Indie Girl (18 page)

It had been a gripping little news feature—and one that was obviously meant for
Celebrity Style.

“I need to find out how they’re doing this,” Aaralyn said, still on the phone with Meghan. “It’s getting infuriating, and I’m not going to tolerate it anymore. Now we need to change next week’s lineup. What have we got?”

She had a notebook in an Hermès binder on her lap, and was scribbling away with a pen, her ear glued to the phone. She tossed out names: Naomi Watts, Penelope Cruz, Jewel. What were any of them doing fashion-wise? Any style stories that could be rehashed? Had any of the staff writers got anything up their sleeves?

“The timing of this couldn’t be worse,” said Aaralyn to Meghan, as we continued on the 405. “If I want this sale to go through, these Italians need to be wowed by the magazine. The past few weeks have been decidedly underwhelming, and just when I thought I could pull a rabbit out of my hat with the Savannah Princeton story, along comes GossipAddict again. I can’t afford to lose another story to them.”

She nodded, squeezed shut her eyes, bit her lip, said good-bye, and hung up. She stared straight ahead, ignoring Kyle’s whimpers, and mostly ignoring me, until we got to the airport.

·   ·   ·

Based on the lines in front of the Alitalia check-in counters at LAX, it was going to be a full flight. But Aaralyn, a Skycaps porter behind her, Kyle and I trailing him, strolled right to the red carpet in front of the first-class counter, brandishing her and Kyle’s passports. She asked me for mine and plopped all three of them down in front of the airline employee.

I had never stood in the first-class line before and it gave me a little thrill. I looked over at the economy section, where dozens of people waited in a line that moved excruciatingly slowly. I had lots of experience in that line, standing there with my parents for sometimes two hours or more.

But this, with Aaralyn, was a whole other ball game. A small vase of fresh flowers was on the counter, the girl behind it smiling and polite, asking us about any special meal requests and if we would like to use the lounge. As I stood there, I recalled an interview I had read with a celebrity nanny—someone who had worked for a few megastars—who said that once you were in that league, you lived like your employers. This girl traveled by private jet with the family that she worked for and always stayed in a similar suite at the same five-star hotels they were at. She basically lived a movie star’s life.

There could be worse jobs,
I thought to myself, smiling as I imagined what it would be like to sink into a first-class
seat, to eat proper food instead of a sandwich made from stale bread and wilted lettuce, to have a proper duvet blanket instead of those cheap acrylic ones they handed out in economy. I would put Kyle to sleep in his seat and turn on the personal DVD player that every passenger had. For once, I almost couldn’t wait to get on the plane.

Aaralyn took the three boarding passes that the ticketing agent handed her and stuffed them into the outside pocket of her crocodile-skin bag.

“I’ll hang on to your passport as well,” she said, as we marched through security. “It’ll be easier. You just look after Kyle.”

We made our way to the first- and business-class lounge, where Aaralyn continued making phone calls while I ran after Kyle, who had squirted juice all over himself. I had been eyeing the snacks being offered, but seeing as Aaralyn wasn’t eating and I was so preoccupied with Kyle, I elected to forego having anything; a first-class dinner would probably be much more delicious anyway.

Our flight was finally announced and I excitedly accompanied Aaralyn to the gate, saddled down with Kyle’s diaper bag and activity pouch. They let us get on the plane first, and we strolled down the cool, quiet walkway, well ahead of most of the other passengers.

As soon as we were on the plane, Aaralyn was warmly greeted by the flight attendant, who offered to take her carry-on bag and lightweight coat. She glanced at the
boarding passes and asked Aaralyn to follow her, and I traipsed along behind them. Aaralyn turned around and said, “Indie, you’re back there.” She was glancing beyond the curtain that separated first class from everything else behind it.

“Oh,” I said.

“Yes, you and Kyle.” Then she lowered her voice. “People who travel in the front of the plane don’t generally like having kids close to them. Someone will show you to your seats. Just make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll come check on you in a little while.”

I was beyond embarrassed. What had given me the idea that Aaralyn would buy me a ticket to sit close to her?

