The Nannies (5 page)

9

Thwack.

“Stretch at top of serve, Oksana!” Anya yelled. “Stretch at top!”

Lydia lay on a chaise longue clad in a bikini the size of three postage stamps. She had a Stoli 007 in hand—the moms, as she had come to think of her aunt Kat and her spouse, Anya, had a very European attitude toward drinking, which was just fine with Lydia. At the moment, she lay twenty feet from an aquamarine swimming pool shaped like a tennis racquet. A hundred feet beyond that was the tennis court where Anya was coaching seventeen-year-old Oksana Kharlamova, currently seeded sixty-first in the world. Both Russian natives were so used to speaking English that they were conducting the lesson in their adopted tongue.

Lydia stretched and practically purred with satisfaction. Though she’d been back in the USA for a mere twenty-four hours, her eight and a half years in the rain forest already seemed like a bad dream. Oh sure, the airplane’s approach to LAX had been surreal—instead of thrilling her, the city sprawl from the ocean to the eastern horizon had given Lydia the willies. But Kat had met her plane and there was no reason to battle baggage claim, since all Lydia’s worldly possessions fit neatly into the threadbare backpack she’d carried on board.

After getting caught up on the family gossip, and telling Kat a bit about her life in the Amazon, Lydia had fallen asleep on the ride home. Kat hadn’t awakened her until they were in the driveway of her home in Beverly Hills; Lydia had stepped from the limo to find herself in front of a boxy white stucco mansion. It featured four massive pillars playing sentry to elegant gold-inlaid double front doors.

This was Kat and Anya’s home. Now,
her
home.

Immediately, she was shown to the guesthouse where she’d be living, a cozy one-bedroom place just steps from the back door of the main mansion. Kat offered food, but all Lydia wanted was more sleep. She fell out instantly, on a king-sized oak bed with a lavender silk canopy.

Six hours later, she awakened, ravenous.

She went to the main house to find the kitchen, which took a while. In the state-of-the-art stainless-steel and mosaic-tile room, she encountered a slim young woman in yoga pants. The woman said her name was Alfre—she was Kat and Anya’s nutritionist. Would Lydia like some fresh carrot-beet-orange juice?

Actually, Lydia preferred a giant, greasy cheeseburger laden with sliced pastrami, just like the ones she remembered from her favorite childhood diner in Houston. Also, a truckload of crisp french fries and an extrathick vanilla milk shake. All the foods she’d dreamed about while munching on roast monkey in the land of the Amarakaire.

Ask and ye shall receive. Though it was nearly ten o’clock at night, the nutritionist summoned the chef. Twenty minutes later, Lydia was eating exactly what she’d ordered. Then she’d gone back to bed, awakened, and ordered the exact same meal for breakfast. It was served to her no questions asked on the outdoor patio, along with the latest edition of
Vogue.

Perhaps best of all, there were no kids yet to look after. Her two cousins, soon to be in her charge, would not be back from camp until Thursday. As for Kat, she’d departed that morning for Bristol, Connecticut, to attend some big powwow with the ESPN brass. Lydia had nothing to do but spend the morning lounging around . . . which brought her to where she was right now: poolside, drink in hand.

Bliss. Lydia took another sip of the 007 and mentally toasted her new life. Anything she could possibly want was available; all she had to do was pick up the small phone that sat on the glass table to her right. Press one for a maid. Press two for the chef. Unfortunately, there was no “Press three for a hot guy,” but that could be taken care of on her own. And soon. She hadn’t been about to lose her virginity to some five-foot-nothing Amazonian warrior with brown teeth. But she was sure she could find just the right American warrior prince to do the manly deed.

She closed her eyes, embraced by the sun. Long live Princess Lydia.

“Your aunt works me very hard.”

Lydia opened her eyes to see Oksana plop down on the chaise next to hers. She wore white shorts and a blue-and-white Nike sports bra, her sun-bleached blond hair tied back in a braid, her skin golden. Over her shoulder was a white towel monogrammed with Kat and Anya’s initials.

