwhenhelookspleadinglyintomyeyes, moaning "STOaaaooop."I walkto a bench.As I watch themplayI haveto handit to her. She has perfectedthemagic act thatis child care, creating the illusionof aneffortlessrelationship; shecouldbehis mother.

Eventually, Caitlin drags him over to me with a Frisbee in hand. "Well now,Grayer, whydon't we teach Nanny the Frisbee game?" We stand in triangular formation as she tosses the Frisbee to me. I catch it and toss it to Grayer, who gracefully receives it by sticking out his tongue and turning his back to both of us. I pick up the Frisbee from where it has landed by his feet and toss it back to her. She throws it to himandhecatchesitandthrowsitbackto her. It seemstotakehours,thishaltingcircuit thatcomes to a full stop whenever contact is required between him and me. He simply denies thatI exist and sticks out his tongue at any effort to prove otherwise. We play on and on because she wants to make it right and thinks maybe she can wear him down to the point where he will at least toss me a Frisbee. I think we have all setoursightsjust alittletoohigh.

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Three days later, just as I bend over to pick up the grubby little sneaker Grayer has hurled into the Xes' marbleentryway,thefrontdoorslamsbehindmewith a loudbang.I jerkupright,still holdinghis shoe.

"Shit."

"I heard you! You said 'Shit.' You said it!" Muffled sounds of a gleeful Grayer make their way through theheavydoor.

I steadymyvoice andreachfor a low, authoritative octave. "Grayer,openthedoor."

"No! I can stick my fingers out at you and you can't see. I got my thung thitikin out, too." He's sticking his tongueoutatme.

Okay, options. Option One, knock on crotchety-matron-across-the-way's door. Right, what am I going todothen?CallGrayer?Invite himover fortea?Hislittle fingerssweepoutbeneaththedoor.

"Nanny, try to catch my fingers! Do it! Do it! Come on, catch "em!" I concentrate every muscle on not steppingonthem.

Option Two, go down to the doorman and get extra keys. Right. By the time he finishes describing this toMrs. Xnoteven JoanCrawfordwouldhireme.

"You're not even playing! I'm going to go take a bath. So don't ever come back here, okay? My mom said you don't ever have to come back." His voice gets quieter as he starts to move from the door. "Goingtogetinthetub."

"GRAYER!" I scream before I catch my breath. "Don't walk away from this door. Ummm, I have a surprise out here for you." OptionThree, wait until Mrs. X gets home and tell her the truth: her son is a sociopath. But just as I settle on Option Three, the elevator door slides open and Mrs. X, her neighbor, andthedoorman all step out.

"Nanny? Naaanny, I don't want your surprise. So go away. Really, really, go, get out of here." Well, at least we've all been updated. With a few "ahems" the neighbor lets herself into her apartment and the doormanhandsoffthepackagehe's beencarrying anddisappearsbackintotheelevator.

I holdupGrayer's shoe.

Asif for astudioaudience,Mrs. Xwhipsouther keys andproceedstoremedythesituation. "Well,then.

Let's get this door open!" She laughs and unlocks the door. But she swings it open a little too quickly andcatchesoneof Grayer's fingers.

"AHHhhhhhh.Nannybroke my hand!AAAAAHhhhhh. y hand is broke. Get out of HEERRrrreeee!

GooOOOOoooo!"Hethrowshimself ontothefloor,sobbing,lostingrief.

Mrs. X bendsdown,asif abouttoholdhim,thenstraightensup.

"Well, looks like you really tuckered him out at the park! You can go on ahead. I'm sure you have a ton

of homework to do. We'll see you Monday,then?" I reachcarefully inside thedoorway and put his shoe

downinexchangeformybackpack.

I clearmythroat. "Hejustthrewhis shoeandI?,

At the sound of my voice Grayer lets out a fresh wail. "LEEAAAVVE!Ahhahhha."She stares down at

him as he writhes on the floor, smiles broadly, and pantomimes that I should get the elevator. "Oh, and

Nanny,C-a-i-t-l-i-n won't bereturning,butI'm sureyouhavethehangof everything bynow."

I close their door and am alone again in the now familiar vestibule. I wait for the elevator and listen to

Grayer scream. I feelasthoughthewholeworldisstickingits tongueoutatme.

"Keep yournoseoutof it,NannyDrew."Myfatherslurpsthelastdropsof his wontonsoup. "You never

know. MaybethisCaitlin hadanotherjob linedup."

"I didn't reallyget thatsense..."

"You likethekid?"

"Minusthelocking-me-outpart. eah,okay."

"So, then, you're not marrying these people. You're just working there. hat?. ifteen hours a week?"

Thewaiter places aplateof fortunecookiesbetweenusandtakesthecheck.

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Twelve." I reachfor a cookie.

"Right. Sodon't getyourknickersin a twist."

"ButwhatdoI doaboutGrayer?"

"They're always a little slow to warm up at first," he says, speaking from eighteen years of experience

asanEnglishteacher. Hegrabs acookieandtakesmyhand. "Come on,let's walkandtalk.Sophiewon't be able to keep her legs crossed much longer." We weave out of the restaurant and head over to West EndAvenue.

I putmyarm throughhis asheslipshis handsintohis blazerpockets.

"Glinda-the-Good-Witchhim," hesays,chewinghis cookiethoughtfully.

"Caretoelaborate?"

Heshootsme a look."I wasfinishingmycookie.Areyoupayingattention?"

"Yes."

"Because this is good stuff." 1 stand, waiting, with my arms crossed. "In essence, you are Glinda. You

are lightand clarity and fun. He is an inanimateobject, a toaster who happensto have a tonguehanging out. If he goes too far again.'m talking the door-locking routine, physical violence, or anything that putshimindanger. ABOOM!WickedWitchof theWest!Twopointfourseconds. ouswoopdown in front of his face and hiss that he must never do that again. ver. It is not okay. And then, before he canbataneyelash, backtoGlinda.You lethimknowhecanhavefeelings,butthatthereare boundaries.

And that you'll let him know when he has pushed too far. Trust me, he'll be relieved. Now, wait here while 1get theSophster."

He disappears into our lobby and I look up between the buildings to the orange sky above. Within minutes Sophie bursts through the front door, pulling the leash in his hand taut as she waggles over, smiling up at me as she always does. I crouch down, wrapping my arms around her neck, and burrow myheadinher brownandwhitefur.

"I'll walkher,Dad."I give him a hugandtaketheleash. "It'll begoodtobearoundsomeoneunderthree feetwho doesn't talkback."

"Andwhoonlysticksouther tongueforbiologicalnecessity!" hecalls after me.

I stand on the sidewalk outside Grayer's school on the following Monday. I'm ten minutes early, as per Mrs. X's strict instructions, so I flip through my Filofax and chart out the deadlines for my next two papers. A taxi comes to a screeching halt on the corner and I look up at the pandemonium of honking cars around it. Across the median a blond woman stands frozen under the shade of an awning. The cars move againandshe's gone.

I crane my head, trying to locate the woman, to be sure if it was Caitlin. But the other side of Park Avenueisnowempty,savefor a maintenanceman polishing a brass hydrant.

"Not you!" Grayer draaaaags himself all the way across the courtyard, as if he were marching toward certaindeath.

"Hey,Grayer. Howwasschool?"

"Yucky."

"Yucky?Whatwasyuckyaboutit?" 1 unpinthehomework, pass offthejuice.

"Nothing."

"Nothingwasyucky?" Buckleinstroller,unwrappears.

"I don't wanttotalktoyou."

I kneel in front of the stroller and look him squarely in the eyes. "Look, Grayer, I know you don't like me verymuch."

"I HATEYOU!" I am light. I am clarity. I am wearing a big,pinkdress.

"And that's okay, you haven't known me very long. But I like you a lot." He starts to kick his leg out at me. "I knowyoumissCaitlin." Hefreezesatthesoundof her nameandI catchhis foot

THE NANNY DIARIES

firmly in my hand. "It's okay to miss Caitlin. Missing her shows that you love her. But being mean to

me hurts myfeelings and I knowCaitlin would never want you to hurt anyone's feelings. So, as long as

we're together,let's havefun."Hiseyes arelikesaucers.

As we headout of the courtyard the rainthat's been threatening all morning finally breaks and I have to

pushGrayer backup to721ParkAvenueasif I'm intheStroller Olympics.

"Weeeeeeee!" he cries and I make race-car noises and steer sharply around puddles all the way home. By the time we get into the lobby we're both soaked and I pray Mrs. X isn't home to see how I've exposedher childtopneumonia.

"I sure am wet.Areyouwet,Grayer?"

"I suream. I sure am wet."He's smiling, buthis teetharestartingtochatter.

"We're gonna get you rightupstairs and into a hot bath. Ever had lunchinthe bath, Grayer?" I steer him

intotheelevator.

"Wait! Holdit!" a malevoice shoutsfromaroundthecorner.

I slamthestrollerintomyankletryingtoangleitawayfromthe door. "Ow,sh. ot!"

"Hey, thanks," he says. I look up from my ankle. The rain has plastered his brown, chin-length hair and

frayedblueT-shirt tohis six-foot frame. Oh,my.

Astheelevator closes hecrouchesdowntospeakdirectly tothestroller. "Hey,Grayer!Whassup?"

"She's wet."Grayer pointsbehindhim.

"Hi,wet girl.AreyouGrayer's girlfriend?" Hesmiles atme,tuckinghis damphairbehindhis ear.

"He's notsureif he's readytomakethatkindof commitment," I say.

"Well, Grayer,don't lether getaway."If youtriedtocatchme,I promise I wouldrunvery slowly.

We arrive attheninthfloorwaytoosoon. "Have a greatafternoon,guys," hesaysaswe getout.

"You, too!" I cry asthedoorslidesclosed.Whoareyou?

"Grayer,whois he?" Stroller unclasped,wetshirtoff.

"Helives upstairs. Hegoestobigboy's school."Shoesoff,pantsoff,grablunchbag.

"Oh,yeah?Whichone?" Follow nakedtushtobathroom, turnontap.

He thinks for a moment. "Where the boatsgo.With the lighthouse."Okaaay.Two syllables, soundslike

...

"Harbor?" I query.

"Yeah, he goes to Harbard." Hello, I can totally do Boston, especially with the shuttle. We could

alternateweekends... Jesus!EARTHTONANNY,COME IN,NANNY.'

"Okay, Grayer, let's get you in the tub." I heave him over the edge, letting go of my Harvard Hottie for

themoment. ."Grayer,doyouhave anickname?"

"What's anickname?"

"Aname thatpeoplecallyouthatisn't Grayer."

"Myname isGrayer X. That's myname."

"Well, let's think of one." 1 pop him in the tub and pass him his organic peanut butter and quince jelly

sandwich.He wiggleshis toes in thewater ashe munchesthesandwichandI cantell it feelsfabulously unorthodoxtohim. I lookaroundthebathroomandmyeyes landonhis blueSesameStreet toothbrush. "WhataboutGraver?" I ask.

Hemullsitover,his headcockedtooneside,his SeriousThinkingFaceon,thennods. "We'll tryit." Lord,hawmyheadaches!Whata headhaveI!Myback a t'otherside. h,myback,myback!Beshrew yourheartforsendingmeaboutTo catchmydeathwithjauntingupanddown!

. HENURSE,ROMEOANDJULIET CHAPTER TWO Multitasking Nanny,

While you. e on your play date withAlex today, please askAlex. mother who catered her lastdinner?tellherIthought Cajun?infusedAsianwas astrokeofgenius. Justtoletyouknow,theparentsareDIVORCING. Sosad. PleasemakesureGrayerdoesn. sayanythingawkward. I. lswingbyAlex. at4:30 totakeGrayer tohis orthodist. Seeyouthen?

"Nanny? Nanny?!" Mrs. X's disembodied voice calls out to me as I jog up the block toward the nursery

schoolcourtyard.

"Yes?" I say, spinningaround.

"Thisway."Thedoorof a LincolntowncarpopsopenandMrs. X's manicuredhandflagsmeover.

"I'm sogladyou're here,"I say, leaningdowntowhereshe's

seatedamid hershoppingbagsintheplushdarkness. "BecauseI needtoaskyou?

"Nanny,I justwanttoreiteratethat I'd likeyoutoalways getheretenminutesearly."

"Of course."

"Well, it's elevenfifty-five."

"I'm reallysorry. wastryingtofindGrayer's class list. I'm notsurewhichAlex?

But she's already busy rooting around in her purse. She pulls a small leather-bound notepad out of her

hobo bag. "I want to talk with you briefly about a party I'm throwing at the end of the month for the Chicago branch of Mr. X's company." She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, the lavender Prada shoes making an arc of bright color against the dark interior of the town car. "All the top executives will be there. t's a veryimportanteveningandI wantittobeperfectformyhusband."

"Soundslovely,"I say, unsurewhyI'm beingapprisedof thisfete.

ShelowershersunglassestomakesurethatI havetakeninevery word.

ShouldI bringmyformal weartothedry cleaner's?

"So, I may need you to run a few errands for me this month. It's just that I'm so overwhelmed with the

preparations and Connie's absolutely no help. So if there's anything I need I'll just leave you a note. t

reallyshouldn'tbemuch."

We both hear the heavy clank of the double doors opening behind me followed bythe growing swell of

children's laughter.

"I better run, if he sees me he'll just get all upset. Let's go, Ricardo!" she calls to the driver and he pulls

outbeforeshe's even gotherdoorclosed.

"Wait, Mrs. X,I neededtoaskyou a question?I callafter theretreatingtaillights.

TherearefourAlexandersandthreeAlexandrasinGrayer's class.

THE NANNY DIARIES

I know. I checked. And now that Mrs. X has sped off I'm still at a complete loss as to which one is

supposedtobeourescortfortheafternoon.

Grayer,however,seems toknowexactlywho ourdateis.

"It's her. I have a play date with her," he says, pointing across the courtyard at a little girl hunkered

downover somethingintriguingatgroundlevel. I grabGrayer andmakeourwayover.

"Hi,Alex. We have aplaydatewith youthisafternoon!" I enthusiastically informher.

"Myname's Cristabelle.Alexis wearing ashirt,"shesays, pointingover atthirtyshirt-wearingchildren.

Grayer looksup atmeblankly.

"Grayer,Mommy saidyouhave a playdatewithAlex,"I say.

He shrugs. "How about Cristabelle? Cristabelle, want to have a play date?"Apparently, one play date's

asgoodasanother.

"Grover, it's not Cristabelle, sweetie. But we can have a play date with Cristabelle another day. Would

you like that?" The little girl huffs off. At the age of four she seems already to know thatif the date has

tobepostponedit probablyisn't goingtohappen.

"Okay,Grayer,think.Didn't yourmomsayanything toyouthismorning?"

"She saidI havetouse moretoothpaste."

"Alex Brandi, does that ring any bells?" I ask, trying to rattle off the names I remember from the class

list.

"Hepicks his nose."

"AlexKushman?"

"She spitsKool-Aid."Hecrackshimself up.

I sigh, looking out across the crowded courtyard. Somewhere in this chaos is another pair who shares

our plan. I get a flash of us?airport-reception style. e in a chauffeur's cap, Grayer on my shoulders,

holding abigsignthatsays "ALEX."

"Hi, I'm Murnel."An older, uniformed woman appears before us. "This isAlex. Sorry, we had a bit of

troubletearingourselves

away from the blue goop." I notice some of it still clinging to her nylon jacket. "Alex, say hello to

Grayer,"shesaysin athickWestIndianaccent.

Afterproperintroductionswepushour chargesover toFifthAvenue. Like little oldmen inwheelchairs, theyrelaxbackintheirseats,lookaboutandoccasionallyconverse. "MyPowerRangerhas a subatomic machinegunandcancutyourPower Ranger's headoff."

Murnel and I are comparatively quiet. Despite the fact that we share the same job title, in her eyes I probably have more in common with Grayer, as there are at least fifteen years and a long subway ride fromtheBronxbetweenus.

"Howlongyoubeentakingcareof him?" Shenods downinthedirectionof Grayer's stroller.

"Amonth.Howaboutyou?"

"Oh, nearly three years now. My daughter looks after Alex's cousin, Benson, up on Seventy-second.

You knowBenson?"sheinquires.

"I don't thinkso.Isheis intheir class?"

"Benson's a girl." We bothlaugh."Andshegoestoschoolacross thepark.Howoldareyou?"

"Just turnedtwenty-one inAugust."I smile.

"Ooh, you're my son's age. I should introduce you. He's real smart, just opened his own diner out by

LaGuardia.You got aboyfriend?"

"Nope, haven't met one lately who isn't more trouble than he's worth," I say. She nods in agreement.

"Thatmust notbeaneasythingtodo. pen a restaurant,I mean."

"Well, he's a real hard worker. Gets it from his mother," she says proudly, bending over to pick up the

drainedjuiceboxAlexhas tossedintothestreet. "Mygrandson's hardworking,too,andhe's only seven.

