The Nannies (6 page)

11

God. Kiley didn’t get panic attacks, but she wasn’t immune to anxiety. It always hit her in the stomach, and it was hitting her now. She climbed into the limo with her mom and the other contestants. They were on their way to the Brentwood Hills Country Club for the first elimination challenge for
Platinum Nanny.
Kiley had no idea what the challenge would be—it had been kept completely under wraps. All she knew was, she had to survive.

The day before had been fun. Eliminations hadn’t yet begun, and the producers had sent everyone to get their hair cut, colored, and styled at JosephMartin on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. They had wanted to give Kiley red streaks and hair extensions. A stylist had shown her a photo of some chick from a men’s magazine with the same streaky waist-length hair, her tits and butt stuck out to the camera.

It was so
not
Kiley. She’d been adamant on the no extensions, but had given in on the streaks. A flunky had blown her hair perfectly straight, and she’d been forbidden to wear it in a ponytail, thank you very much. Nor could she see it; the producers had wanted to get her reaction on camera.

After hair came makeup. All the contestants were taken to Valerie Beverly Hills, the famous cosmetics salon at the busy corner of North Canon Drive and Little Santa Monica Boulevard, whose twenty-foot-high windows reflected the endless parade of Jags, Beemers, and Hummers that snaked along the street.

The first thing Chamomile—Kiley’s makeup artist—asked was if she’d ever had her eyebrows done. When Kiley said no— that she didn’t even know what that
meant
—Chamomile looked like someone had shot her through the heart. But she’d scrutinized Kiley’s brows and started to pluck.

Kiley winced. Chamomile said something about suffering for beauty and moved on to the eyebrow stencils. These stencils— each was named for a famous movie star; Kiley was outfitted with the Julia Stiles—were put over the eyebrows, then a stiff brush dipped in high-pigment eye shadow was used to color inside the stencil, resulting in alleged movie star eyebrow perfection.

Following the Stiles stencil, Chamomile brushed Kiley’s brows with clear gel on a mascara wand, which was supposed to make them shiny and “hold them in place.” Kiley said her eyebrows had never gone anywhere on their own, so she didn’t know why they needed to be held in place. No one in the salon found her comment at all amusing.

After the eyebrows came makeup. As before, Kiley wasn’t allowed to view herself, but the cameraman from
Platinum Nanny
filmed every moment.

Finally, with cameras on, Kiley was spun toward the mirror. She actually gasped, since she didn’t recognize herself. She had on even more makeup than when she’d been interviewed for
Platinum Nanny.
But it was subtler, too. She looked . . . well . . . pretty. She wished she could show her mother. But Mrs. McCann was being made over at a different salon.

Next stop: Fred Segal’s in Santa Monica. The show was buying each contestant one outfit, with a price limit of a thousand dollars. Kiley found that number hilarious; for half that, she could get an entire Old Navy wardrobe, plus shoes.

A Fred Segal clerk who normally would not blink in Kiley’s direction treated her like royalty. Item after item came off the rack—designers Kiley had only read about, like Carlos Miele and Tom Ford and Tracy Reese. Kiley finally settled on a pale green watered-silk Chloe camisole trimmed with forest green and pink ribbons. It was almost too beautiful to—

Suddenly, Jeanne McCann had appeared in the store aisle. Kiley’s jaw fell open. They’d cut and streaked her mother’s graying hair, which was now soft brown with blond highlights feathered around her cheekbones. The hair, an elegant silk pantsuit, and understated makeup made her mom look both younger and chic. The lovefest reunion of mother and daughter was all caught on camera.

Now it was a day later. As the limo cruised west on Sunset Boulevard, it stopped at the corner of Barrington for a red light. Kiley looked out the window; above them was a fifty-foot billboard that featured an impossibly gorgeous male model, golden rippling muscles above bulging Calvin Klein underwear. He was looking past the camera, as if he was watching a beautiful woman undress for him.

No way. The model was Tom from the suite next door.
That
guy.

“How hot is
he
?” Tamika asked rhetorically. She was checking out the billboard, too.