“You are Lydia, yes?” Oksana had only the slightest Russian accent.

Lydia nodded.

“I am Oksana. Your aunt Anya is my coach.”

“She’s not my aunt,” Lydia explained, propping herself up on her elbows. “She’s my aunt’s partner.”

Oksana gave a small shrug and sipped from a water bottle before she spoke again. “Then she is aunt, too.” She pointed to the monogram on the towel. “K for Kat, A for Anya. They have told me about you. You live in jungle before this, yes?”

Jungle, rain forest, whatever.

“Something like that.”

“How are you liking Beverly Hills?”

Lydia smiled. “I am loving Beverly Hills.” She reached for her Stoli 007. “Would you like a drink?”

Oksana shook her head. “Not during season. Only between Thanksgiving and ten days after New Year’s. Forty-five days of normal.” She patted her taut, muscular stomach. “What are you doing now?”

Lydia’s smile grew. “Not a damn thing.”

Oksana draped the towel back over her shoulder. “I must go shower. But later . . . maybe you would like to do something instead of nothing. I will go to De Sade tonight. Would you like to come with me?”

Lydia knew about De Sade. A few months ago, one of the visiting doctors had brought
Los Angeles
magazine to her—it had featured De Sade, the hottest new club on Sunset Boulevard. She’d practically committed the issue to memory. And now, here she was in Los Angeles with a rising young tennis star who’d just invited her to go clubbing there.

“I’d love to.” Then, Lydia frowned. “But I don’t have anything to wear . . . unless cutoffs and a Houston Oilers shirt count.” She gestured toward the blue floral bikini she was wearing. “This belongs to one of the moms, I’m not sure which.”

“Not a problem, I loan you clothes,” Oksana said.

Lydia would have preferred to zip off on a major shopping spree. But there was the little problem of money. As in, she didn’t have any.

“So tonight,” Oksana went on, “we go to Koi for dinner. Then to De Sade, my treat. You are game?”

“I am
so
game,” Lydia agreed.

Was life great or what? It was about damn time.

10

Lydia tried not to stare across the outdoor terrace of Koi, where a handsome guy with short cropped hair had just stood up from his table. So did the leggy girl with whom he’d dined.

“That guy looks like Tom Cruise,” Lydia told Oksana.

Oksana followed Lydia’s eyes. “That
is
Tom Cruise.”

Lydia almost dropped her Coke. “No way. He’s so
short.
”

“Is movie magic.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Lydia confessed. “I haven’t seen any of his movies. I just recognize him from magazines.”

Oksana’s perfectly plucked eyebrows headed north toward the terrace’s retractable rooftop. “No movies in jungle? I can’t imagine. What did you do for fun?”

“I got really good at fishing for peacock bass using pig guts as bait. And there were the cannibals—there are a few left. They were always good for a few laughs,” Lydia mused. “And the witch doctors have a cool little show they put on where they drink sheep piss to give them extra strength.”

“You are joking.”

“Not.”

“Amazing,” Oksana marveled. “This must be big change. Are you having good time?”

Good didn’t begin to cover it. Lydia felt like piercing her lip with one of those long sticks that Amazonian women considered a fashion statement just to make sure that this wasn’t some big ol’ dream. Here she was, at Koi, surrounded by models, actors, and assorted beautiful people. More than that, from the smiles and approving looks she’d gotten on her way to the table, everyone thought
she
was one of them.

Part of it had to be due to the twenty-minute shower she’d taken after lying out all day by the pool. For the first time in eight and a half years, Lydia felt truly clean. Part of it had to be the clothes that Oksana had lent her: a Rock & Republic jean skirt with stud detail, and a citrus-and-pink-mesh Betsey John-son T-shirt. That she was actually wearing the designers she’d read about was a wonderful feeling. Oksana hadn’t been able to come through with shoes, since her feet were so much bigger than Lydia’s. But Lydia had raided the moms’ closet for an incredible pair of Jimmy Choo baby blue python stiletto sandals. Lydia, who’d once lost a pet dog to a python, loved the idea of having them on her feet.