He's doingrealwell inhisclasses."

"That's great."

THE NANNY DIARIES

"My neighbor always says he's so good about doing his homework. he stays with him in the

afternoonstillmydaughtercangethome fromBenson,roundnine,usually."

"Nanny!I wantmorejuice!"

"Please,"I say, reachingintothestrollerbag.

"Please,"Grayermumbles asI passhim asecondjuicebox.

"Thankyou,"I correcthimandMurnelandI exchangesmiles.

I'm thelast of our crew towalkthroughAlex's front door. Thereis very little in this neighborhoodthatI

haven't seen, but I'm completely unpreparedfor the large strip of duct tape runningdown the middle of

thefronthall.

According to New York State law, if one spouse moves out the other can claim abandonment and will most likely get the apartment. Some of these places go for fifteen to twenty million, forcing years of bitter cohabitation while each spouse tries to wear down the other by, for example, bringing in their half-nakedexerciseinstructor/lover tolive.

"Okay, now you boys can play anywhere on that side," she says, gesturing to the left side of the

apartment.

"Nanny, why is there a stripe? I fix Grayer with a quick Look of Death as I unbuckle his stroller and

thenwait untilAlex isbehindme toraisemyfingertomylipsandpointtothetape.

"Alex's mommy anddaddyareplaying a game,"I whisper. "We'll talkaboutitathome."

"Mydad's notsharing,"Alexannounces.

"Now who wants grilled cheese?Alex, go show Grayer your new photongun,"Murnel says as theboys

run off. Sheturns towardthekitchen. "Makeyourself athome," shesays, rollingher eyes atthetape.

I wanderintotheliving room,whichis fauxLouisXIV meetsJackieCollins,with anice,wide stripeof

electrical tapedownthemiddletogiveit thatcertainjenesaisquoi. I sitdownonwhatI hope

is the Switzerland area of the couch and instantly recognize the work of Antonio. He's the assistant to

one of the most popular decorators and will, for a minor consideration, pop by frequently to "plump"

yourpillows. Heis,inessence, a professionalpillow plumper.

I trytoheavethetwenty-pound copyofTuscanHomes,thecurrentcoffeetablebookof choice,intomy

lap without bruising myself.After a few minutes of flipping through pictures of villas, I become aware

of a littlenoserestingonthearmof thecouch."Hey,"I quietlyacknowledgethenose.

"Hey," he replies, coming around the couch to slump face-first onto the cushion next to me, his arms

outstretched.

"What's thestory?" I ask, lookingdownathis back,sosmall againstthewide blackvelvet stripes.

"I wassupposedtobringmytoys."

"Huh."

He climbs up into my lap, snuggling under Tuscan Homes, and helps me turn pages. I feel the softness of his hair under my chin and give his ankle a gentle squeeze. I'm not feeling incredibly motivated to getthis playdatebackontrack.

"Lunch!" we hear called from behind us. "What are you all doing in there? Alex!" Murnel calls off towardhis room. We standup.

"I forgottobringmytoys," Grayer offers. Murnelputsherhandsonherhips.

"That boy. Come on, Grayer, we'll get this straightened out." Grayer and I follow her past the kitchen where something is buzzing loudly. "Hold on, hold on," she says with a sigh. She goes directly to the intercom, asmall boxabove atrayladenwith grilled-cheesesandwichesandslicedfruit.

Shepressesthebutton. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Hasthemotherfuckercalled?" awoman's voice cracklesoutof thewall.

"No,ma'am."

"Goddammit! EversincehefrozemyfuckingcardsI'm supposed

THE NANNY DIARIES

to get a fucking check. How hard is that? I mean, how am I supposed to feed Alex? Fucker. Did you pickup myLaMer?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Murnel picks up the tray and we follow her silently down toAlex's room. I am the last one in. Half the room is completely bare, a line of model cars down the middle serving as impromptu duct tape, and Alex, shirtless and shoeless, paces in front of a stockpile of all his earthly possessions. He halts and looksupatus.

"I toldthefuckerhehastobringhis owntoys."

Nanny,

Please call the caterers and double-check what kind of utensils and linens they. l be bringing forMrXparty. Pleaseseethattheydropoff all thelinensinadvancesoConniecanrewashthem.

Grayer has his St David. interview today, after which I. l be running to a meeting with the florsi. SoMrXwilldrivebyanddropGrayerofftoyouatprecisely1:45ontheNorth-Westcornerof Ninety-fifthandPark.

Please be sure to be standing as close to the curb as possible so that the driver can see you. Please get there by 1:30 just in case they. e early. I. sure this goes without saying, but Mr X shouldnot havetogetoutof the car.

In themeantime, I. l needyoutostartassemblying thefollowingitems forthegiftbags.

Exceptforthechampagne,youshouldbeabletofindmost of theseatGraciousHome.

AnnickGoutalSoap

Piper Heidsieck,small bottle

Morroccoleathtertravelpictureframe,redorgreen

MontBlanc pen?small

LAVENDARWATER

Seeyouat6!

I reread the note, wondering if I'm supposed to pull out my magic decoder ring to figure out how many

of eachitemshewantsmetobuy.

She doesn't answer her cell, so I decide to call Mr. X's office after getting his number off the phone list

postedinsidethepantrydoor.

"What?" heanswers after onering.

"Urn, Mr. X,it's Nanny?

"Who?Howdidyougetthis number?"

"Nanny. I lookafter Grayer?

"Who?"

Unsure how to clarify without seeming impertinent, I barrel on. "Your wife wants me to pick up the

stuffforthegiftbaskets fortheparty?

"Whatparty?Whatthehellareyoutalkingabout?Whoisthis?"

"Onthetwenty-eighth? For theChicagopeople?"

"Mywife toldyoutocall me?" Hesoundsangry.

"No.I justneededtoknowhowmanypeoplearecoming andI couldn't?

"Oh,forcrissake."

Myearfillswith dial tone.

Right.

THE NANNY DIARIES

I walk over to Third, trying to figure out how many of each thing I'm I supposed to buy, as if it were a

logic puzzle. It's a sit-down dinner, so it ) can't be a ton of people, but it must be more than, say, eight, or so, if| she's having caterers and renting tables. I think she's renting three tables j and they probably seatsix or eight each, so that'll be eighteen or twenty-1 four $? either I show up empty-handed tonight or I pick a number. I

Twelve.

I stoP *nfrontof theliquorstore. Twelve. Thatfeelsright.

I lu^ tt16 twelve bottles of Piper Heidsieckto GraciousHome, a -1 housewa?es store, whose twoinitial

branches are bizarrely right across I Third A^611116 fr. each other. They carry everything from luxury: items atluxuryprices toeveryday householditems atluxury prices. 1All so a woman canwalk in, buy a ten-dollar bottle of cleanser, and 1 walk out with a cute shopping bag, feeling as if she's had somefun.

I staft pulling out picture frames and clearing out all their soap, but ?? I have nO idea what or where lavenderwateris. I lookdownatthelist.

.Like theotherwomen I've workedfor,I'm

sure she used all caps without thinking, threw the underline in as an afterthought' but, to me, she's screaming. It's as if, suddenly,her life de-pends on LAVENDERWATER or MILK or EDAMAME. I'm tempted to put mV hands up to my ears as their heads rise out of the notepaper, like something from Terminator2, screaming, "CLORQXfI f /.'/.'"

I cofnrnence combing the shelves in pursuit of lavender water and find that Caswell-Massey only makes freesia water, but she definitely wanted lavender. Crabtree and Evelyn have lavender drawer liners, but that's clearly not it. Roger and Gallet make a lavendef soaP an^ Rigaud, I'm informed, "doesn't do lavender."Then finally, on the very bottom shelf of another wall, with Grayer scheduled to drop and roll out of the town car in exactly five minutes, I see The Thymes Limited Lavender Home FragranceMist,Parfum d'Ambiance.Thishas gottobeit; it's the

onlywatery-type lavenderythinghere. I'll take it. Makethattwelve.

Nanny, I. not sure where I gave you the impression that it was appropriate for you to bother my husband. I spoke with him and we. e setting you up with a cell phone, so the net time you. e in doubt we. appreciateitif youjustcall me. JustineatMrX. officewillgiveyouthecorrectheadcount. Butitwilldefinitelybecloserto thirtythantwelve. Also, please find a moment today to exchange whatever you bought yesterday for Lavender LinenWaterbyL. ccitane. (We onlyneedonebottleasit. a cleaningtool,not a partyfavor)

"Hi,Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm talkingtoyouon acellphone. Know why?"

"'Causeyou're oneof themnow?"

"No. Because I'm so not one of them I can't be trusted to perform even the simplest task, say, pick out

lavenderwater."

"Lavender what?"

"You pouritinyour ironanditmakesyourrentedtableclothssmell likethesouthof France."

"Useful."

"AndI am beingmadetofeelincompetentover thiswh?"

"Bud?"

"Yeah?"

"Nocomplaining fromthecute-girl-with-her-own-cell-phone."

"Fiiine."

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Love ya. Bye."

The girl with her own cell phone calls her best friend, Sarah, at Wesleyan. "Hi, you've reached Sarah,

impressme. Beep?

"Hey,it's me.Atthis verymoment 1 am walking downthestreet andtalkingtoyou.Just like1 couldon

a train, a boat, or even from the makeup floor at Barneys, because ... 1 got a cell phone. She gave me a

cellphone!See,that's not aperkyouget as a professor's assistant. Bye!"

ThenI ringGrandma. "SorryI'm notheretochat,buttellmesomethingfabulousanyway. Beep?

"Hi, Gran, c'est moi. I'm out on the street talking to you on mybrand-new cell phone. Now all I need is

a Donna Karan bikini and we can hit the Hamptons. Woohoo! Talk to you later! Bye!" And then home

tocheckmymessages. "Hello?" myroommate's voice answers. "Charlene?" I ask. "Yes?"

"Oh,I wasjustcalling tocheckmymessages.""You don't haveany."

"Oh,okay,thanks.Guesswhat?I'm onmynewcellphone!Shegaveme a cellphone!"

"Didshetellyouwhatkindof callingplanshegotyou?" Charleneasksflatly.

"No, why?" I scramble to check Mrs. X's notes. "Because nonplan calls cost seventy-five cents a

minute and cell phone bills are itemized, incoming and outgoing, so she'll know exactly who you've

beentalkingtoandwhatitcosther?

"Gottagobye?Andthusmybrief loveaffairwith mycellis broughtto ascreechinghalt.

Mrs. X starts ringing constantly with new requests for the dinner party. In rapid succession I buy the

wrong-coloredgift bagsforthepresents, thewrongribbontotiethebagsclosed,andthewrong

shade of lilac tissue paper to stuff them with. Then, in a stunning crescendo, I buy the wrong-sized

placecards.

Usually when she calls she refuses to talk to Grayer, despite his desperate pleadings from the stroller,

because "it would just confusehim."Andthenhe cries. Sometimes shecalls just totalk toGrayer. Then

I pushthestrollerashelistens earnestlytothecellphone,asif hewere getting astockreport.

Wednesdayafternoon:

Ring. ". . . theimpactonthecerebellum . . ." Ring. ". . . canbechartedherein . . ." Ring.

"Hello?" I whisper,crouchingdownwith myheadbeneaththedesk.

"Nanny?"

"Yes?"

"It's Mrs. X."

"Um, yeah,I'm inclass."

"Oh! Oh. Well, the thing is, Nanny, the paper hand towels you picked out for the guest bathroom aren't therightshadeof toile . . ."

Nanny,

I. l be coming by at three with the car to pick up Grayer for his portrait. Please bathe him, brush his teeth, and dress him in the outfit I. e lefton the bed, but be carefulnot to let him wrinkle it. Give yourself enough time to get him ready, but not so much that he has a chance to get messy. Maybeyoushouldstartat1:30.

Also, here are some handouts from last night. Parents League meeting:. ommy, Are You Listening? ?Communication and Your Preschooler.? I. e highlighted applicable passages ?let. discuss!

After theportrait we. lbegoingtoTiffany. topick out agift forGrayer. father.

One would think that the customer service mezzanine at Tiffany's would have enough chairs to accommodate all of us, their adoring public. However, soft lighting and fresh flowers do little to offset thefactthatit's morecrowdedinherethanJFKonChristmas Eve.

"O, you're making marks on the wall with your sneakers. Stop it," I say. We've been waiting for Mrs. X's name to be called so she can get the gold watch engraved that she'll be presenting to Mr. \ at the party. It's beenover half anhourandGrayer isreally startingtogetantsy.

She grabbed a seat when we came in, but suggested that I "keep an eye on Grayer," who, she insisted, should remain "where he'll be more comfortable". n the lounge chair that is his stroller. I tried standing against the wall for a while, but as soon as the blonde with the Fendi handbag plopped herself onthefloortostudyherTownandCountryI slid down.

Mrs. X has beenperma-attached to her cell phone, soI'm keepingthe aforementionedeye, and hand, on Grayer. The very same Grayer who has taken to using his saddle shoes to push off from the cream paisley wallpaperinordertoseehowfarbackhecanrollbeforehittingsomeone. "Nanny,letgooo."

"Grover, I've asked you three times to stop. Hey, let's play I Spy. I spy something green? I spy cheek implants.

He struggles to reach down to where myhand is now serving as a brake on the right stroller wheel. His face is getting red and I can see he is nearly ready to explode. She took him to pose for portraits after school let out and we've been stuck running errands for the party ever since. After being in school all morning,frozeninsmiles

all afternoon,andthenliterally strappedin,hecan't beblamedforhitting his limit.

"Come on, this oneis hard. I spysomethinggreen. Betchacan't findit." I tightenmygrip on thestroller wheel as he hurls himself over the front bar, then gets snapped back by the straps, his resolve to free himself hardening. People standing near us shuffle away as much as the crowd will allow. I keep a smile on my face as my fingers get pinched into the carpet. Starting to feel a little like James Bond holding the ticking bomb, I assess potential escape routes to a less public venue for his impending tantrum. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two?

"I. WANT. TO. GET. OUT!" Hethrustshimself forward toemphasize eachword.

"XI Mrs. X, we'll see you now at desk eight."A girl my age (with whom, at this moment, I would trade positions inan absoluteheartbeat)motionsforMrs. Xto followher tothelongrow of mahoganydesks aroundthecorner.

"LETGO. I wanttoget out!I don't wanttoplay! I don't wantthestroller!"

Mrs. X pauses as she rounds the corner to place her right handover the speaker of her cell. She turns to me, beaming, and whispers as she points to Grayer. "Emoting. He's emoting to communicate his boundaries1."

"Right," I mouth back as I reach to loosen the stroller straps before he hurts himself. She disappears down the dark blue hall as I wheel our Emoting Grayer to the stairwell where he will be able to communicate thoseboundarieswhilehis father's newwatchgetstheattentionitdeserves.

Nanny,

The caterers will be setting up the tables this afternoon, so please keep Grayer out of their way. Theheadof theChicagoofficewill becomingbytodotheseatingarrangement.

I was wondering if you couldthrow something together for Grayer. dinner, sinceI won. be hometilleight. HelovesCoquillesSt. Jacques. AndIthinkwehavesomebeetsinthefridge. That shouldbesimple. Seeyouat 8.

Alsodon. forgettodohisflashcards.

Thanks abunch!

Coquillessaywhat?!Whateverhappenedtomacandcheesewith asideof broccoli?

In desperate search of a cookbook I pull open the teak cupboard doors, trying not to mark the trompe d'oeil walls, but there isn't a single cookbook to be found, not even the token joy of Cooking or Silver Palate.

She owns what I estimate, based on a Christmas stint at Williams-Sonoma, to be over $40,000 in appliances, yet everything continually looks as though it's just been unpacked. From the La Cornue Le Chateau custom color stove with electric and gas ovens that start at $15,000, to the full set of Bourgeat copper cookware for $1,912, everything is of the best quality. But the only appliance that looks broken in is the Capresso C3000 espresso machine that retails for $2,400.And, no, for that price, it does not findyou aman.I asked.

I open all the cabinets and the drawers, trying to familiarize myself with the equipment, as if holding eachWiisthofknifemighttellme thesecrettotheSt. SomethingI'm supposedtobepreparing.

Mysearchfor a recipeleads me out to her office where I find nothingbut a marked-up Neiman Marcus catalogandConnie,theXes'housekeeper,onher kneesscrubbingthedoorknobwith atoothbrush.

"Hi,doyouknowwhereMrs. Xkeepshercookbooks?" I ask.

"Mrs. X don't eat and shedon't cook." She redips the toothbrushin a jar of polish. "She got you cookin' fortheparty?"

"No?just dinnerforGrayer?"

"Can't seewhat's sospecialaboutthisparty. Shehateshaving

people here. We had, maybe, three dinners since she been here." She nods her head as she deftly scrubs aroundthekeyhole. "There's abunchof booksinthesecondguestroom. rythere."