The economy cabin was still relatively empty, only now slowly filling up with other families with children. Another flight attendant showed us our seats. At least I was next to the window. I got Kyle settled, buckled him in, and tried to relax. It was all going to be fine, I said to myself. I was still going to Italy.

As we prepared for takeoff, Kyle decided that he wanted to play hide-and-seek underneath the seats and started screaming when I told him he couldn’t. Everyone turned to look at me, as if I was the lax mother who couldn’t keep her child quiet. Kyle continued squirming and fussing in his seat, kicking the knee of a large-set man on the other side of him, who then asked the flight attendant if he could move. Everything I gave to Kyle to
distract him ended him on the floor, embedded in the seat cushion, or up his nose.

As Kyle squirmed on my lap, I rummaged around in my bag to see if there was something in there I could distract him with—some keys, my cell phone, anything. At the bottom of the bag, I felt a small plastic bottle. Puzzled, I pulled it out. It was a clear container filled with golden liquid. There was a note attached to it that read,
MY DEAR INDIE, THIS IS SOMETHING I USED ALL THE TIME ON YOU AND DINESH WHEN YOU WERE BABIES. JUST IN CASE YOU HAVE SOME NEED FOR IT WITH THE CHILD IN YOUR CARE, HERE IT IS. LOVE, MUMMY.

I turned the bottle around and read the ingredients: sweet almond, basil, rose, nutmeg. I opened the top and took a whiff, and was automatically transported back to my own childhood; the cool, clammy feel of the oil, its heady aroma, being cuddled in my mother’s arms as she rubbed it on me.

I lay Kyle across my lap, dripped a few drops of the oil onto my fingers, and gently began massaging it into his forehead and behind his ears. As I did so, I sang to him, smiled at him, looked him right in the eyes, just as my mother had done with Dinesh and me.

Within twenty minutes he was asleep. Just as I was laying him down on his seat, Aaralyn came by. She had changed into pajamas that had been given to her on the plane and she looked enviably comfortable.

“Wow, he’s out,” she said.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Well done, Indie,” she said, before turning around to go back to her rarefied cabin.

Finally. An accolade.

We didn’t see her again until we were close to landing. She emerged through the curtains and I almost didn’t recognize her. Her face was free of makeup, and without her usual sheer foundations and pretty pink blusher she looked pale and almost sick. Her hair was in a scrunchy. She had changed into a velour sweatsuit that made her look, well,
ordinary.
She was holding a glass of champagne, but looked like she had had enough to drink.

“We’re almost there,” she said. “Just get his things together and I’ll meet you outside the plane.”

In the arrivals terminal, I noticed people looking at us curiously, almost as if they were wondering what the connection was between us. There was Aaralyn, still looking grim and miserable, an exhausted suburban housewife instead of a glamorous fashion executive. She obviously didn’t travel very well. She reminded me of all those pictures I would see in the celebrity magazines, taken by paparazzi staked out at international airports, of stars at their worst after a long flight. I supposed it didn’t matter who you were—jet lag and dehydration happened to everyone.

But I had managed to look after myself a little better. I had spritzed my face with an essential oil spray that I had bought, meant just for air travel. Before we had landed, I had reapplied my makeup, wet and combed my hair, and straightened up my clothes. I had even cleaned up Kyle, who was now alert after several hours’ sleep.

As we waited for our luggage, I looked after Kyle while Aaralyn fumed about having to pull her luggage off the conveyer belt herself. I watched, mildly amused, as she tried to lug her Vuitton case off, breaking a nail in the process, and swearing beneath her breath.

“Your babysitter seems to be having a bad day,” said an American woman behind me, who had been staring at us in the immigration line.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“Your maid. She looks exhausted. Oh, and is this your brother? He is so cute,” she continued, looking at Kyle. That she could even have assumed such a thing struck me as ridiculous; I was dark-skinned with black hair. Kyle was fair-skinned with red hair.

Or maybe she just assumed that one of us had been adopted.

I was about to correct her, but decided to let her have her delusions. This was the most fun I’d had since leaving Los Angeles. Given the way I had been treated by Aaralyn so far, I didn’t feel very guilty having some fun at her expense.

Even though it was night and the streets were dark, I couldn’t take my eyes off the window.