Dinner had been sushi, sushi, and more sushi. Lydia was accustomed to raw fish, but that fish had always been limited to whatever was swimming in the river near their tiny settlement, not mahimahi, salmon, and special California sushi rolls. It was only after two hours of gorging and people watching that Lydia and Oksana returned to Oksana’s pearl gray classic Porsche Spyder.

“Tournament in Stuttgart,” Oksana declared.

“What?”

“I reach semifinal. It paid for car. Want to drive?” Oksana offered Lydia the keys.

“Nah,” Lydia told her nonchalantly, unwilling to admit that she had no idea
how
to drive. Porsche Spyders were scarce in Amazonia. As were paved roads. Or any roads, for that matter.

So Oksana motored them over to De Sade. The club was in an old warehouse off Hollywood Boulevard to the east of Katana. No sign, no nothing. Just a valet parking stand, a purple velvet rope, and an endless line of please-God-let-them-think-I’m-cool-enough-to-get-in types. A buff guy with coal black skin and muscles on his muscles stood by the door.

“That guy is the cool police, huh?” Lydia asked as the valet took the Porsche from them.

Oksana smiled. “Is important job.”

Lydia scanned the line of hopefuls, each doing his or her best to look casual and not ooze desperation. Every girl had miles of tan skin, tattoos on their lower backs, and long, flat-ironed hair. The strict “this is what makes a girl beautiful” standard made Lydia chuckle. Amazonian women were usually naked from the waist up; if their breasts didn’t sag toward their toes, they were considered unattractive. In the worst of the heat, Lydia had sometimes gone native herself.

“Come on,” Oksana said, taking Lydia’s hand. “We don’t wait, trust me.” She ducked under the velvet rope, still holding on to Lydia. “Hi, Greg,” she called to the bouncer. “Is Maria here yet? Or Jennifer?”

“Ox, babe, what’s up? Nah, not yet, but the night’s still young.” The big black guy enveloped Oksana in a bear hug, then grinned as Oksana introduced Lydia. “It’s crazed inside. Some TV show is shooting.”

Lydia hoped it was a show she had read about. One time the family had stayed in an actual hotel in Manaus because the budget
dormitorio
her parents favored was completely booked. The hotel had a satellite dish, and Lydia had parked herself in front of the TV for practically their entire stay. One station had showed a steady diet of reruns of American sitcoms—
Friends
and
Frasier,
mostly, dubbed in Portuguese. Lydia had adored
Friends.

“Is it
Friends
?” she asked eagerly.

Greg cut his eyes at her. “Girl, that show is over and out. Where you been?”

“In the rain forest,” Lydia replied.

Greg laughed. “Yeah. And I’ve been on Mercury working on my tan. Anyway, it’s a new reality show.
Platinum Nanny.
”

“Oh sure,” Oksana said. “Like
The Apprentice,
right? They will pick someone to be rock star nanny.” She turned to Lydia. “Anya has given Platinum tennis lesson.”

“Okay, back to the masses for me,” Greg announced. “Take these and give them to the cashier.” He pressed two guest passes into Oksana’s palm and waved the girls inside, then went back to the block-long line of wannabes.

Oksana gave the passes to the cashier and led Lydia into the club. The massive open space was dimly lit by recessed golden domes. Crystal-beaded chandeliers hung from the fifty-foot vaulted ceiling. A DJ was spinning hip-hop; hundreds of bodies throbbed to the beat. Overhead, steel cages swung from the ceiling. In each cage, a stunning thong-clad girl or guy gyrated, flesh glistening.