"Thanks."

I continue roaming from room to cavernous room until I get to the guest suite. I skim the titles in the

floor-to-ceiling bookcase:

WhyShouldYouHavetheBaby?Stress andtheFertility Myth

They'reYourBreastsToo:TheNewWetNurseGuide

SoonerorLater WeAllSleepAlone:GettingYour In/antThroughthe

Night

TakingtheBiteOutofTeething

The Zen ofWalking. very Journey Begins with a First Step The Idiot's Guide to Potty Training The

Benefitsof theSuzukiMethodonYourChild's Left Brain

Development

The BodyEcology Diet forYourToddlerMaking theMost ofYour Four-Year-OUHow to PackageYour

Child;ThePreschoolInterview Makeitor Breakit:NavigatingPreschoolAdmissions

.. . And everything else you could possibly imagine in this genre to fill up four bookshelves right up

through:

City Kids Need Trees; The Benefits of a Boarding School Education The SATs. etting the Scene for

theRestofYourChild's Life

I standinsilencewithmymouthopen,forgetting,for afull moment,thecoquilles andbeets. Huh.

"I'm really concerned that you're going to fail out of school and be making other people dinner for the

restofyourlife!Thisis a redflag

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here, Nan. Now,if memory serves, you signed onto provide child care forthis woman.That's all, right?

Isshepaying youanymoreforthisextra service?"

"No.Mom, thisisnot agoodtime tobehaving?

"I mean,youshouldspend adaydownhereattheshelterkitchen.Getsomeperspective."

"Okay,thisis not agoodtime tobehaving?

"At least you'd be helping people who really need it. Maybe you should just pause for a second, look insideyourself,checkin?MOM!" I tightenmychintokeepthephonefromslippingoutfromunderone ear as I grip a boiling pot of beets in my hands. "I can't really look inside myself right now, because I am justcallingtofindhowtopreparecoquillessaywhat,fortheloveofChrist!"

"I'm helping," Grayer says, a small hand coming up over theedge of thecounter, groping for the paring

knifeI've justputdown.

"Gottago."

I lungefortheknife,sendingtwentycoquilles flyingontothefloor.

"Cool! It's just like the beach, Nanny! Don't pick 'em up, leave 'em. I'm gonna go get my bucket." He

scampers out of the kitchen as I drop the knife in the sink and crouch to collect the mollusks. I pick up

one, thenanother,but as I grab for the thirdthe first slides out of myhand, across thefloor,and directly

into a gray snakeskin high heel. I jerk up to see a redheaded woman in a gray suit standing squarely in

thedoorway.

Grayer comes skipping around the corner holding his sand bucket, but freezes behind her when he sees myface.

"I'm sorry,canI helpyou?" I stand,motioningforGrayer tocome tome.

"Yes," shesays, "I'm hereto do theseatingarrangement." Shesaunters past me intothekitchen, pulling

offherHermes scarfandtyingitaroundthehandleof herslate-grayGuccibriefcase.

Shekneelstoretrieve a coquilleandturnstohandittoGrayer. "Didyoulosethis?" sheasks.

Helooksupatme. "It's okay,Grove,"I say, reachingoutandtakingitfrom her. "Hi,I'm Nanny."

"Lisa Chenowith, general manager of the Chicago office. And you must be Grayer," she says, setting

herbriefcasedown.

"I'm helping,"hesays,usinghis buckettoscoopup theremainingseafood.

"I coulduse a helper."Shesmiles downathim. "Areyoulookingfor a newjob?"

"Sure,"hemumblesintohis bucket.

I dump the shells in the colander and turn off the stove. "If you just give me a minute, I'll show you to

thediningroom."

"Are youcookingfortheparty?" sheasks, gesturingtothesinkoverflowing with pans.

"No. t's his dinner," I say, scrapingburnedbeets outofthepot.

"Whatever happenedtopeanutbutter andjelly?" shelaughs,puttingher briefcasedownonthetable.

"Nanny,I wantpeanutbutter andjelly."

"Sorry, didn't mean to start a revolution," she says. "Grayer, I'm sure whatever Nanny is making you

will bedelicious."

"Actually, pb & j sounds perfect," I say, pulling out the peanut butter from the fridge. Once I've seated Grayer in his booster seat at the banquette I lead her to the dining room, where the long walnut table hasbeenreplacedbythreeroundones.

"Well, well," she murmurs as she steps in behind me. "She had them set up a whole day early. hat must have cost thousands." We both look down at the lavender-scented tables, festooned with shining silverware, sparklingcrystal, andgilt-edged chargerplates. "I'm sorryI won't behere."

"You won't?"

"Mr. X wants me back in Chicago." She smiles at me, then turns her attention to the rest of the room, admiring thePicassoover themantelandtheRothkoabovethesideboard.

I follow hertothelivingroomandthenthelibrary. Shetakesin

THE NANNY DIARIES

each jewel-toned room as if appraising it for auction. "Beautiful," she says, fingering the raw silk drapes, "but a littleoverdone, don't you

think?"

Unaccustomed as I am to being asked my opinion in this household, I reachfor the right words. "Um ... Mrs. X has very definite tastes. Actually, since you're here, would you mind telling me if this looks okay?" I ask,bendingbehind Mr. X's desktoretrieve agift bag.

"Whatis it?" sheasks, pullingher hairover her shouldertopeer

inside.

"It's a gift bag for the guests. I wrapped them this morning, but I'm not sure if I did it right, because I couldn't find the right tissue paper and the ribbon Mrs. X wanted was out of stock? "Nanny?" She cuts me off. "Is anyoneonfire?" "Sorry?" I say, takenaback.

"They're justgiftbags. For a bunchofoldgeezers,"shelaughs, "I'm surethey're perfect. elax."

"Thanks, it just seemed like it was pretty important." She glances over my shoulder at the shelf of family pictures behind me. "I'm just going to check in with the office and then I'll do the place cards. Is Mrs. X coming backsoon?""Nottill eight."

She picks up the phone and bends over the mahogany desk to peer at a framed picture of Mr. X with Grayer atophis shouldersatthefootof a skislope.

"NAN-NY,I'M FIIII-NISHED!"

"Okay, well, let me know if you need anything else," I say from the doorway as she slips off her black pearlearringanddials. "Thankyou!" shemouths,giving me a thumbs-up.

Nanny,

As aruleI don. likeGrayertohavetoomanycarbohydratesbeforebed. TonightI. eleft all hisfoodalreadymeasuredoutonthecounter. Ifyoucouldjustputthebeets,thekale,andthekohlrabi inthesteamerfortwelve minutesthatshouldbeperfect, butpleasetrytostayoutofthecaterers?way.

You should probably give Grayer his dinner in his room. Actually, I might need to bring my dinner guests through when I give the tour. So it. probably best for you both to take your plates intohis bathroomwhileyoueat?in caseofspills.

p.s. I. counting on you to stay until Grayer is asleep and make sure that he doesn. intrude on the meal.

p.p.s. I. lneedyoutopickupGrayer. Halloweencostume tomorrow.

"Martini, straight up. o olive." Having steamed Grayer's dinner intoan unrecognizablemush, burned myhandintheprocess, andnearlyscaldedGrayer several times,thenhavingto dineatop his toiletseat, I am truly ready to "take the edge off." I shift on the bar stool, wondering if, perhaps, I could work for that redhead from Chicago. ove to Illinois, try on investment banking, and spend my days preparing herpb & j.

I reach into my bag for my pay envelope and fish out a twenty for the bartender. It's thicker this week and I count over three hundred in cash. I realize that while I'm exhausted and probably on my way to somesort ofsubstance-abuseproblem, theupsideofworkingthreetimesas manyhours as I'd agreedto is that I'm making three times as much money. It's only the second week of the month and the rent is alreadycovered.Andthereisthatpair ofblackleatherpantsI've hadmyeye on ...

THE NANNY DIARIES

I justneed half an hour of quiet before I can go home to Char-leneand her hairy pilot boyfriend. I don't wanttotalk,1 don't wanttolisten,andI mostdefinitely donotwanttocook.1 mean,goodGod,having your hairy boyfriend sleep over when you share a studio apartment. Not okay. Not okay at all. I am countingthedays untilshe's slottedfortheAsiaroute.

"Yo, yo, check this out!" The blond homeboy in the Brooks Brothers ensemble motions for his "posse" tocheckouthis PalmPilotatthecornertable. Classic.

Normally, I avoid Dorrian's and its preppy clientele like the clap. But it was directly on my path home and the bartender makes a terrific martini. And 1 did have to "take my edge off." Besides, off-season is usuallypretty safe,oncethey all returntoschool.

I count five white baseball hats huddled over their friend's new toy. Despite only being in college, they all have portable cellular devices of some kind or another hanging off their yuppy utility belts. The years change, the corduroy jackets of the seventies giving way to the flipped-up collars of the eighties, theplaidshirts ofthenineties, andtheGore-Texofthenewmillennium,but theirmentalityis asageless asthered-checkedtablecloths.

I am so riveted that I automatically follow their gaze when they turn to the door. In keeping with the tenor of my day, who should walk in but my very own Harvard Hottie, sans chapeau blanc. And he knows them. Ugh. I take a long swig as the vision I'd been savoring of him healing children in Tibet morphsintooneofhimin a suitontheflooroftheNewYork StockExchange.

"Is that good? You like that?" Oh God, there's one standing right next to me. Roll 'em up, kids, roll 'em up.

"What?" I ask, noting his South Carolina baseball hat, which proudly proclaims COCKS across the frontinthree-inchcrimson letters.

"Maaar-tiii-niiis. Pretty hard stuff, don't you think?" he says a little too close to my face and then

screamsover myhead, "Yo! Get

off your asses and give me a hand with these drinks, you lazy bitches!" H. H. comes over to assist with

thebeertransport.

"Hey,Grayer's girlfriend, right?" Hesmiles broadly.

Heremembered! No,badNanny. Stockexchange,stockexchange.Yet I can't helpnoting a comparative

lackofgadgetsadorninghis Levi's.

"I'm happy to report that he's out for the count after one reading of Goodnight Moon." I smile back in

spiteof myself.

"I hopeJoneshereisn't giving you ahardtime."Jonescracksup attheunintendeddoubleentendre. "He

canbe abit much,"hesays,glaringover myshoulderatJones. "Hey,youshouldjoinus."

"Yeah,I'm kindoftired."

"Please, just for a quick drink." I eye the group skeptically, but I'm swayed as his hair falls in his eyes

whenhepicksup thepitchers.

I follow him over and they make room for me to sit down.A round of boisterous introductions ensue in

whichI am compelledtoshakeevery clammy handatthetable.

"Howdoyouknowour boy, here?" onehatasks.

"'Causewe all gowayback?

"Back in the day." They bob their heads like chickens, repeating "back in the day" about a thousand

times.

"Theythinktherewas aday," H. H. saysquietly,turninghis headtome. "Sohow's workgoing?"

"Work!"Theearsof a hatprickup. "Where doyouwork?"

"Are youinananalyst program?"

"No?

"Are you amodel?"

"No,I'm ananny."There's anaudiblestir.

"Dude!" oneguysays,punching H. H. ontheshoulder.

"Dude,younever toldusyouknew ananneehhh."

I realize from their glazed smiles that they've just cast me in every nanny-themed porn film ever

screenedintheirfrathousebasements.

"So,"thedrunkestbegins, "isthedadhot?"

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Hashehitonyou?"

"Urn,no.I haven't met himyet."

"Is theMomhot?" anotheroneasks.

"Well, I don't thinkso?

"Whataboutthekid?Isthekidhot?Hasheever made apass atyou?"They all speakatonce.

"Well, he's four,so?Thereis a hardnesstotheirtonethatdispels anyillusionofgood-naturedfun.I turn

to the gentleman who brought me over here, but he seems frozen, blushing deeply with his brown eyes

downcast.

"Are anyofthedads hot?"

"Right. If you'll excuseme?I standup.

"Come on". ones stares me down?you're trying to tell us you never fucked any of the dads?" My last

nervesnaps.

"How original of you. You want to know who the dads are? They're you in about two more years.And they're not fucking the nanny. They're not fucking their wives. They're not fucking anyone. Because they get fat, they go bald, they lose their appetites and drink, a lot, because they have to, not because they want to. So enjoy yourselves, boyz. 'Cause back in the day is gonna be lookin' real good. Now pleasedon't get up."MyheartpoundsasI pullonmysweater,grabmybag,andwalkout thedoor.

"Hey,holdon!" H. H. catchesup tomeas I stormacross thestreet. I turn,waiting for himtotellme that they all have terminal cancer and a reign of terror was their last request. "Look, they didn't mean anything bythat."Whichhedoesn't.

"Oh."I nodathim. "Sotheytalktoevery girl likethat?Or justtheoneswhoworkintheirbuildings?"

He crosses his bare arms and hunches up against the cold. "Look, they're just friends from high school.

I mean,I barelyhangoutwith themany?

TheBadWitchcomes flying out. "Shameonyou."

Hestammers, "They're justreallydrunk?

"No.They're justreallyassholes."

We stareateachother andI waitforhimtosaysomething, butheseemsparalyzed.

"Well," I finally say, "it's been a long day." I'm suddenly utterly exhausted and keenly aware of pulsing

painfromtheburnonmyhand.

I forcemyself nottolookbackasI walkaway.

Nanny,

Thepartywas agreatsuccess. Thankyousomuchforyourhelp.

Theseshoes reallyare toomuch forme and MrX doesn. careforthecolor. Ifthey. eyour sizeyou. ewelcome tothem, otherwisepleasetakethemtoEncoreresaleshoponMadisonand84th. I haveanaccount.

By the way, have you seen the Lalique frame that was sitting on Mr X. desk? The one with thepictureofGrayerwithhisfatherfromAspen? Itseemstobemissing. Canyoucallthecaterers andseeiftheytookithomebyaccident?

I. lberecuperatingatBliss, somyphonewill beofffortherestof theafternoon.

PRADA! P-R-A-D-A. As in Madonna. As in Vogue. As in, watch me walk off in style, you khaki-wearing, pager-carrying, golf-playing, Wall Street Joumai-toting, Gangsta-Hip-Hop-listening, Howard Stern?worshiping,white-hat-backward-sporting,arrogantjerk-offs!

Nana also troubled Mr. Darling in another way. He had some' times a feeling that she did not admire him.

. ETERPAN

CHAPTER THREE

ight ofthe Bankin

ea

Afterpickingupsomesmall pumpkins todecorateonthewayhome fromschool,Grayer andIreturnto the apartment just in time for me to sign an invoice for over four thousand dollars. Grayer and I follow in awe as a deliveryman wheels a pair of six-foot wooden crates through the kitchen and deposits them in the front hall. After lunch, we play Guess What's in the Crate. Grayer guesses a dog, a gorilla, a monster truck, and a baby brother. I guess antiques, newbathroom fixtures, and a small cage for Grayer (althoughI keepthatonetomyself).

I leave Grayer in the capable hands of his piano teacher at four-fifteen and return, as instructed, at five o'clock. I'm dressed like a grown-up for the Halloween party at Mr. X's office in my new leather pants and secondhand Prada shoes. I let myself in, only to come face-to-crate with a frenzied Mrs. X, who's trying topryoneopenwith a butcherknifeand a toiletplunger.

"Do you want me to call the super?" I ask, carefully angling myself past her. "He might have a crowbar."

"Oh,myGod,couldyou?" shepantsup fromwhereshe's crouchedonthefloor.

I gointothekitchenandbuzzthesuperontheintercom,whopromises tosendup thehandyman.

"He's onhis way. So,urn,what'sinthere?"

Shehuffsandpuffsassheworksatthecrate, "I had. gh?replicasofMufasaandSarabicostumes. w, dammit!. rom the Broadway production of The Lion King... unh. ustom made." She's going red in theface. "For thisstupidparty,argh."

"Wow, that's great.Where's Grayer?" I ask tentatively.

"He's waiting so you both can get dressed! We've got to hurry?we all need to be changed and ready to leavebysix."All? As the service doorbell rings I turn and walk slowly down the long hall to Grayer's room, where he's

had the good sense to hide from his plunger-wielding mother. I apprehensively push back the door to reveal not one, but two Teletubby costumes half lifting offGrayer's bed, like partially deflated balloons fromtheMacy'sThanksgivingDayparade.

DearGod.Shemust bekidding.

"Nanny, we're gonna match!" If I wanted to get dressed up in bizarre costumes I could be making way

moremoneythanthis.

With a long sigh I begin to wrestle Grayer into his yellow costume, trying to convince him it's just like

putting on feet pajamas, only rounder. I can hear Mrs. X running through the apartment. "Do we have

anypliers? Nanny,haveyouseenthepliers?Thecostumes arewired intothecrate!"