“I’m starved,” Steinberg put in. “And I’d love to eat him for lunch.”

Cindy shook her head. “It’s an illusion. He probably doesn’t look half that good in person.”

Oh yes he does,
Kiley thought.
In fact, he looks even better.

But she had no intention of telling the other girls that the guy was living right in their midst. Not that Kiley would ever have the nerve to do anything about it. But right now it still felt as though he was her intimate secret, even if she never saw
that
guy
again.

12

While it was fun for Lydia to loll at her aunt’s pool, the surroundings lacked a certain something in the male scenery department. That’s why she decided that the Brentwood Hills Country Club was definitely a step up. The very exclusive, very expensive club was tucked into the hills between Brentwood and Pacific Palisades. The moms had a family membership, which meant that now Lydia was a member, too. Later on, Anya had told her, Lydia would be escorting the children to the club’s “Nanny and Me” activities. But for now, Lydia was a free woman.

After a sumptuous breakfast of bagels, Norwegian lox, and scrambled eggs from Nate ’n’ Al’s restaurant in Beverly Hills— Lydia had tired of pastrami cheeseburgers—it was easy to summon the moms’ driver and ask for a lift to the country club.

The driver was aggressively skinny, with short, spiky dirty blond hair and great cheekbones. His name, he told her, was X. Then he took one look at the chain-fringe-pocketed Frost French jeans Lydia had purloined from the moms, and said she could not possibly wear those jeans with those sneakers, because the proportions were all off. That he was so obviously gay, and so obviously knew what he was talking about, sent Lydia back to the moms’ closet for some Marc Jacobs pumps that X declared to be classic leg-lengtheners.

Lydia decided that having a driver on call—especially a driver with such excellent fashion sense—was far better than a driver’s license of her own. She’d never have to deal with traffic, and she’d always arrive in a style to which she was quickly becoming reaccustomed.

The country club pool was a busy place: moms chatting, industry people talking about scripts, teens doing a designer variation on an Ama fertility dance. At a nearby patio, waiters served upscale hot-weather fare; lobster bisque, grilled pigeon salad, and caramelized onion tart with anchovies were the specialties. A waiter explained to Lydia that if it wasn’t on the menu, she could get it anyway. Just ask.

Plus, there was the stargazing. By eleven o’clock in the morning she’d recognized Scarlett Johansson (not nearly as pretty in person) and Jessica Simpson (who looked even better).

She’d just caught sight of Mena Suvari when a buff lifeguard strolled past Lydia’s chaise. She’d approached him earlier when he was on a break, to ask if he might get her a cocktail, since she’d left her ID in Peru. He’d laughed and said he’d be fired if he got a drink for a minor. But if she wanted Sprite . . . The spin he put on “Sprite” was clear: he might not be able to bring her a Flagman appletini, but the Sprite could be fortified and no one would be the wiser.

At the moment, Lydia was sipping her second well-fortified Sprite. She called to him as he walked past her. “You seem to get a lot of breaks.”

“New shift,” he said, cocking his head toward the lean young woman in a red Speedo who was ascending the lifeguard stand. “Besides, being social is part of my job. What’s your name again?”

“Lydia. Lydia Chandler.”

He shook her hand. “Nice to meet you again, Lydia Chandler. I’m Scott Lyman—wait, I already told you that before. You’re new, right?”

“Got here yesterday.”

“From?” He pointed a playful finger at her. “Someplace in the South, right? I recognize the accent.”

Lydia almost laughed aloud. “You could say that.”

“Welcome to L.A., Lydia from the South. You found a great place to spend the day. But I know better places to spend the night.” Then he winked.

Even a girl who’d gone through puberty catty-corner to a dung heap—that would be her—would find that line-and-wink combo cheesy. But Scott’s sinewy swimmer’s muscles were far too promising to let a little thing like IQ or personality get in the way.

Lydia leaned on one elbow. “You want to have sex with me, right?”

Scott practically choked on his own spit. “Well, yeah, I mean . . . you get right to the point, huh?”