Lydia spotted the TV crew immediately; they were shooting near the DJ’s booth. A passel of flunkies with walkie-talkies ringed the camera crew. Curious, she motioned to Oksana that she wanted to go watch. The girls snaked through the dancing throng toward the television shoot. Lydia got close enough to see five girls and one guy dancing together. The guy was tall and broad-shouldered, with blond hair that flopped onto his forehead and a dimpled smile. Very tasty. Four of the girls were variations on Hollywood types, lots of skin and designer everything. The fifth girl, however, was a sweet-faced brunette in khakis and a T-shirt, with her hair in a casual ponytail. She definitely didn’t fit in with the others.

A woman with a punk black hairdo motioned to one of the flunkies. He coaxed a middle-aged woman in beige knit pants, aqua floral blouse, and beige support sandals into the shot. Instantly, the hot guy pulled the older woman toward him and danced with her, ignoring the cute girls. The older woman moved stiffly, looking as though she’d rather be anywhere except where she was.

Lydia wondered what all this could possibly have to do with choosing a nanny; then Oksana tugged her away.

“Let’s go dance!” She steered Lydia toward a red leather banquette and pulled out a hidden drawer underneath. “Put bag here.”

The only things in Lydia’s mini Chanel bag, also borrowed from the moms, were a small Chanel lip gloss, a tampon, and one of the tiny vials of herbs that Lydia had brought back from the Amazon. Lydia extracted the vial, and tucked it in the back pocket of her skirt before stowing her bag. Oksana closed the drawer, locked it with a tiny padlock, and headed for the dance floor.

Lydia gave herself over to the music. After more than eight years of native chants and instruments, the hip-hop beat was intoxicating. One song segued into the next; they danced until a waiter clad in nothing but faded jeans, the better to show off his tanned six-pack and pierced nipples, offered Oksana a flute of champagne with floating raspberries. Then he offered one to Lydia.

“They know my drink!” Oksana called over the music.

“I thought you didn’t drink until Thanksgiving!”

“No vodka, I meant!” Oksana hoisted her flute toward Lydia, then drained it. Lydia did the same. The music and the champagne kept coming; Lydia felt as if she could dance all night. Then, out of the blue, a male hand snaked around her waist. A bucktoothed guy who bore a strong resemblance to a tree rat pulled Lydia to him and started humping her to the music. But Oksana got ahold of the little weasel in her muscular grip. “She’s with me, dickhead!” Oksana spat, then spun the rodent-man into the crowd.

Lydia smiled. It was sweet, really, though she could more than take care of herself. Back in the Amazon, size had nothing to do with deadliness. The fiercest warriors were inches shorter than she was. But they had an absolute willingness to kill and knowledge of how to do it in the most expedient way possible. Lydia had learned these lessons well—she hadn’t befriended an Ama shaman for nothing.

“Thanks, Oksana. But if someone cute hits on me, back off.”

“Someone cute, did you say?”

Lydia nodded. “
Very
cute!”

Oksana pulled Lydia close and kissed her. Seriously kissed her.

Huh. Interesting.

The native Amas were bisexual; sex was a far more casual thing in Amazonia than in modern civilization. Not for Lydia, since she hadn’t had any of it yet. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t open to new experiences. She had to admit, though, it was kind of weird getting her very first real kiss from another girl. It wasn’t disgusting or anything, but no bells went off, either.

Oksana ended the kiss with her arms around Lydia’s waist. “Nice?”

“Not bad,” Lydia replied.

“We should go back to my place. Chateau Marmont.”

Hmmm. If Lydia had simply been willing to file it under the heading of “Why Not Try It?” she might have taken Oksana up on the offer. The Chateau Marmont was supposed to be a really nice hotel, too. But peculiar as it seemed to share her first real kiss with another girl, it seemed utterly bizarre to lose her virginity to one. If that’s what lesbians did. Lydia wasn’t exactly sure.

Princess Lydia decided to hold out for her prince—he’d better hurry the hell up—and declined Oksana’s invitation. If the tennis player minded at all, she didn’t show it; the two girls danced the night away.