"Sorry!" I shouttoward thedirectionofher voice,whichchangesconstantly,like a passingsiren.

Thud.

Moments later she bursts into the room looking like a mud hut, headdress askance. "Do I wear makeup

with this?DoI wearmakeup with this?!"

"Um, probablyjustsomeneutraltones?Maybe thatnicelipstickyouworetolunchtheotherday?"

"No, I meansomething, you know .. . tribal?" Grayer looks up athis mother in complete bewilderment,

his eyes wide.

"Mommy,is thatyourcostume?"

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Mommy's not finishedyet, honey. Let Nannydoyour makeup,soshecanhelp me."Sherunsout. Mrs.

X has bought us Cray-Pas face paint so I can transform us into Inky Blinky and Tiggy Wiggy or whatever thehell they're called. Butas soonas I startinonGrayer's facehe gets a massive attack of the faceitchies.

"Laa-Laa, Nanny. I'm Laa-Laa."Heraisesbothmittedhandstohis nose. "You'reTinkyWinky?

"Grov,pleasedon't touchyourface. I'm tryingtomakeyoulooklike aTeletubby."

Themudhutrushesbackin. "MyGod,helooksawful!Whatareyoudoing?"

"Hekeepsmushingit,"I trytoexplain.

She looks down at him, straw stalks trembling. "GRAYER ADD/SON X, DO NOT TOUCH YOUR

FACE/"Andshe's offagain.

Hischinstartstoquiver. emaynever touchhisfaceagain,ever.

"You lookreallycool, Grove,"I saysoftly. "Let's justgetthis done,okay?"

Henodsandtilts hischeektomesoI canfinish.

"Is itnagumamatoto?" sheshoutsfromthehall.

"Hakunamatata!" we shoutback.

"Right!Thankyou!" shereplies. "Hakunamatata,hakunamatata."

ThephoneringsandI canhearheronthehallextension, strainingtosoundcalm. "Hello?Hello,darling.

We're nearlyready . . . ButI?. . . Right,but I got thecostumes you wanted . . . No, I...Yes, I understand,

it's justthatI... Right,no,we'll berightdown."

Slow footsteps on themarble floor toward Grayer's wing, then the headdress reappearsaround the door

frame. "Daddy's running a little late, so he's just going to swing by in ten minutes and pick us up

downstairs, okay? I'll needeverybody inthefronthall inninemin!

utes." Nine minutes (of slithering myself into this stinky, cumbersome purple albatross and smearing

my skin in white lard) later and we reassemble awkwardly around the crates in the front hall. mall

yellow Laa-Laa,largepurpleasshole,andMrs. X in a dignified Jil Sanderpantsuit.

"Is ittoowarmformymink?" sheasks,adjustingmyhoodsothepurpletriangle,thesizeof a shoebox,

stands "straight."

It requires both of the Xes' doormen's hands on my haunches to shove me in the limo at the Xes' feet. I

scrambleup ontotheseatasthedriver startsthecar.

"Where's mycard?" Grayer asks,justaswe pullawayfromthecurb.

I can't tell if it's becauseof thelayer of neoprene over myearsor if I'm just in shock,but Grayer's voice

seems tobecoming fromveryfaraway.

"My card. Where is it? Wheeeerrrre!" He begins to rock back and forth like a weeblewobble on the

limousineseatweshareacross fromhis parents.

"Nanny!" Mrs. X's tonesnapsmeback. "Grayer,tellNannywhatyou're feeling."

I angle mybody on theleather seatin Grayer's direction, as thepurplebubblearound myheadobscures

all peripheral vision. Uh, yes? His face is red beneath his makeup and he's out of breath. He scrunches

his eyes androars, "NANNY!I DON'T HAVE MYCARD."Christ.

"Nanny,healways hastohavethatcardpinnedtohis clothes?

"I'm sosorry."I anglemygirth tohim. "Grayer,I'm sorry."

"MyccaaaAAARRrrdd!"Grayer bellows.

"Hey," adeep,disembodiedvoice commands. "That's enoughof that." Miiiiiiisssstttter Eeeexxxxxxx,at

lastwe meet.

The whole limo holds its breath. This man of mystery, who has, for the most part, eluded me and, I

daresay,therestof myriding

THE NANNY DIARIES

companions for the past two months, deserves a full freeze-frame. He sits facing me in a dark suit and

very expensive shoes. Actually, he's facing the Wall Street Journal, which fully obscures the rest of

him?up to the shiny receding hairline, spotlit by the reading light inches from his head. There's a cell

phone wedged beneath his ear, to which he seems only to be listening. "Hey" is his first utterance since

we all gotin. Or, insomecases,wereshovedin.

Sitting there behind his paper he is, without question, the CEO of this family. "What card?" he asks his

paper. Mrs. X looks pointedly at me and it is evident that Grayer's meltdown falls into my domain,

whichalternates betweenmiddlemanagementandcleaningstaff.

Thus we make a right onto Madison and head back uptown to 721, where the doormen are only too

happytohave ashotatpullingmyarms andlegstoextract mefromthelimo.

"Wait righthere,guys," I say, onceupright, "I'll bebackin a minute."

I get upstairs, spend ten sweaty minutes rummaging through Grayer's room, forcing me to reapply my

Cray-Pas, locateTheCard inthelaundryhamper,and am readytorockandroll. (Roll,mostly.)

Theelevator dooropensand,ofcourse,therestands H. H.,myHarvardHottie.

Hisjaw drops.

Justkillme.

"What?You never saw aHalloweencostume before?" I bristle, lumberinginwith myheadheldhigh.

"No!Um, well,it's, it's Octobertwenty-third, but?

"So??!!"

"I ummmm, yeah,yes Ihave, I? hestammers.

"He-llo! Are you ever not speechless?" I attempt to shimmy so that I can face the wall. Of course, in

thisfive-by-seven boxI makeit all oftwodegreesawayfromhim. Heisquietfor a moment. "Look,I'm reallysorryfortheother

night. Sometimes thoseguys canberealassholes when theydrink.I knowthat's no excuse,but,I mean, they're justoldfriendsfromhighschool?

"And?" I saytothewall.

"And ..." Heseemsstumped. "Andyoushouldn't judgemebasedononedrunkennightatDorrian's."

I shimmy back to facehim. "Um, yeah. hat's one drunken night when your buddies from 'back in the day' called me a ho. Listen, sometimes I hang out with friends whose politics I don't agree with, but onlyup to apoint. If,oh, say, gangrapewere ontheagendafortheevening, I wouldspeakup!"

"Well!"

"Well?"

"Well, for someone who didn't like it when snap judgments were made about you, it's pretty

hypocritical ofyoutojudgeme soquicklybasedontheirbehavior."

"Fair enough." I take a deep breath and try to straighten to my full height. "Let me clarify, I'm judging

youonthefactthatyoudidn't step intoshutthemup."

He looks back at me. "Okay, I should've said something. I'm sorry things got so out of hand." He tucks

his hair behindhis ear. "Listen, come out with me tonightand let me make it up to you.I'm hangingout

with some college friends. t's a whole different crowd, I promise." The door slides open and both a

woman in a cashmere wrap and her standard poodle glare with annoyance because there is no room for

themaroundmycostume. Thedoorslidesclosed.I realizeI haveonlytwomorefloorstoacquiesce.

"Obviously, I have a really decadent affair ahead of me." I gesture with one three-fingered hand to my

purpletorso. "ButI cantrytostop byaroundten."

"Great! I'm not sure exactly where we're going. We were thinking of Chaos, or The Next Thing, but

we'll definitely beatNightingale's till eleven."

THE NANNY DIARIES "Well, I'll try to make it." Despite the fact that I am not completely clear where, in his list of

destinations, I should aim to make it to.The doors open to the lobby and I attempt a sexywaddle to the

car,tryingtoremember toleadwith myhips.

I wait until H. H. is safely around the corner and then, after one last ass-push from the doormen, we are

on our way. I take a little bit of pleasure from the fact that Mrs. X is forced to lean across and pin the

cardonGrayer herselfasshehastheuseof all tenofherfingers.

"Honey, 1 finally found out who the Brightmans used to book their safari? she begins, but Mr. X

gestures to the phone and shakes his head. Not to be outdone she pulls her Startac out of her Judith

Leiberpumpkinclutch anddials. Thepuffy,primary-coloredsideof thecarsits inprolongedsilence.

"... I don't thinkher decoratordid averygoodjob..."

"... takeanotherhardlookatthosenumbers?

"... andmauve?"

".. .atthatAPR?Is henuts?"

"... bamboofor akitchen!"

"... buybacktenbillionover thenextthreeyears..."

I lookdownatGrayerandpokehisyellow tummy with apurplefinger. Helooksup andpokesme back.

I squeezehis feltchub,he

squeezesmine.

"So." Mr. X flips his phone closed with a loud click and looks at me. "Do they have Halloween in

Australia?"

"Um, I, uh, think they have something calledAll Souls' Day, but, um, 1 don't think people dress up or,

uh,trick-or-treat,traditionally,"1 answer.

"Honey,"Mrs. X intercedes. "ThisisNanny.Shetookover from

C-a-i-t-1-i-n."

"Oh,right,right,of course.You're prelaw?"

"I wanttositnexttoMommy!" Grayer suddenlybursts out.

"Grove,staynexttomeandkeepmecompany,"I say, looking

down.

"No!I wanttositnexttoMommy now."

Mrs. X looks over at Mr. X, who has retreated back behind his paper. "We don't want to get your fun makeup onMommy's coat?staywith Nanny,sweetie."

After a few more rounds,he finally tuckersout andthefour of ussit insilenceas thecarglides down to the very bottom of the city, where the dense, narrow streets of Lower Manhattan give way to the imposing towers of the Financial District. The neighborhood appears deserted, except for the funereal lineoftowncarsformingoutside Mr. X's company.

Mr. and Mrs. X slide out and march ahead of us into the building, leaving Grayer and me unassisted to maneuveroursphericalbodiesoutofthecarandontothesidewalk.

"Nanny,saythreeand I'll push!Saythree,Nanny! SAY IT!"

With his little feet in my backside and my face nearly on the sidewalk it's no wonder he can't hear me whenI scream, "Three!"

I smush my face to the left to see Grayer sticking his lips out the crack in the window. "Didja say it, Nanny?Didja?"

I can sense a flurry of activity behind my enormous haunches, accompanied by snippets of the mastermind atwork. "Okay, nowI'm Rabbit... and you .. . you're Pooh ... and ... are youcounting?... and

... after all the honey ... stuck in the tree. HAT'S THREE, NANNY, on THREE!" He could be constructing acatapult outofcocktailnapkinsbacktherefor all I know?

WHOMP!

"I didit!Nanny,I didit!"

I right myself, reach down with my three-fingered hand for his, and we waddle with pride toward the entrance. Mr. andMrs. X havekindly heldtheelevator forusandwe rideup totheforty-fifthfloorwith

anothercouplewhosechildrencouldn't attend. "Homework."

We all step out into a cavernous reception area, which has been transformed into a Tim Burton film. hemarblewalls arecoveredincut-out batsandfakecobwebs,every inchoftheceilingdrips in

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streamers, spiders, and skeletons. Thereare numerous bar tables strategically placed at regular intervals aroundtheroom,eachaglowwith a hand'carvedpumpkin centerpiece.

It seems as thoughevery unemployed actor in thetristate area has been called in to entertain the troops. At the reception desk Frankenstein pretends to answer phones, Betty Boop walks by with a tray of drinks, and Marilyn is singing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" to a cluster of Mr. X's colleagues in the corner. Grayerlooksaroundwith a bitof trepidationuntilGarfield comes bywith a trayof peanutbutter andjellysandwiches.

"You can take one. Go ahead, Grayer," 1 encourage him. He has some trouble with the gloves on, but managestosecureoneandmunches,slowlymushinghis bodytighteragainstmyleg.

The far wall is a breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling view of the Statue of Liberty. I seem to be the only one appreciating it, but then I'm also one of the few nannies with a visible face.Apparently Mrs. X was not alone in her concept for the evening; all the nannies are in huge rented costumes at least three feet in circumference; the child is a small Snow White, nanny is a large Dwarf, the child is a small farmer, nanny is a very large cow, the child is a small Pied Piper, nanny is a large rat. However, the winners, hands down, are the Teletubbies. I exchange wan smiles across the room with two Tinky Winkys from Jamaica.

A couplewith asmallWoodstockandlargeSnoopyintowcomes over tous.

"Darling,youlookfabulous!" says thewifetoMrs. X,ormaybe Grayer.

"HappyHalloween,Jacqueline,"Mrs. Xreplies,givingher anair kiss.

Jacqueline, wearing a tiny pink pillbox hat with her blackArmani, barrels on to Mr. X. "Darling, you're notincostume, youbadboy!" Herown betrothediswearing a captain's hatwith his pinstripedsuit.

"I'm dressedas a lawyer,"Mr. Xsays. "Butreally,I'm aninvestmentbanker!"

"Stop!" Jacqueline says, giggling. "You're such a stitch!" She looks down at Laa-Laa and Woodstock. "You little darlings should go check out the games area. t's fabulous!" I look over at Snoopy, who's listing under the weight of the giant head. "We got a much better company this year to organize the wholething.TheydidBlackstone's 4thof JulyBungeeJump andCocktails."

"I heard that was lovely. Mitzi Newmann's gotten addicted. She had a free-fall bridge installed in Connecticut. Go ahead, Grayer," Mrs. X encourages. He stares up at all the macabre mayhem and doesn't lookentirely convincedthathewantstobeseparatedfromhisparentsrightnow.

"Go on,sport,and ifyou're good, I'll takeyoutoseetheexecutive diningroom," Mr. Xsays, prompting Grayer tolookup atme.

"Where Daddy has lunch," I explain. I take his hand and follow our Peanuts teamto the children's area, which is cordoned off with a little picket fence. As Barbie opens the gate I look at her. "Good idea," I say, "let's keepout thegrown-ups."

The whole twenty-foot area is rilled with activity tables and games that seem mostly to involve throwing things. (A miscalculation on someone's part, I think, as a small Big Bird goes down.) I notice veryquicklythatthegrown-up drink traysaren't circulatinginhereandleanoutover thefencetoswipe a little relief. Occasionally parents swing by, like maitre d's, to ask if the child is enjoying him/herself andremark, "Amarshmallow ghost! Ooooh,scary!", thenturnbacktoeachothertoadd, "You justhave no idea what our renovation is costing. t's really staggering. But Bill wanted a screening room."And theyshrug,rolltheireyes, andshaketheirheads.

Mrs. X has come in with Sally Kirkpatrick, a woman I recognize from Grayer's swimming class, to watch her three-foot Batman try to obliterate his ring-toss opponents. I come up behind them to check inaboutbedtime.

THE NANNY DIARIES "Your newgirl's reallygoodatgetting Grayerinthepool,"Mrs. Kirkpatricksays. "Thanks, I wish I could take him, but Tuesday's my day at the Parents League and with ice skating on

Fridays and French on Thursdays and CATS on Wednesday I need one day to do something for

myself."

"I know, I'm so busy. I'm on four different committees this season. Oh, can I put you down for a table

fortheBreastBall?"

"Of course."

"So whathappenedtoCaitlin?Your newgirldidn't seemtoknow."

"Sally,itwas a nightmare. I'm luckyI foundNannywhenI did! Caitlin, whosework I never foundtobe

exemplary, by the way, but I put up with it, because, well, one does. Anyway, she had the nerve to ask for the last week ofAugust off after I already gave her the first two weeks of Januarywhen we went to Aspen."

"You're kidding."

"Well, I justfeltshewastryingtotakecomplete advantageofme?

"Ryan,playfair. hatwaslolanthe's ring,"SallyshoutsatherBatman.

"ButI positively didnotknowwhattodo,"Mrs. Xcontinues,sippingPerrier.

"So youfiredher?" Sallyasks, eagerly.

"First I talkedto a professionalproblemconsultant?

"Oh,who'd youuse?"

"BrianSwift."

"I hearhe's great."

"He was fantastic. elped me put the whole thing into perspective. He made it clear that my authority

as house manager had been called into question and I had to bring in a replacement to drive the point

home."

"Brilliant. Don't let me forgetto get his number from you. I'm having suchproblems with Rosarita. The otherdayI askedherto

runup to Midtown to pick up a few things while Ryan was inhockey class and shesaid she didn't want tobecauseshedidn't thinkshe'd haveenoughtime togetback.I mean,doesshethinkI don't knowhow longittakestogetaround?"

"I know,it's appalling.Afterall, whenthekids areinclass they're justsittingthere,onourdime. I mean, really."

"So,areyoudonewith all yourinterviews?" Sally asks.

"Well, we have Collegiate on Tuesday, but I'm not sure if I want him on the West Side," Mrs. X says, shakingherhead.