Our driver, who had been waiting for us, holding a big placard with Aaralyn’s name on it, told us that the traffic was free-flowing and we would be at our hotel in no time.

I didn’t care how long it took. I was mesmerized by this place, by the bright orange trams that ran up and down the streets, the parks with their bronze statues and wet benches, the little cafés with their
al fresco
areas closed for the night, although people still milled about inside. It had been raining, but it was a warm evening, and I was thrilled to be there.

We pulled up outside the Grand Hotel. It was all lit up on the outside, a thick red mat at the front of the brass-framed glass doors. It looked spectacular. I waited for Aaralyn to tell me to stay in the car; after the airplane incident, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she was sending me off to the Milan equivalent of the YWCA.

Thankfully, though, she left the door open for me, tipped the driver, instructed a doorman to bring in our luggage, and walked in. She marched straight to reception where she was greeted with a hug by the concierge, who remarked how long it had been since she had last been there.

“Not since the February shows, yes?” he asked.

I was totally impressed.

He held two keys, which relieved me to no end. While standing at reception I had even considered the possibility that Aaralyn would make me sleep on the floor of her room.

“The Giuseppe Verdi suite, your usual, is ready for you,” the concierge said, leading us to the elevator. “And something nice for your assistant,” he continued, looking at me.

So not a broom closet then,
I thought to myself.

We went to Aaralyn’s room first, which was about the plushest thing I had ever seen in my life; it was huge and filled with overstuffed silk couches and dark mahogany furniture. It was like something out of a palace.

“Go put your things down in your room and then come back here and get Kyle bathed and ready for bed,” Aaralyn instructed me. “Try and get him to sleep, although it might take a few hours because he’s so jet-lagged. Just deal with it. I need to get some rest.”

I wanted to say something to her. I thought I was done
for the night, that I could go and take a bath and relax and see if this hotel had MTV on offer. I had been looking after Kyle for fourteen hours and deserved a break. I had barely slept on the plane, crammed into that tiny seat, as Aaralyn had luxuriated in what was basically a full-length bed.

“Actually, Aaralyn, I’m really, really tired,” I said, my voice trembling. “Wouldn’t you like to spend some time with Kyle? I’m sure he’d love it?” I continued brightly as Kyle lay wide awake facedown on the carpet. I bent down to pick him up.

“I have some important meetings tomorrow and need to be at my best,” Aaralyn replied, unmoved. “You know, Indie, I brought you here for a reason. I thought you could deal with the demands of traveling with a child. But if you can’t, I’ll have to organize something else.” The look in her eyes was threatening. As I always did, I backed down. I nodded meekly, put my things down in my room, and then headed back to Aaralyn’s suite.

After a night where I had been entertaining Kyle until he finally fell asleep at three a.m., occasionally nodding off myself while he played, while Aaralyn dozed in the comfort of her vast bed, I was up at the crack of dawn. From my window, I could see the Duomo, one of the most famous cathedrals in the world, pigeons flocking outside. But I was more excited about something else: We
were walking distance from Via della Spiga and Via Montenapoleone, streets that were filled with the best boutiques in the world.

Aaralyn hadn’t told me what she had planned for the day, but I was hoping that I would have at least a little time to wander around on my own. Given everything I had done since leaving Los Angeles, surely that wasn’t too much to ask for?

My phone rang at nine.

“Indie, I have a meeting downstairs in an hour. Come and look after Kyle while I get dressed, would you? You can order up some room service when you get here.”

I tossed on some clothes and went to Aaralyn’s suite, where Kyle was on the floor playing with his Curious George monkey. He smiled at me when I walked in. Aaralyn was already in the shower.

When she emerged, dressed, forty-five minutes later, she looked like the Aaralyn that I had admired. She was in a Dior pantsuit. She had blow-dried her hair straight, and wore nothing but solitaire diamonds in her ears and a simple leather-strap watch.

She looked like she belonged here.

She bent down to kiss Kyle good-bye. But when he realized his mother was going somewhere, he began screeching and clutching at her sleeve.

“It’s okay, I’m here,” I said, holding him. But he pushed against me and lunged for his mother again.