Lydia shrugged. “Where I come from, people don’t beat around the bush, they live in it. What are you doing later?”

Scott gave her a lazy grin. “You mean what are
we
doing later? How about if I get your digits?”

Digits. That had to mean her phone number, Lydia figured. She borrowed a black marker from the woman on the next chaise longue, who was editing a script. Then she took Scott’s hand, ready to write her number on it. But he jerked it away at the last moment.

“Can’t. Forgot. I’ve got to do this TV thing that’s taping over there.” He cocked his head in the general direction of the outdoor bar. “It’ll show.”

Lydia sat up. “Turn around then.”

He did craning to see what she would do. Lydia pulled down the back of his sky blue Gottex swim trunks just far enough to scrawl the number of the cell phone her aunt had given her. She then capped the marker and tossed it back to the woman from whom she’d borrowed it.

Scott wagged a playful finger at her. “You’re a bad, bad girl.” “Thank you. So what show?”

“New reality show.
Platinum Nanny.
”

“Yeah? They were shooting at De Sade last night,” Lydia said. “I was there with a friend.”

“For a new girl in town, you get around. I’ll call you. I’m gonna get awesome exposure from this. Hey, you wanna come watch?”

Since Lydia was already enjoying his awesome exposure, she allowed as how she might do just that.

The host of
Platinum Nanny,
Amber “A.M.” Mahaffey, was also its executive producer. She’d been an MTV veejay fifteen years ago, back when Platinum had been in her prime. A.M. parlayed that gig into a career as a television executive.
Platinum Nanny
had been her idea; her close personal relationship with Platinum had made the whole thing possible. Or, as cynics might point out, it was a last-ditch effort to resuscitate Platinum’s and A.M.’s careers, both of which were currently on life support.

Kiley stood with the contestants near the shallow end of the pool, wearing the navy Speedo the show had given her. The other four girls had been provided with bikinis that ranged from tiny to almost nonexistent. Jimmy had been given cutoff jeans covered in Confederate flags. It was all a setup, of course—it hadn’t taken Kiley long to figure out that reality TV was as carefully planned as a scripted show, with each person’s role clearly defined: the Brilliant and Obnoxious (Cindy), the Competent and Sexy (Veronique), the Buffoon ( Jimmy), the Alt-Artist (Steinberg), the Streetwise (Tamika), and finally, the Innocent . . . which would be her. She was sure that when the show was edited and aired, the producers would emphasize those roles. From multiple seasons of
Survivor,
Kiley knew the lamb always got tossed to the wolves. It did not bode well for her longevity on the show.

13

Esme had driven past the Brentwood Hills Country Club on occasion, stared at the Jaguars and Beemers that turned onto the private driveway, gazed at the magnificent grounds secure behind high wrought-iron fences and gates. But she never imagined she would be inside those gates herself.

Now, just three hours into her two-week trial period as the Goldhagens’ nanny, Esme was not just inside the gates, but inside the club’s playroom for children. It was the size of an elementary school gymnasium. But unlike a school gym, the crowded playroom featured every toy and activity imaginable. There was a trampoline and miniature golf, a climbing wall, an arts and crafts corner, and more Legos in one pile than Esme thought humanly possible.

But Easton and Weston were ignoring all these attractions. Instead, they sat in front of the big-screen, high-definition television, mesmerized by
Dora the Explorer.
It made Esme smile. Part of
Dora
was in Spanish, but most of it was in English, which made the show an excellent way for the twins to learn their new language. And if the kids ended up addicted to TV, they’d certainly been adopted by the right parents.

Esme checked her watch; the kids were scheduled for a private swimming lesson in five minutes. She coaxed them away from Dora and led them out of the building and toward the pool. People smiled as they passed. Esme figured the smiles were either to demonstrate how liberal and inclusive they were, or because they thought her sister was J.Lo.

She found the pool. Unfortunately, it was the wrong one, for adults only. A waiter directed her to the family pool, on the other side of the breezeway. But before she could herd the girls in the right direction, Easton spotted the TV camera crew near the diving board.