"But it's such a good school. We'd be thrilled if Ryan got in there. We're hoping the violin gives him an edge."

"Oh,Grayerplays thepiano. hadnoideathatwasimportant," Mrs. Xsays.

"Well, itdependsonhis level. Ryan's alreadycompetingregionally..."

"Oh,I see.That's fantastic."

Apprehensiveof what I mightsaytoMrs. X atthis moment on two vodkatonics,I tiptoebackwardand spot Grayer, still slinging beanbags like a pro, which leaves me free to grab another drink and observe the grown-up side of the room. Everyone is dressed in black, the men are tall, the women slim, they all standwith theleftarmfoldedacross theirabdomen,thelefthandsupportingtherightelbowsotheright hand can wave a drink around as they talk.As the pumpkin centerpieces slowly burn down they begin to cast long shadows of bankers and banker wives and everyone is starting to look to me like a Charles Addamscartoon.

I realizeI'm getting woozyfrom theheatand thealcohol, but mypurple posterior doesn't fit into anyof the pint-size plastic chairs. So I sit on the floor a few feet away from the cupcake table where Grayer has stationed himself while his pitching arm recovers. There is so much commotion around us from the Busby Berkeley staff of hired activity folk that I must consciously fix my stare on Grayer while he decorateshis fourthcupcake. I leanmyheadagainstthe

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wall andwatchwith prideasheassertively grabs sprinklesandsilver balls, whileother childrenwait for their nannies, crouched beside them, to hand over tubes of frosting as if their charges were about to performsurgery.

Eventually, Grayer's frostingfrenzyslows andheis leftstaringwith glossy eyes attheblackandorange cardboard centerpiece, his gooey hands motionless atop the table. Little beads of sweat are forming on his face. e must be boiling in that costume. I crawl over and whisper in his ear, "Hey, Buddy, why don't you take a break from all that cake making and come hang out with me for a bit?" He drops his foreheadonthetable,narrowlymissing his candycornmasterpiece.

"Come on, Grove," I say, slippinghim intomyarms andshufflingback tothewall onmyknees. I unzip

his hoodanduse anapkintowipe thedrippingmakeup fromhis foreheadandfrostingfromhis hands.

"I gotta bob for an apple," he mumbles as I lay him down with his head resting on the white rectangle ofmycostumed lap.

"Sure,justcloseyoureyes for a fewminutesfirst."

I take a swigfrom mynewestdrink, lettingtheroomsoften abit moreasI fanusbothwith aprospectus left beneath a nearby cabinet. Grayer's body becomes heavy as he drifts off. Closing my eyes, I try to picture myself in this room at some important business-type thing, but can't seem to conjure anything otherthanleading aboardmeetingasTmkyWinky.

I must keep nodding off, because I start to dream about Mrs. X, in a mink Laa-Laa costume, trying to convince me that 1 really should let her speak to H. H.'s posse about the whole "ho-thing" as "setting boundaries" is "her middle name."Then Mr. X dances in to the tune of "Monster Mash," pulling off his head to reveal that he is actually my Harvard Hottie, demanding to be taken to the bathroom. I jolt awake.

"Nanny,I gotta pee." "MonsterMash"blaresdownonus. I

locate a clock under the cobwebs. Nine goddamn thirty. Okay, so it's. hat? Twenty minutes up the FOR, ten to get out of this thing, and another twenty to get downtown to Nightingale's? He'll still be there,right?

"Okay!Let's getthis showontheroad.Let's find a bathroomandgetmoving!"

"Nanny, slow down." I pick up my dragging Grayer and sling him onto my purple hump as I dart betweenthedownedandwounded,whoareeither mid-or post-sugarcrash.

"Coming through, coming through. Have you seen the bathroom?" I inquire of a five-foot Indian woman in a Barney costume trying to placate a screaming three-foot Barney who can't seem to bite a doughnut off a string and has taken the matter directly to heart. She points over her shoulder at a line winding endlessly around the corner. I look around for out-of-the-way potted foliage, preparing a speechabouthowthisis "just liketheplayground."

Grayer pointsbehindme. "The bathroomisthat way, inmydaddy's office."

I plop him down, instructing him to lead the way, "like someone is chasing us." He takes off down the deserted corridor with his hands between his legs. It's darker and quieter than the room we have just escaped, and I speed-walk to keep Grayer in sight. Halfway down the hall he pushes a door open and I runtocatchup, practicallyrollingover him whenhefreezesinthedarkeneddoorway.

"Well, hello there, Grayer." A woman's voice startles us. Mr. X flips on the lamp as she comes around the desk in black fishnets, leotard, and a bowler hat. I recognizeher instantly. "Hello, Nanny," she says, tuckingherlooseredhair underthehat.

Grayer andI arespeechless.

Mr. X steps out from behind the desk, readjusting himself and surreptitiously wiping lipstick from his mouth. "Grayer,sayhello."

"I love your costume," she says brightly before Grayer can even speak. "See, I'm 'Chicago' because that's ourbiggestmarket!"

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"She's notwearinganypants,"hesaysquietly,pointingather nettedlegsandlookingup atme.

Mr. X swiftly picks up Grayer without looking at any of us, including Grayer, and with a "Time to call it a night,sport. Let's findyourmother" headsbacktowardtheparty.

"Um, we had to find a bathroom. Grayer has to go," I call after them, but he doesn't look back. I turn to Ms. Chicago,butshe's alreadypastme,clickingdownthehallintheoppositedirection.

Fuck.

I sitdownontheleathercouchandslump myfaceinmyhands.

I don't wanttoknowthisI don't wanttoknowthisI don't wanttoknowthis.

I grab ashooterfromthedesertedtrayof chilledvodkashotsonthecoffeetableanddownit.

Thankfully, within minutes the Xes and I are flying up the FDR and Grayer has completely passed out with his headinmylap.I suspecttheremaybe a stainontheseatwhenwegetout,but, hey, we were all adequatelywarned.

Mr. X leanshis headback againsttheleatherupholstery andcloses his eyes. I crackthewindow aninch to let some fresh air blow over me from theEast River. I am a little drunk.Yeah, I'm a little more than a little drunk.

Inthedistantbackground,I hearthetentative chatter ofMrs. X. "I wastalkingtoRyan's motherandshe says Collegiate is one of the top schools in the country. I'm going to call tomorrow and set up an interview forGrayer. Oh,andshetoldmethatsheandBenaretaking a houseinNantucketthissummer.

It turns out thatWalling-ton and Susan have summered there for the last four years and Sally says it's a delightfulbreak from the Hamptons. She said it's so pleasantjust to get awayfrom theMaidstone every once in a while, so the children can experience some diversity. And Caroline Horner has a house up there. Sally saidBen's brotherisgoingtoParis thissummer,

soyoucouldtakehis membership attheirtennisclub.AndNannycouldcome, too!Wouldn't youliketo joinusfor a fewweeksontheoceanthis summer,Nanny?It will besorelaxing."

Myearsperkup atthesoundofmynameandI findmyself respondingwith unmitigated enthusiasm.

"Totally. Relaxing and fun. F-U-N. Bring it on!" I say, trying to give a purple thumbs-up, as I imagine me, the ocean, my Harvard Hottie. "Naaantucket. wim, sand, and surf. I mean, what's not to love? Sign . . . me . . . up." Beneath my half-closed eyes I see her look at me quizzically before turning to the snoring Mr. X.

"Well, then." She pulls her mink up close around her and speaks to the city racing by outside the window. "Thatsettles it. I'll calltherealtortomorrow."

A half hour later my cab whizzes back down the FDR in the opposite direction toward Houston Street as I checkfor tracesof greasepaintin mycompact. I leanforward to catch a glance atthecabbie's clock andtheglowinggreenlettersreadback10:24.Go,Go,Go.

My heart starts to race and the adrenaline sharpens my senses considerably; I feel the bump of each potholeandcansmell thelastpassenger's cigarette.Thecombinationof thesurrealtenoroftheevening, the numerous drinks I have consumed, the leather pants I'm poured into, and the promise of a potential hookup with Harvard Hottie all add up to a lot of pressure. I am, in no uncertain terms, on a mission. Whatever reservations I had, political, moral, or otherwise, have melted past my lace underwear and intomyPradashoes.

The cab pulls up at Thirteenth Street, on a particularly seedy stretch of SecondAvenue, and I toss the driver twelve bucks and jog inside. Nightingale's is one of those places I vowed never to set foot in again after I graduated from high school. The beer's served in plastic cups, drunk men armed with darts makegettingsafelytothe

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bathroom achallenge,and,ifyoudomakeit,thedoordoesn't close. It istheproverbialShit Hole.

It takes all of two secondsforme toswing myheadaroundand seethatthereis noHarvard Hottie tobe found.Think.Think.Theywere goingtostartatChaos. "Taxi!"

I leap out on the corner of West Broadway and take my place on line behind a clump of people who have actually come here voluntarily. I'm waved behind the ropes with a clique of scantily clad girls, while afrustrated throngofguys trytotakeononeofthebouncers.

"Let's seesomeID."

I pull open my purse and hand the six-eight bouncer a juice box, HotWheels, and HandiWipes, before uncoveringmywallet.

"That'll be twenty bucks." Fine. Fine! I throw him two hours in a Teletubbies outfit and make my way up a darkened staircase lined with inappropriate black-and-white photographs of naked women with trumpet lilies. The bass beat from the house music is like aural rape and as I'm propelled along by the bump-ba-bump it reminds me of the old cartoons where Tom's music would bounce Jerry right out of his matchboxbed.

I startwending myway intothe crush of people, lookingfor?what? Brown hair, a HarvardT-shirt? The crowd is a mishmash oftourists andNYUstudentsfrom Utahandgayguys. hebalding, marriedones from the Island. nd they all went shopping on Eighth Street. It's not an attractive crowd. The strobe makes it feel as if they're flashing in front of me, like my own private slide show?ugly person, ugly person,uglyperson.

I trytomakemywayonto thedancefloor,forwhich I pay a price. Not onlyis thecrowd unattractive, it is supremelyuncoordinated.Butenthusiastic. Uncoordinatedandenthusiastic, a lethalcombination.

I maneuver carefully through the flailing limbs toward the bar at the far end of the room, making an efforttostayinmotion. ou're

only vulnerable to "unwelcome advances" if you stand still or, heaven forbid, dance, in which case you areguaranteedtohaveanunfamiliar pelvis pressedfirmly againstyour asswithin seconds.

"Martini, straightup, noolive." I need a littlepick-me-up toputtheedgebackon.

"Martinis? Pretty hard stuff, don't you think?" Oh, my God. t's Mr. COCKS. I thought H. H. was hangingoutwith his collegefriendstonight. "Isthatgood?You likethat?"

"WHAT?I CAN'THEARYOU!" I mouthasI startscanningover his whitehatfor H. H. inthecrowd.

"MARTINIS! HARDSTUFF!!" Right.

"SORRY! NOT A WORD!" I don't see him anywhere, which means I'm going to have to remind Hard

Martini over hereaboutDorrian's.

"HARD!!!" Sure,big guy. Whateveryousay.

"LISTEN,WEMETAT DORRIAN'S.'M LOOKINGFORYOURFRIEND!"

"RIGHT,THENAAAANNNEEEEHHH."Yep, that's me.

"IS HEHERE?" I shout.

"THENANNNEEEHHH."

"YEAH,I'M LOOKINGFORYOURFRIEND!IS ... HE... HERE?"

"RIGHT, YEAH, HE WAS HERE WITH SOME OF HIS COLLEGE BUDDIES, BUNCH OF ART

HOUSEPUSSIES,THEYWENTTOSOMEFUCKINGART GALLERYPOETRYTHING?

"THENEXTTHING?"I shoutintohis ear,hopingtopermanently deafenhim.

"YEAH, THAT'S IT. BUNCH OF BIDDIES IN BLACK TURTLENECKS DRINKING FUCKING

IMPORTEDCOFFEE?

"THANKS!"AndI'm off.

I getoutsideintothecoldair andlookwith reliefatthe

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bouncer as he undoes theropes. I takeout mywallet and do an inventory. Okay,I can walk it in tenand

savethemoney,butthese

shoesare?

"Hello?" I look over to see . .. me, in flannel pajamas, on Char-lene's futon, watching educational

television with George. "Hello? Can we talk for a second here? You got up at five-thirty this morning.

Did you even eat a full meal today? When was the last time you had a glass of water and your feet are

killing you."

"So?" I askmyself asI puffalongSpringStreet.

"Sooo, you are tired, you are drunk, and, if you don't mind my saying, you're not looking all that great.

Gohome. Evenifyoufind

him?

"Look, you flannel-wearing, couch-warming, lo mein-eating loser, you are sitting at home alone. 1

know from sitting home, okay? My feet are bleeding, I'm down with that, I cannot fully inhale due to

the leather pants, and there is a permanent lace indentation up the crack of my ass. ut I deserve this date! This date will happen because I still have greasepaint behind my ears. I've earned this! What if I can't find him . .. ever again7. What if he never finds me? Sure, I want to be home, I want to be on the couch,butI needtohookupfirst! I havetherestof mylifetowatchTV!"

"Yeah,youdon't reallyseem all that?

"Well, of course not! Who would be at this hour? It's not about that! I have to win. He has to see me in myleatherpants. ecannot, cannot,cannotgotobedtonightwith thelast imagehehas of me beingin a hugepurpleTeletubbycostume! Outof thequestion.Goodnight."

I harden my resolve and turn onto Mercer, heading up to the bouncer. n art gallery with a bouncer, don't evengetme started.

"Sorry,lady,we're closedfor aprivate functiontonight."

"But. ut. utI? I'm dumbfounded.

"Sorry,lady."Andthatisthat.

"Taxi." I bum a cigarette off the driver and exhale as the city goes by in reverse. I honestly think, years fromnow,taxi rideslikethiswill bethedefiningmemory ofmyearlytwenties.

I mean,really,ifyouwantedtoseeme,commit to aplace!

I flicktheashoutthewindow. It's thewholeBuffet Syndrome?forNewYork Cityboys Manhattanis an all-you-can-eat. Why commit to one place when there might be a cooler one around the corner? Why commit toonemodel,when a better/taller/thinner onecouldwalkinthedooratanymoment?

So, in order to avoid having to make a choice, a decision, these boys make a religion of chaos. Their lives become governed by this bizarre need for serendipity. It's a whole lot of "We'll just see what happens."AndinManhattanthatcouldbehangingoutwith KateMossatfourA.M.

So,ifI "happen"torunintohimthreeweekendsin a rowthenI mightendup a girlfriend.Theproblem, then, is that their reverence for anarchy forces those of us lucky enough to "happen into" relationships with them to become the planners. r nothing would happen. We become their mothers, their cruise directors. heirnannies.Anditrunsthegamut from H. H. notbeingabletocommit tooneclubforone eveningto Mr. Xalways beinglate,beingearly,ornotbeingthereatall.

I take a drag of my borrowed Parliament and think of Lion King costumes, fishnets, and leather pants, the hours of planningpoured into this night. The cab pulls into Ninety-third Street and I fish for the last of my crumpled twenties.As the cab drives awaythe city suddenly seems very quiet. I stand there for a moment on the sidewalk. he air is bracingly cold, but it feels good. I sit down on the steps of my building and look over at the dim lights of Queens, winking at me across the East River. I wish I had anothercigarette.

I getupstairs andunbuttonmypants,kick offmyshoes,reach

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for water, for pajamas, for George. And on the ninth floor of the electric porcupine that is New York City, Mrs. X is still sitting wide awake in the upholstered chair across from the beige bed, watching as the covers rise and fall with each snore, while somewhere Ms. Chicago unpeels her fishnets and gets intobedalone.

PART TWO

"OooooooooI justloveNannyI absolutelydo ... Sheismymostlycompanion."

. LOISE

CHAPTER FOUR

HolidayCheerat$10 anHour

I turnthekeyandleanintotheXes'heavyfrontdoor,ashasbecomemyhabit,but itonlyswingsopen a footbeforegettingstuck.

"Huh,"I say.

"Huh,"Grayer echoesbehindme.

"Something's blocking the door," I explain as I reach my arm around and begin to grope blindly to identifytheobstructingobject.

"MOOOOMMMMMM! THE DOOR WON'T OPENNNN!!!" Grayer, wasting no time, uses his own approach.

I heartheslideof Mrs. X's stockingfeet. "Yes, Grayer,Mommy's coming. I simply couldn't carry all my elfing past thedoor inone trip."She pulls the door openand is revealed,knee deep inpiles of shopping bags on the foyer floor. ucci, Ferragamo, Chanel, Hermes, and endless silver boxes with purple ribbon, the signature Bergdorf's holiday wrap. She holds what must have been the offending item, a large Tiffany blue package, under her arm and greets us. "Can you believe people actually get engaged this time of year? As if there isn't enough to do, I also had to run all the way to Tiffany's to pick up a sterling serving tray. They should at least have had the decency to wait till January. t's just one more month,really. I'm sosorry,Grayer,thatI couldn't come toyourparty. I'm sureyouhad a wonderfultime with Nanny!"

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I put my backpack down in the coat closet and slip off my boots before crouching to help Grayer with his jacket. He gingerly protects the ornament we have just spent the past three hours constructing with his classmates (and their nannies) at his school's Family Christmas Party. He drops to the floor so I can pulloffhis wet boots.

"Grayer constructed quite the masterpiece," I say. "He's really a wizard with Styrofoam and glitter!" 1 lookupatherasI placehis boots onthemat.

"It's a snowman. His name is Al. He has a cold so he has to take lots of vitamin C." Grayer describes StyrofoamAl asifannouncinghimasthenextguestonLetterman.

"Ah."Shenods,shiftingtheTiffany's packagetoherhip.

"Why don't you go look for a spot for Al to hang out?" I help him up and he shuffles off toward the living roomwith his artwork heldinfrontof himlike a Fabergeegg.

I standup,brushmyself off,andfaceMrs. X,readytogive the report.

"I wish you could have seen him this morning. He was totally in his element! He loved the glitter. And hereallytookhis time with making it. You knowGiselleRutherford?"

"Jacqueline Rutherford's daughter? Of course. h, her mother is too much.When it was her turn to do snack she brought in a chef and set up an omelette bar in the music corner. I mean, really. The rule is youaresupposedtocome with thesnackprepared.Tell me,tellme."

"Well, Ms. Giselle insisted that Grayer do his snowman according to her color scheme. range, becauseshe's spendingthisChristmas inSouthBeach."

"Oh,howtacky."Hereyes arewide.

"She pulled Al right out of Grayer's hands and he landed smack in the middle of her orange glitter. I thought Grayer would lose it, but he just looked up at me and announced thatAl's orange specks were simply crumbs from all thevitamin Chehadtotakeforhis cold!"

"I thinkhejusthas a knackforcolor."Shebeginstoorganizeher bags. "So,howare finalsgoing?"

"I'm inthehome stretchandcan't wait tobedone."

Shestandsup andarches her back a little, making a fearful crackingsound. "I know,I'm justexhausted! It seemslikethelist justkeepsongrowing every year. Mr. Xhas ahugefamilyandsomanycolleagues. And it's already thesixth. I cannotwait for Lyford Cay. Cannotwait. I'm exhausted."She gathers up her bags. "Whenareyouoffuntil?"

"January twenty-sixth," I say. Just two more weeks to go and then I have a whole month off from schoolandyou.

"You should go to Europe this January. Do it while you're still a student, before you have Real Life to worryabout."

Oh, so maybe my pending Christmas bonus will cover a plane ticket to Europe? Six hours in a Teletubbycostume says I'm worthit.

Shecontinues. "You shouldseeParis whenit's snowing,there's nothingascharming."

"Except Grayer, of course!" We laugh together, as I try to sell her on her own child. The phone rings, interruptingus.

Mrs. X grabs a few more bags in each hand, tightens her arm around the Tiffany's package, and heads back toward her office. "Oh, Nanny, the tree's been set up. Why don't you and Grayer go down to the basement andbringuptheornaments?"

"Sure!" I call after her asI walk tothe living room. Thetree is a magnificentDouglasfir thatlooks asif it were growing rightout of thefloor. I closemyeyes and inhalefor a secondbefore addressingGrayer, who's having an animated exchange withAl, the lone tree decoration teetering on the very tip of a low branch.

"Hey, looks like your man Al is getting ready to jump." I reach for the bent paper clip serving as Al's lifeline.

"DON'T! He doesn't want you to touch him. Only me," he instructs. We spend the next fifteen tedious minutesrelocatingAl

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while ensuring that only Grayer's hands do all the work. I stare up at the many feet of bare greens towering above us and wonder if anyone would notice if the rest of the Xes' ornaments didn't make it onthis year.Attheratewe're going,itmightconceivablytakeGrayerwell

intohis twenties.

I lookdownathimashewhisperstoAl. "Okay,buddy,"I say, "let's gotothebasement andbringup the rest of your ornaments so they can keep Al company. They'll be there to talk him down if he gets too closetotheedgeagain." "To thebasement?" "Yup. Let's go."

"1 got toget mystuff.Got togetmyhelmet andbelt.You go tothedoorNanny, I'll meetya ... got toget theflashlight.. ." Herunstohis roomasI ringfortheelevator.

Grayer glides back out into the vestibule just as the elevator door opens. "Oh, my God, Grove!All this for the basement?" He puts one sock-covered foot down to stop his skateboard in front of the elevator door. His bicycle helmet sits slightly askew and he has shoved a huge flashlight into his waistband, along with a yo-yo and what looks to be a monogrammed washcloth from his bathroom. "Okay, let's go,"hesays with completeauthority. "I'm thinkingwe shouldatleastbewearingshoesforthis

adventure."

"Nah,don't need 'em."Herolls insideandthedoor closes behindbothof usbeforeI cancatch it. "It's so cool down there, Nanny. Oh, man, oh, man." He nods his helmeted head in anticipation. Grayer has taken to peppering his commentary with "oh, mans" as of late, thanks to Christianson, a four-year-old of remarkable charisma who has a good foot in height over the rest of his classmates. In fact, when Al first made impact with the fateful orange glitter both Giselle's and Grayer's first utterance was a simultaneous "Oh,man."

The elevator stops at the lobby and Grayer rolls ahead of me, propelling himself with one foot, while keeping both hands on his waistband so that his packed pants don't succumb to gravity. By the time I catch up, he's already gotten Ramon to lead the way to the caged service elevator. "Ahh, Mr. Grayer. You musthaveimportantbusiness downthere,huh?"

Grayer isbusyadjustinghis toolsandoffersonly adistracted "Yup."

Ramonsmiles inhis directionandthenwinksconspiratoriallyatme. "He's veryserious,our Mr. Grayer. You got a girlfriend yet, Mr. Grayer?" The elevator jerks as we reach the basement. He slides the gate open and we step out into the bright, cold corridor, rich with the aroma of dryer sheets. "Cage 132. own to the right. Be careful now, don't get lost, or I'll have to come find you..." He winks again and, with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows, pulls the door closed, leaving me beneath a dangling lightbulb.

"Grayer?" I yell downthecorridor.

"Nanny! I'm waiting. Come onnnn!" I follow his voice around the maze of floor-to-ceiling cages lining the walls. Some are more packed than others, but each has the requisite luggage, ski equipment, and random pieces of bubble-wrapped furniture. I round the bend and see Grove lying on his stomach atop his skateboard under a sign that says 132, pulling himself along the wired wall by his hands. "Oh, man, it's gonna be so fun when Daddy comes home and does the tree. Caitlin gets us started and Daddy does thehigh-ups andwehavehotchocolateinthelivingroom."

"Soundspretty cool. Here, I have thekey," I say, holdingit out toward him. He jumps up anddown as I unlock the cage and then proceeds to deftly make his way in around the boxes. I let him lead as he's clearly madethistrekbeforeandI wouldn't know astoragelockerfromanEasy-Bakeoven.

I sitdownonthecoldcementandleanbackonthecagedoor

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facing that of the Xes. My parents used to daydream about storage space, sitting with both feet up on the trunk packedto bursting with our summer clothes thatserved as our coffee table. On occasion, we'd allow ourselves to talk about what we could do with one extra closet. uch as a family in Wyoming mightfantasizeaboutwinning thelottery.

"Do you know what you're looking for, Grove?" I call into the piles, as I haven't heard anything in a few minutes. Loud clanging noises break the silence. "Grayer! What's going on in there?" I start to standupashis flashlightcomes rollingoutofthedarknessandstopsatmyfeet.

"Just getting my stuffout, Nanny! Turn the light on me, I'm going to get the blue box!" I click the high beam on and point it into the cage as directed, illuminating two dirtied socks and a little khaki rear end tunnelingintothemiddleofthepile.

"Are yousurethat's safe,Grayer? I thinkmaybe I should ..."What,crawlinbehindhim?

"I got it. Oh, man, there's lotsa stuff back here. My skis! These are my skis, Nanny, for when we go to Aspirin."

"Aspen?"

"Aspen. Found it! Going to pass 'em out. Get ready. You get ready, Nanny, here they come." He is far into the boxes. I hear fumbling and then a glass ball comes flying out of the darkness at me. I drop the flashlight and catch it. It is handblown and has a Steuben mark on it, along with a red hook. Before I canlookup anotheronecomes flying out.

"GRAYER!FREEZE!" Withtheflashlightrollingaround onthe floor,casting a weird lighton Grayer'boxes, I realize I've been letting Mickey Mouse run the show. "Back it up, mister, back it right on up.sIt's yourturntoholdtheflashlight."

"Noooooo."

"Gray-er!" It's theWickedWitchvoice.

"FINE!" Hetunnelsbackout.

I handhimtheflashlight. "Nowlet's trythisagain,onlythis timeyou'll bemeand I'll beyou."

When we get back up to the apartment Grayer marches ahead to establish a plan of attack while I gingerlysettheboxofornamentsdowninthefronthall.

"Nanny?" I hear asmall voice callforme.

"Yes, G?" I follow him into the living room where a flamboyant JohnnyCash is on a ladder, decorating

Grayer's tree.

"Passme thatboxof doves," hesays, noteven turningtolookatus. Grayer andI, standingsafelybythe

door, survey the living room floor, which is littered with doves, gold leaves, Victorian angels, and

stringsofpearls.

"Get down.Mydaddoesthehigh-ups."

"Holdon asec,Grayer,"I sayasI pass offthebirds tothemaninblack. "I'll berightback."

"You better get down or my daddy's gonna be mad at you," I hear Grayer challenge as I knock on Mrs.

X's officedoor.

"Come in."

"Hi, Mrs. X? Sorry to bother you? The room, ordinarily pristine, has been taken over by her "elfing"

andstacksandstacksofChristmas cards.

"No, no, come in. hatis it?" I open mymouth. "Have you met Julio? Isn't he a genius? I'm so luckyI

gothim. eisthethetreeexpert.You shouldseewhathedidattheEgglestons. twasjust

breathtaking."ttj_?

"While I've got you, can I ask? Is a plaid taffeta skirt just too cliche for a Scottish Christmas party? I

can't decide?

UT___)>

"Oh!You shouldsee. boughtthecutesttwinsets todayforMr.

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X's nieces. I hope they're the right color. Would you wear winter-weight cashmere pastels?" She pulls

out aTSEshoppingbag. "I mightexchangethem?

"I was just wondering," I cut in, "Grayer was really looking forward to decorating the tree. He said it

was something he did with Caitlin last year and I was wondering if maybe I could just get him a small treeforhisroomthathecouldhang acoupleofornamentson, justforfun? "I really don't think it would be a good idea to be traipsing needles all over that part of the house." She

searchesfor asolution. "If hewants atreeactivity,whydon't youtakehimtoRockefellerCenter?"

"Well...Yeah, no,yeah,that's a greatidea,"I sayasI openthedoor.

"Thanks.'m justsooverwhelmed!"

When I get back in the living room Grayer is holding a silver baby spoon on a string and tapping on

Julio's ladder. "Hey! Howaboutthis?Wheredoesthis go?" heasks.

Julio looks down in disgust at the spoon. "That doesn't really gel with my vision? Grayer's eyes start to

well up. "Well, ifyoumust. Intheback.Onthebottom."

"G,I've got a plan.GrabAl, I'll getyourcoat."

"Grandma,Grayer. Grayer,this isGrandma."

My grandmother crouches down in her black satin pajama pants, her pearls clicking together as she

extends her hand. "Pleased to meet you, Grayer. And darling, you must beAl." Grayer blushes deeply.

"Well, arewedoingChristmas orwhat?Everybody inwhowantsrugelach."

"Thanksso much,Gran. We were in desperate needof a surface to decorate."The doorbellrings behind

usasI reachtotakeoffGrayer's coat.

"Asurface!Don't beridiculous."Shereachesover Grayer's head

to open the door and there stands a huge tree with two arms wrapped around it. "Right this way!" she

says. "Now, Grayer," she whispers, "you cover Al's eyes. It's all about the surprise." We kick off our

boots and follow closely behind them into the apartment. I've got to hand it to her. he has the

deliverymanplaceitsquarelyinthemiddleof thelivingroom. Sheseeshimoutandreturnstojoinus.

"Grandma,youreallydidn't havetogeta?

"If you're going to do something, darling, then do it all the way. Now, Grayer, let me hit the special effects and we'll get this soiree started." Grayer holds his hands carefully over Al's eyes as my grandmother turns on Frank Sinatra?Can't find Bing," she mouths?and hits the lights. She's lit candles all about the room, setting a beautiful glow around our family pictures, and as Frank croons "The Lady Is aTramp,"it's breathtaking.

SheleansdowntoGrayer. "Well, sir, wheneveryou're ready,I believeAl shouldmeethis tree."We both make drum-roll noises as Grayer takeshis hands offAl's eyes and asks him exactly where he wouldlike tohangoutfirst.

An hour later the two of us are lounging on cushions beneath the green boughs, sipping hot chocolate, while GrayerrelocatesAl atwhim.

"So,how's thedramawith your H. H.?"

"I can't get a read on him. I want him to be different from those boys, but there's really no good reason whyhewouldbe. Ofcourse,if1 never seehimagainit's prettyirrelevant."

"Keep ridingtheelevator, dear. He'll showup.So,howarefinals going?" sheasks.

"OnlyonemoreandI'm done. It's beeninsane. heXeshavebeenout atChristmas partiesevery night. I only study after Grayer goes to sleep, which, ultimately, is probably better than trying to concentrate over thesoundsof Charleneandherhairyboyfriend?Shelooksatme. "Don't evengetme started."

"Well, justdon't wearyourself out. It's notworthit."

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"I know. Butthebonusisboundtobegoodthisyear. he's mentionedParis."

"Ohlala,tresbien."

"Nanny, Al wants to know why Daddy isn't doing the high-ups," Grayer asks quietly from behind the tree. I lookover ather,unsurehowtoanswerhim.

"Grayer". hesmiles atme reassuringly?hasNantoldyouaboutwassailing?"

Heemerges. "Whatdidyousay?" Hecomes up closetoherandputshishandonher knee.

"Wassailing, darling.Whenyou wassail. ou make Christmas! You, little Grayer,are the very best gift you can give. All you do is knock on someone's door, someone you want to share the joy of Christmas with, and when they open it you sing your heart out. Wassailing. ou've got to try it!" He lies down nexttomeandwe lookup throughthebrancheswithour headstogetheron apillow.

"Grandma, you showme. Sing something," hesays. I turnmyheadandsmile at her. Fromwhere we lie sheseems tobeglowingassheleansagainstthechaisesurroundedbycandles. Shebegins tosingalong with her Frank to "The Way You LookTonight." Grayer closes his eyes and I fall just a little bit more in lovewith her.

A weeklater,inexcitedpursuit of Mr. X, Mrs. Xand Grayer marcheagerly aheadof me along thesame corridor I chased Grayer down at the Halloween party. Boughs of greens and twinkling colored lights nowhangwherefakecobwebshadbeen.

Mrs. X pushes Mr. X's heavyofficedooropen.

"Darling, come in." He stands, backlit by the setting sun, which pours in through the floor-to-ceiling windowsbehindhis desk.I am immediatelystruckbyhis capabilitytoexuderelaxedpower inthis

roomwith thelightsonaswellas off. HelooksthroughmeinGrayer's generaldirection. "Hey,sport."

Grayer tries to hand off the bag of Christmas presents we've brought for the charity his father's companysupports,but Mr. Xhas alreadypickedup theblinkingphone.

I takethepresentsandleandowntounbuckleGrayer's togglecoat.

"Justine said something about cookies in the conferenceroom. Why don't you take Grayer down there? I have to take this call and then I'll join you," Mr. X instructs, his hand over the mouthpiece. Mrs. X drops her mink on the couch and we file back out toward the sound of Christmas carols coming from behindthedoubledoorsattheendofthehall.

Mrs. X is a sugarplumvision inherMoschinogreensuitwith redholly-berry trimandmistletoe buttons. To top it off, the heels of her shoes are miniature snow globes with a reindeer in one and Santa in the other. I am just grateful not to be dressed up as Frosty the Snowman, and wear my Christmas-tree pin with pride.

With a grand smile she pushes the doors open into the conference room, at the far end of which sits a small gaggle of women, whom I assume to be secretaries, opening a tin of cookies and playing Alvin andtheChipmunkson atapeplayer.

"Ooh, I'm sorry. I'm looking for the Christmas party," Mrs. X says, Stopping short at the head of the table.

"Would you like a cookie? I made them myself," a jolly-looking robust woman with Christmas-tree!

lightearringscalls back.

"Oh."Mrs. Xseems confused.

The doors swing open again, narrowly missing Grayer and me. I inhalesharplyas Ms. Chicagosteps in

tojoinour cluster. Shemaneuversaroundustogetto Mrs. X,her tightflannelsuitleaving littlemore to

theimaginationthanherHalloweencostume did.

"I heardtherewere cookies,"shesaysas asturdy-looking

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brunettecomes flyinginbehindher,pushingus all forwardagainstthetable.

"Mrs. X,"thebrunettesays,slightlyoutofbreath.

"Justine,MerryChristmas," Mrs. Xgreets her.

"Hi,MerryChristmas, whydon't youcome with metothekitchenandwe'll getsomecoffee?"

"Don't be silly, Justine." Ms. Chicagosmiles. "There's coffee right here." She walks over to the chrome

potandpulls out aStyro-foamcup. "Won't yougoseewhat's takingthemsolongwith thosenumbers?"

"Are yousureyoudon't wanttocome with me,Mrs. X?"

"Justine."Ms. Chicagoraisesaneyebrow andJustinewalksslowlybackoutthedoubledoors.

"Are weearly?" Mrs. X inquires.

"Earlyforwhat?" Ms. Chicagoasks, pouringtwocupsofcoffee.

"Forthefamily Christmas party."

"That's next week.'m surprisedyour husbanddidn't tellyou.Shame onhim!" Shelaughs,handingthe

coffee to her. Grayer squeezes past Ms. Chicago's exposed knees, swaggering down to the other end of

thetabletowowthesecretariesoutof acookie.

Mrs. X stammers, "Well,um, myhusbandmust havegottenthedatesconfused."

"Men,"Ms. Chicagosnorts.

Mrs. X shiftstheStyrofoamcuptoherlefthand. "I'm sorry,havewe met?"

"Lisa. Lisa Chenowith,"Ms. Chicagosmiles, "I'm ManagingDirectoroftheChicagobranch."

"Oh,"Mrs. Xsays, "nice tomeetyou."

"I'm so sorry I couldn't get to your dinner party. heard it was lovely. Unfortunately,that slave-driver

husband of yours insisted I hightail it back to Illinois." She tilts her head to the side and smiles

brilliantly like a canary-filledcat. "Thegift bags wereadorable?everyonejustloves thepens."

"Oh, good." Mrs. X raises her hand protectively to her collarbone. "You work with my husband?"And

with thatI decidetomakehelpingGrayer pickouttheperfectreindeercookiemypersonalmission.

"I'm heading up the team working on the Midwest Mutual merger. Isn't it awful? Well, I'm sure you

know."

"Truly,"Mrs. Xsays, buthervoice rises,betrayingher uncertainty.

"Getting them down to eight percent was such a coup. You must have had some sleepless nights over

that one," she says, shaking her Titian hair in sympathy. "But I told him if we push the sell date up and

savethemtheliquidationcosts, theymightbend. ndtheydid.Theybentrightover."

Mrs. X stands very straight, her hand clenched tightly around the Styrofoam. "Yes, he's been working

veryhard."

Ms. Chicagostruts to our end of the table, her lizard-skin pumps silenton theplush carpet. "Andyou're

Grayer. Doyouremember me?" shebendsdowntoinquire.

Grayer places her. "You don't wearpants." Oh,sweet Jesus.

Just then the door opens and Mr. X strides in, his broad frame towering in the doorway. "Ed Strauss is

onthephone. ewantstogoover thecontract," hecalls downthetabletoMs. Chicago.

"Fine," she says, smiling, as she walks slowly back up the room past Mrs. X. "Merry Christmas,

everybody."Asshereaches Mr. X sheadds, "It wassolovely tofinallymeet yourfamily."

Hisjaw clenched, Mr. Xcloses thedoorswiftly behindthem.

"Daddy, wait!" Grayer attempts to follow him out of the room, but the Dixie cup of grape juice slips

from his grasp, staining both his shirt and the beige carpet a deep purple. Mercifully, we all turn our attention to the spill, gathering paper napkins and seltzer. Grayer stands whimpering while multiple manicuredhandsdab athis front.

"Nanny, I'd really appreciate it if you kept a closer eye on him. Just get him cleaned up.'ll be waiting inthecar,"Mrs. X instructs,placingheruntouchedcupofcoffeeonthetable,likeSnowWhite

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putting down the apple. When she looks back up she has pasted on a beaming smile for the secretaries.

"See you all nextweek!"

The next afternoon, having finished his lunch, Grayer announces our plans as he climbs down from his

boosterseat.

"Wassailing."

"What?"

"I want to wassail. I'm going to make my own Christmas. I knock on the door, you open it, and I sing

my heart out." I'm amazed that he's retained this from our visit over a week ago, but my grandmother

doeshave awayofnestling herselfintopeople's memories.

"Okay,whatdoorwouldyoulikeme tostandbehind?" I ask.

"My bathroom," he says over his shoulder as he heads off with purpose toward his wing. I follow him

andpositionmyself inthebathroomasdirected.A few momentslaterI hearhislittle knock.

"Yes," I say, "who's there?"

"NANNY,youarejustsupposedtoopenthedoor!Don't talk,justopenit!"

"Right. Ready when you are." I sit back on the toilet seat and start checking my hair for split ends,

sensingthatthisgamemaybeslowtogetofftheground.

Again, asmall knock.I leanforward andnudgethedooropen,almost knockinghimover.

"NANNY,that's mean!You're tryingtopushme!I don't likethat. Startover."

Eleven knocks later, I finally get it right and am rewarded with a screaming rendition of "Happy

Birthday" thatshakesthewindow-pane.

"Grover, why don't you try a little dancing while you wassail?" I ask when he finishes. "Really wow 'em?" I hopehemightquietdownifhehastodivert someenergytostayinginmotion. "Wassailing is not dancing, it is singing your heart out." He puts his hands on his hips. "Close the door

and I'll knock,"he says, asif suggestingthis routinefor thefirst time. We playwassailing forabout half an hour until I remember that Connie, the housekeeper, is here and sic Grayer on her. I hear him from across the apartment, screaming "Happy Birthday" over her roaring vacuum and after five rounds go backtocollectwhatisrightfullymine.

"Wanttoplaycars?"

"No.I wanttowassail. Let's gobacktomybathroom."

"Onlyifyoudance,too."

"Oh,man,oh,man,thereisNOdancingwhenI wassail!"

"Come on,mister,we're calling Grandma."

One short phone call later and Grayer is not only dancing and singing the actual "Here we come a

wassailing among the leaves so green," which is infinitely less painful, but I have been inspired with a

delicious plan.

As I give Grayer's wassailing outfit (green and red striped turtle-neck, felt reindeer antlers, candy-cane

suspenders) a final once-over for "ultra wassailyness," Mrs. X comes bustling in, Ramon in tow, laden

with boxes.

Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes are glistening. "Oh, it is a zoo out there, a zoo! I nearly got into a fight

with awoman atHammacherSchlemmer. utthemdownover there,Ramon. verthelastScrewPull,

but I just let her have it, I thought there is no point descending to her level. I think she was from out of

town. Oh, I found the most darling wallets at Gucci. Does Cleveland understand Gucci? I wonder.

hankyou,Ramon.Oh,I hopetheylikethem?Grayerwhathaveyoubeenup to?"

"Nothing,"hesays, whilepracticinghis soft-shoebytheumbrella stand.

"Before lunchwe made unsweetenedcookies anddecoratedthemand thenwe've beenpracticing carols

andI readhimTheNightBeforeChristmas inFrench,"I say, tryingtojoghis memory.

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"Oh, wonderful. I wish someone would read to me." She takes off her mink and nearly hands it to

Ramon. "Oh,that's all, Ramon, thankyou."Sheclaps herhandstogether."So,whatareyouup tonow?"

"I wasgoingtoletGrayerpracticehis caroling?

"WASSAILING!"

". nsomeoftheelderly inthebuilding, whomightappreciatea littleholidaycheer!"

Mrs. X is beaming. "Oh,excellent!What a goodboy you areand that'll keep him o-c-c-u-p-i-e-d. I have

somuchtodo!Havefun!"

I letGrayerpress fortheelevator. "Which floor,Nanny?"

"Let's startwith yourfriendoneleven."

We have to buzz three times before we hear "Coming!" from inside the apartment.As soon as the door

opens it's apparent the hour and a half of "practicing" was well worth it. H. H. leans against the door

frameinfadedChristmas-tree boxersand a well-wornAndoverT-shirt, rubbingsleepout ofhis eyes. "HERE WE COME A-WASSAILING.'AMONG THE LEAVES SO GREEN.'.'/" Grayer is red faced, swaying backandforth,with his jazz handssplayedand antlers waving.For a splitseconditcrosses my mindthathemightliterally singhis heartout.

"LOVEAND JOY COME TO YOU.'.'.'" His voice ricochets around the vestibule, bouncing off every surfacesothatitsoundsasifhe's a chorusofemphatic wassailers.A wassailing riot. Whenit appearshe hasreachedhis conclusion, H. H. bendsdownandopenshis mouth.

"AND GOD BLESS YOU.'.'.'" This move mistakenly places him at ground zero to be blasted with the spitandsweatofGrayer's effort,whichisthenfollowedbyaneven louderfinale.

"Well, goodmorningtoyou,too,Grayer!" Grayer collapses onto the vestibule floor, panting to catch his breath. I smile beguilingly. Make no bonesaboutit;I am agirl with

a mission.I am heretoget aDate.A RealDatewith aplanand alocationandeverything.

"We're caroling?I begin.

"Wassailing," a small exasperatedvoice pipesinfromthefloor.

"Wassailing aroundthebuilding."

"CanI have acookienow?" Grayersits up,readytoberewardedforhis efforts.

H. H. turns into his apartment. "Sure. Come on in. Don't mind my pajamas." Oh, if you insist. We follow his boxer-clad body into what is essentially the Xes' apartment, only two floors higher, and one wouldnever guessthatwe wereeven inthesamebuilding.Thewallsinthefronthallarepainted adeep brick red and are decorated with National Geographic'tjpe black-and-white photographs between kilim

tapestries. There are sneakers lining the floor and dog hair on the carpet. We make our way into the

kitchenwherewe practicallytrip over ahuge,grayingyellow Lablying onthefloor.

"Grayer, you know Max, right?" Grayer hunkers down and with uncharacteristic gentleness rubs Max's

ears. Max's tail animatedly pounds the tiles in response. I look around; instead of the large island that

Mrs. X hasinthemiddleoftheroom,there's anold refectorytablepiledhighatoneendwith theTimes.

"Cookies? Anyone want cookies?" H. H. asks, brandishing a Christmas tin of David's cookies that he

has pulled from a teetering pile of holiday baked goods on the sideboard. Grayer runs over to help

himself andI forcemyself tofocus.

"Just one,Grover."

"Oh,man."

"Doyouwantmilkwith that?" Heheadstothefridgeandreturnswith a fullglass.

"Thankyousomuch,"I say. "Hey,Grayer,anything youwanttosaytoourhost?"

"Thanks!" hemumbles,his mouthfullof cookie.

THE NANNY DIARIES

"No,man,thankyou!It's theleastI candoafter such apowerful performance."Hesmiles over atme. "I

can't remember thelasttime someonesangtomewhenit wasn't mybirthday."

"1 cando that!I can do 'HappyBirthday'? Heputs his glass down on thefloor andplaces his hands into thejazzpositioninpreparation. "Whoa! We have done our fair shareof wassailing already? I put myhandout to shield us from another

round.

"Grayer,it's notmybirthdaytoday. ButI promise I'll letyouknowwhenitis."Teamwork,I love it.

"Okay. Let's go, Nanny. Got to wassail. Let's go now." Grayer hands H. H. his empty glass, wipes his

glovedhandacrosshis lips,andheadsforthedoor.

I stand up from the table, not really wanting to leave. "I'm sorry I never caught up with you that night;

theirpartyranreallylate."

"That's all right, you didn't miss anything.The NextThing was having a private party, so we just ended

up gettingpizzaatRuby's."AsintheRuby's thatis exactlytwentyfeetfrommyfrontstoop.Theirony.

"Howlongareyouhomefor?" I askwithoutbattinganeyelash.

"NA-NNY.Theelevator's here!"

"Just aweekandthenwegotoAfrica."

Theelevator doorwaiting,myheartpounding. "Well,I'm aroundifyouwanttohangoutthisweekend,"

I sayasI stepinbesideGrayer.

"Yeah,great," hesaysfromthedoorway.

"Great." I nodmyheadasthedoorslidesclosed.

"GREAT!" Grayer singsas a warm-up toour nextperformance.

Short of writing my number on a piece of paper and shoving it under his door, I leave 721 Park on FridaynightknowingthereisnowayI am goingtosee H. H. beforeheleaves forAfrica. Ugh.

1 O9

That night I make Sarah, who's home for Christmas vacation, accompany me to a holiday party being given downtown by some guys in my class. The whole apartment is festively decorated in glowing jalapeno-pepper lights and someone has glued a cutout of a large penis onto the picture of Santa in the living room. It takesless thanfive minutes to decide thatwe don't want a Bud Light from the bathtub, a fistful of corn chips from a filmy bowl, or to take any of the frat boys up on their gracious offers of quickoralsex.

We headJoshoffonthestairs.

"Nofun?" heasks.

"Well,"Sarahsays, "I lovetoplaystrip quartersasmuchasthenextgirl, but?

"Sarah!" Joshcries,giving her ahug. "Leadon!"

Several hours later find me doing a martini-sodden rendition of the wassailing story for Sarah in a corner booth at the NextThingwhile Joshhits on some fashionista atthe bar. "Andthen ... he gave him a cookie!Thatmust mean something, right?" We do an interpretive danceof every subtlenuance of the entire five-minute exchange until we have completely wrung the encounter of any meaning it might possiblyhavehad. "So thenhesaid 'Great'andthenI said 'Great.'"

Saturdaymorning I wake with myshoes still on, a killer hangover, and only one dayto buypresents for myentire family,theXes,andthemanylittle peopleI've takencareof over theyears.TheGleasongirls have already sent over two glitter pens and a rock with my name painted on it.'ve got to get my act together.

I wolf down tomato sauce on toast, drink a liter of water, grab a double shot of espresso on the corner, andba-da-bing, I am alive with theHolidaySpirit.

AnhourlaterI emergefromBarnesandNobleJunior a good$ 150

THE NANNY DIARIES

lighter,prompting metodo a littlemathasI walkdownPark.ForgetParis, I'm goingtoneedthatstupid bonusjusttopayoffChristmas.

I walk down Madison to Bergdorf s to get a Rigaud candle for Mrs. X. It may be tiny, but at least she'll know it wasn't cheap.As I stand on line for the all-important stiver gift wrap I try to figure out what to get the four-year-old who has everything. What would make him really happy, short of his father actually making an appearanceto do the high-ups? Well... a night-light, because he's scared of thedark. Andmaybe abus-pass holderthatcouldkeepthatcardprotectedbeforeitcompletely disintegrates.

As I'm on Fifty-eighth and Fifth, the logical thing would be to cross the street to FAO Schwarz's

enormous SesameStreet sectiontofindhim a Grover night-light, butI can't, can't, can't.

I debate which would be faster, taking the train to a Toys "JI" Us in Queens or navigating a few thousand square feet of bedlam just a block away. Against my better judgment, I drag myself across Fifth to wait in line with the entire population of Nebraska in the cold for over half an hour before beingusheredintotherevolvingdoors by atalltoysoldier.

"Welcome to our world. Welcome to our world. Welcome to our world of toys," blasts relentlessly from mysteriously placed speakers, making it sound as if the eerie, childlike singing is coming from within my own head. Yet it cannot drown out the tortured cries of "But I waaaant it!! 1 neeeeed it!!" that also fill the air. Andthisisonly thestuffed-animalfloor.

Upstairs is total chaos; children are firing ray guns, throwing slime, sports equipment, and siblings. I look around at parents who share my "let's just get through this" expression and employees trying to makeittolunchwithoutsustainingseriousbodilyinjury. I slithertoSesameStreetCornerwhere alittle girl ofaboutthreehasprostratedherselfonthefloorandissobbingforinjusticeeverywhere.

iii

"Maybe Santawill bringyouone,Sally."

"NoooOOOoooOOOOoooOOOooooooooOOOoooooOOOO!"shehowls.

"CanI help you?" asks a salesgirlwearing aredshirtandglazedsmile.

"I'm lookingfor aGrover night-light."

"Oh, I think we sold out of Grover." The last half hour of standing in line says you didn't. "Let's take a look."Yes, let's.

We go to the night-light section where we are faced with an entire wall of Grover. "Yeah, sorry, those wentfast,"shesays, shakingherheadasshebeginstowanderoff.

"Yeah,thisisone,"I say, holdingitup.

"Oh,ishetheblueguy?"Yes, he's theblue guy. (Don't evenget mestarted!NooneatBarnesandNoble Junior had even heard of Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile. Come on, you work in a children's bookstore, it's not likeI'm askingforHustler.)

I take my place in line for gift wrap and use the opportunity to practice my transcendental meditation amid more childrenwrackedwithsobs.

On Monday morning Mrs. X pops her head into the kitchen while I'm cutting fruit. "Nanny, I need you to run an errand for me. I went to Saks to pick up the gifts for our help and, like a ninny, I forgot the bonus checks. So I've put handbags on hold and I'd like you to make sure that each check is put inside the right bag. Now, I've written it all down and the name of each person is on the outside of each envelope. Justine gets the Gucci shoulder bag, Mrs. Butters gets the Coach tote, housekeeper gets the LeSportsac and the Herve Chapeliers are for the piano and the French teachers. Make sure they gift!wrap everything andthenjustcomehome in a cab."

THE NANNY' DIARIES

"Noproblem," I say, excitedlyestimating where I fitinbetweenGucciandLeSportsac.

Tuesday afternoon Grayer has Allison over, an adorable Chinese girl from his class who will proudly

tellanyonewhoasks, "I havetwo

daddies!"

"Hello,Nanny,"shealways says,curtsying. "How's school?Love

yourshoes."Shejustkills me.

The phone rings as I'm rinsing out their hot carob mugs. "Hello?" I say, hanging the towel neatlyon the

ovendoor.

"Nanny?" I hear atentative whisper.

"Yes," I whisperback,becauseonedoes.

"It's Justine,from Mr. X'soffice. I'm sogladI gotyou.Canyoudome a favor?"

"Sure,"I whisper.

"Mr. X asked me to go pick out some things for Mrs. X and I don't know her size or what designer she

likes,or thecolors." Shesoundsgenuinelypanicked.

"I don't know," I say, surprised to find I don't have her measurements committed to memory. "Wait,

holdon."I gopickup theextensioninthemasterbedroom.

"Justine?"

"Yes?" shewhispers. Issheunderher desk?In theladies'room?

"Okay, I'm going in the closet." Her "closet" is actually a large chocolate-brown dressing room,

complete with a long velvet bench. Mrs. X's paranoia is such that I'm sure she's convinced I not only

snooparoundinhereon a dailybasis, butam, infact,wearingher underwearright now. Onthecontrary,

I'm in a cold sweat and debate putting Justine on hold again so I can call Mrs. X on her cell phone to

confirmthatshe's really,reallyfaraway.

Regardless,I startgentlyrifflingthemerchandiseandanswering

Justine's questions. "Size two ... Herrera, Yves Saint Laurent... Shoe size seven and a half, Ferragamo,

Chanel... Her purses are Hermes. o outside pockets and she hates zippers ... I don't know, pearls,

maybe? Shelikespearls."Andsoonandsoforth.

"You've been a lifesaver,"shegushes. "Oh,onemorething.IsGrayer doingchemistry?"

"Chemistry?"

"Yeah, Mr. Xtoldmetogobuyhim achemistrysetandsomeGuccislippers."

"Right."We bothlaugh. "The Lion King,"I say. "Heloves anything todowithTheLion King,Aladdin,

Winnie-the-Pooh.He's four."

"Thanks again, Nanny. Merry Christmas!" After clicking off I take one last look around at the tower of

cashmere sweaters, each one wrapped with tissue and individually stored in its> own clear drawer, the wall of shoes, each stuffed with a satin triangle, the racks of fall, winter, and spring suits, going from lightest to darkest, from left to right. I tentatively pull open a drawer. Each pair of panties, every bra, every pair of stockings, is individually packed in a Ziplock baggy and labeled: "Bra, Hanro, white," "Stockings,Fogal,black."

The doorbell rings and I jump about sixteen feet, panting with relief when I hear Grayer let Henry, Allison's father, in. I slide the drawer shut and walk calmly out to the hall, where a bemused Henry is watchingGrayer andAllisontrying totageachotherwith theirscarves.

"Okay, Ally, I have to get dinner started. Let's get it together." He finally catches her, steadying her

betweenhis kneestotieherscarf.

I handover hersmall lodencoatasHenrysecuresherhatandushersher intothevestibule.

"Saygood-bye toAllison,Grayer."I nudgehimandhewavesfreneticallywith bothhands.

"Good-bye, Gray-er. Thank you for a lovely afternoon! Au revoir, Nanny!" she cries as the elevator

opens.

THE NANNY DIARIES

"Thanks, Nan," Henry says, turning and accidentally swinging one ofAllison's boots right into another

memberof theXfamily.

"Oh!" Mrs. X flinches.

"I'm sosorry,"Henrysays,asAllisonburiesherheadinhis neck.

"No,please,I'm fine. Didyou all have agoodtime?"

"Yes!" Grayer andAllisonshout.

"Well," Henry says, "I better get back and start dinner. Richard'11 be home soon and I need to get the

ornamentsdown."

"Your nanny's dayoff?" sheaskswith a knowingsmile.

"Oh,wedon't have a nanny?

"You havetwodaddiestodothehigh-ups?" Grayer interruptshim.

"Mygoodness,"Mrs. Xsays quickly, "however doyoumanage?"

"Well, youknow,they're onlythisageonce."

"Yes." Shelooks a littlepinched. "Grayer,saygood-bye!"

"I alreadydid,Mommy.You're late."

Thedoorslidesshut.

Much later that night I ride down in the elevator half-asleep, entertaining the fantasy of walking along

the Seine humming "La Vie en Rose." It's twenty past twelve on the twenty-second. Only twenty-four

morehours togountil amonthoffandmoneyinmypocket.

" 'Night, James," I say to the doorman, just as he opens the door for H. H., rosy cheeked and carrying a

FoodEmporiumbag.

"Hey,there. Justgetoffwork?" heasks, smiling.

"Yup." Pleasedon't letme havesteamedchardbetweenmyteeth.

"Thatwassomefinewassailing.You trainhim?"

"Impressed?" I askcarefully withmyupperlip curleddown.

Enoughpatter,wheristhedate?

"Listen," he says, loosening his scarf, "are you doing anything right now, 'cause I just have to run

upstairs. Mymom's in aChristmas bakingfrenzyandweranoutof vanilla."

Oh.Now?

Okay,nowworksforme.

"Yeah, great."As thenumbers go from one toeleven and back again I quickly run tothebeveled mirror

andgroomlike a madwoman.I hopeI'm notboring.I hopehe's notboring.I trytoremember ifI shaved this morning. Ugh, I'll be so bummed if he's boring. And let's try not sleeping with him. Tonight. I'm applying afurtive swipeoflip glossastheelevatorapproaches "L."

"Hey,haveyoueatenyet?" heasksasJamesopensthedoor forus.

" 'Night, James," I call over my shoulder. "It depends on what you mean by eating. If you consider a

fistful of Goldfishand a fewdrytortellini amealthenI'm stuffed."

"Whatare youupfor?"

"Well."I thinkfor amoment. "Theonlyplaces with openkitchensrightnowarecoffeeshopsandpizza.

Takeyourpick."

"Pizzasoundsgood.Isthatokay?"

"Anything notinthisbuildingsoundsfabulous."

"Here, sit on myjacket," he says as he closes the empty pizza box.TheMetropolitan Museum steps are

coldandit's startingtoseep upthroughmyjeans.

"Thanks."I tuckhis bluefleeceundermeandlookdownFifthAvenueatthetwinklingholidaylightsof

theSlanhopeHotel. H. H. pullsthecontainerofBenandJerry's PhishFoodoutof a brownpaperbag.

"So what's itlikeworkingontheninthfloor?"

"Exhausting and weird." I look back at him. "That apartment has all the holiday warmth of a meat

lockerandGrayer has a loneStyrofoamsnowman hanginginhis closet, becauseshewon't let himputit anywhereelse."

"Yeah,she's always struckmeas alittle high-strung."

THE NANNY DIARIES

"You havenoidea,andwith theholidays it's likeworkingfor a drillsergeantwithADD?

"Come on,itcan't bethatbad."Henudgesme with his knees.

"Excuseme?"

"I usedtobaby-sit inthebuilding.You eatsomefood,playsome

games?

"Oh, my God. That is not my job at all. 1 spend more time with this kid than anybody" I slide an inch

awayfromhim onthestep.

"Whataboutontheweekends?"

"TheyhavesomebodyinConnecticut.They're only alonewith himforthedrive outandback. ndthey

do thatatnightsohe's asleep!There's nocoming together.I thoughtmaybe they were just waiting for a

holiday, but apparently not. Mrs. X is having Christmas by herself at Barneys, so she's been sending us

all over town,withtherestofAmerica, mindyou,justtogethimoutofthehouse."

"Butthere's somuchcoolstufftodowith akidthistime of year."

"He's four. He slept through the Nutcracker, the Rockettes scared the shit out of him, and he developed

some kind of weird heat rash while waiting for three hours to see Santa at Macy's. But mostly we just

standinlineforthebathroom. Everywhere. Not acabtobe

found,nota?

"Soundslikeyouhavedefinitelyearnedsomeicecream."He

handsme a spoon.

1 haveto laugh. "I'm sorry,you're thefirst grown-up without shoppingbags thatI've talkedto in a good

forty-eight hours. I'm just a little Christmased outatthemoment."

"Oh, don't say that. This is such an awesome time of year to be living in the city, all the lights and the

people." He gestures to the sparkling Christmas decorations on FifthAvenue. "It makes you appreciate thatwe're luckyenoughtolivehereyearround." I digintothecarton, tracing a swirl ofcaramel. "You're right. Upuntil twoweeksagoI wouldhavesaid

itwasmyfavoritetime ofyear."We pass thePhishFoodbackandforthandlookover atthe

wreathsintheStanhope's windowsandthelittlewhite bulbsburningontheawning.

"You seemlike a holidaykindofgirl."

I blush. "Well,ArborDayisreallywhenI go all out."

Helaughs.Oh,sweetGod,youarehot.

Heleansin. "So,doyoustill thinkI'm anasshole?"

"I never saidyouwereanasshole."I smile back.

"Just anassholebyassociation."

"Well..."AAAAAAHHH!!!!HE'S KISSINGME!!!!!

"Hi,"hesays softly,his facestill almost touchingmine.

"Hi."

"Canwe pleasestartover andputDorrian's really,reallyfarbehindus?"

I smile. "Hi,I'm Nan..."

"Nanny?Nanny!"

"Right.What?"

"Your turn. It's your turn." Poor G, this is the third time he's had to snap me back from the steps of the

Metwheremybrainhas takenuppermanent residence.

I move mygingerbreadmanfromanorangesquareto ayellow square. "Okay,Grove,butthisisthelast

gameandthenwe'vegottotryonthoseclothes." ^

"Oh,man."

"Come on, it'll befun.You cando a little fashionshowforme."Thebedis piledwith Grayer's wardrobe

from last summer and we need to figure out what, if anything, still fits so that he can be properly outfitted forhis vacation.I knowputtingtogether a resortwardrobeis hardlyhow hewantstospendhis lastafternoonwithme,butordersare orders.

Afterwe putawaythegame I kneelonthefloorandhelp himin THE NANNY DIARIES andoutandinandoutofshorts,shirts,swimming trunks,andtheworld's tiniest navyblueblazer. "Owww!Toosmall! It hurts!" His arm chubhas beencompressedlike a hot-dog bunwith a rubberband

aroundthemiddlebythelittle whiteLacoste tee.

"Okay, okay, I'm getting you out, be patient." I peel him out of the shirt and hold up a stiff Brooks

Brothersoxford.

"I don't like thatone so much,"he says, shakinghis head, then, slowly, "I think . . . it's ... too .. . small,"

hesays intently.

I look down at the buttons on the sleeve and the starched collar. "Yeah. I think you're right. ay too

small. You probably shouldn't wear it anymore," I say conspiratorially, folding the offending item and

puttingit ontherejectpile.

"Nanny, I'm bored." He puts his hands on either side of my face. "No more shirts. Let's play Candy

Land!"

"Come on, just one more, G." I help him into the blazer. "Now walk down to the end of the room and

back. et me see how gorgeous you are." He looks at me like I'm crazy, but starts to walk away,

lookingbackover his shoulderevery fewstepstomakesureI'mnot

up tosomething.

"Work it, baby!" I shout when he reaches the wall. He turns and eyes me warily until I whip out an

imaginary camera and pretend to take pictures. "Come on, baby! You're fabulous. Show it off!" He

takes his jazz-hands pose at the end of the carpet. "Woohoo!" I catcall as if Marcus Shenkenberg had

justlosthis towel. Hegiggles,throwinghimself intotheshowaswemakepouty

lipsateachother.

"You're gorgeous, dahling," I say, leaning down to take off the blazer and kissing the air by both his

cheeks.

"You'll bebackreallysoon,right,Nanny?" Heshakeshis arm

free. "Tomorrow?"

"Here, let's look at the calendar again so you can see how fast it's going to go and you'll be in the

Bahamas?

1 19

"Litferrr Cay,"hecorrects.

"Right."We leanintolookattheNannyCalendarI made. "AndthenAspen,wherethere'll berealsnow

andyoucansledandmakesnowangelsand asnowman.You're goingtohaveanawesome time."

"Hello?" I hear Mrs. X call out. Grayer runs to the front hall and I take a moment to fold the last little

shirtandthenfollow him.

"Howwasyour afternoon?" sheasks brightly.

"Grayer was a very goodboy. etriedoneverything," I say, leaningagainst thedoorway. "The pile on

thebedisthestuffthatfits."

"Oh,excellent!Thankyousomuch."

Grayer is bouncing up and down in front of Mrs. X and pulling on her mink. "Come see my show!

Comeinmyroom!"

"Grayer,whathavewediscussed?Haveyouwashedyour hands?" sheasks,evadinghis grasp.

"No,"heanswers.

"Well, then, should you be touching Mommy's coat? Now, if you sit on the bench I have a surprise for

youfromDaddy."Sherummages throughhershoppingbagsasGrayerslumps ontothepaisleycushion.

Shepullsout abrightbluesweatsuit.

"Remember how you're going to big boy's school next year? Well, Daddy just loves Collegiate." She flips the sweatshirt around to reveal the orange lettering. I step forward to help Grayer pull it over his head.Shestandsbackwhile I rollthesleevesup intolittle doughnutsathis wrists.

"Oh, you are going to make your daddy so happy." Grayer, delighted, whips out his jazz hands and starts |g pose as he had done in the bedroom. "Honey, don't fling your arms about." She looks down at himinconsternation. "It's weird."

Grayer lookstome foranexplanation.

Mrs. X followshis gaze. "Grayer,it's time tosaygood-bye toNanny."

"I don't wantto."Hestandsinfrontofthedoorandcrosses his arms.

THE NANNY

I kneeldown. "It's onlyfor afewweeks,G."

"Noooooo!Don't go.You said we could play Candy Land.Nanny, you promised." The tears startto roll

downhis cheeks.

"Hey, you want your present now?" I ask. 1 go in the closet, take a deep breath, put on a big smile, and

pullouttheshoppingbagI broughtwithme.

"Thisis foryou,MerryChristmas!" I say, handingMrs. XtheBergdorf'sbox.

"You shouldn'thave,"shesays, settingitdownonthetable. "Oh,yes, wehavesomethingforyou,too."

I looksurprised. "Oh,no."

"Grayer, go get Nanny's present." He runs off. I pull the other box out of the bag. "And this is for

Grayer."

"Nanny, here's your present, Nanny. Merry Christmas, Nanny!" He comes running in holding a Saks

boxandthrustsitatme.

"Oh,thankyou!"

"Where's mine?!Where's mine?!" Hejumpsup anddown.

"Your mom has it and you can open it after I leave." 1 quickly pull on my coat as Mrs. X is already

holdingtheelevator.

"MerryChristmas," shesaysasI getin.

"Bye, Nanny!" hesays,wavingwildly,like amarionette.

"Bye, Grayer,MerryChristmas!"

I can't even wait till I get outside. I'm imagining Paris and handbagsand manytrips to Cambridge. First

I openthegifttag.

J Lonjui/,l

JCcA^" I ripthewrappingpaper,pulltheboxapart,andstartgrabbingfistfuls oftissue.

There's no envelope. Oh, my God, there's no envelope! I shake the box upside down. Tons of tissue

comes cluttering out andthensomething blackand furry falls totheelevator floor with a thud.I drop to

myknees,like adogover a bone. I reachdown, pushingthe

messI've madeasidetouncover mytreasureand .it's earmuffs. Onlyearmuffs.

Justearmuffs.

Earmuffs!

EARMUFFS!!

.and ... and

Mamnvy felt that she owned the O'Haras, body and soul, that their secrets were her secrets; and even a

hintof mysterywasenoughtosetheruponthetrailsorecklesslyas a bloodhound.