“TV! TV!” Easton shouted. She jumped so high that her Harry Winston twenty-four karat gold-and-diamond E pendant—a gift from some Hollywood big shot—flew up and hit her on the cheek.

Weston picked up her sister’s chant. “TV! TV!
Yo quiero
TV!” Obviously, something was filming. But they couldn’t stick around to find out, since Esme had less than three minutes to get the kids to their lesson. She tried to explain to them that they could come back later, but neither kid would take
“más
tarde”
for an answer.

Stuck, Esme phoned her boss and asked for guidance.

“Let them have fun,” said Diane. “We’ll worry about discipline later.”

Weston pointed to the camera. “TV!
Como
Jimmy Neutron!”

Esme sighed and closed her cell. It would take a while for the kids to appreciate the difference between animation and live action.

“Hey. Your twins are so cute! They look just like you.”

Esme’s hackles rose at the comment from an unseen someone behind her; it was just so typically Anglo—another way of saying that all brown people looked alike. She turned and scowled at a slender girl with a deep tan, pale eyes, and long, choppy, white blond hair.

“I don’t think so,” Esme retorted, her voice chilly. “I’m their nanny.”

“Oh, cool. I’m a nanny too!” the girl said, clearly not in the least offended by Esme’s frosty tone. “The kids I’m taking care of are out of town, though. Lucky me.”

Esme almost smiled. She couldn’t stay mad, the girl was just so ingenuous. “Do you know what they’re shooting?”

“
Platinum Nanny.
”

Esme had seen the promos for
Platinum Nanny
—there were billboards all over town touting the show. So she stood on tiptoes to better check out the contestants—each girl was better looking than the one before, the lone guy handsome in a white-bread all-American way, but
so
not her type in those stupid Confederate flag cutoffs.

Easton tugged on her arm. “Can I be on TV?” she asked in Spanish.

Esme chuckled.
“Más tarde, cuándo tu tienes a menos que veinte
años. Ahora, tu estás demasiado joven.”

“You said something about when she’s older, right?” the blond girl asked.

Esme nodded. “You speak Spanish.”

“A little,” the girl said. “Homeschool. Where I’ve been living for the last eight years, no one spoke English but my parents and me. And when I say no one, I mean no one.”

Odd,
Esme thought. The girl had no accent, except maybe a twinge of Southern. Where could she have come from where no English was spoken?

“I’m Lydia Chandler,” the girl said, with a friendly smile. She held out her hand.

Esme shook it. “Esme Castaneda.”

“Nice to meet you, Esme.” Lydia nudged her chin toward the contestants. “See the brunette in the one-piece? I’m rooting for her.”

“You know her?”

Lydia shook her head. “But she looks like she doesn’t belong up there, you know? I know how that feels. Plus, I think they’ve got her mother on the show—that woman over there. My momma would bump uglies with a witch doctor before she’d go on a reality show.”

“Bump uglies with a witch doctor?”

“Did you just say—” Esme began.

“Look at that.” Lydia’s attention was still focused on Mrs. McCann. As Esme watched, a producer tried unsuccessfully to coax her out of her bathing suit cover-up. When that didn’t work, she got Mrs. McCann to put on a truly ridiculous floppy orange polka-dotted sun hat.

Esme tried to picture her own mom on a show like
Platinum
Nanny.
It was like trying to picture her as president of the United States. No, wait. Her mother as president was much more likely, even if it was constitutionally impossible.

“My mother would never do it, either,” she told Lydia. “Not in a million years.”

“See?” Lydia asked cheerfully. “We already have two things in common. I think we ought to be friends.”

Esme hardly knew what to say. She remembered back in Fresno when she’d been around eight years old, a girl had come up to her at school and asked out of the blue if Esme wanted to be her best friend. Instead of feeling flattered, Esme had wanted nothing to do with her.

But that wasn’t her reaction to this girl, who was startlingly beautiful, very direct, and kind of quirky. So even though it was obvious to Esme that they came from not just two different worlds but two different planets, something made her say, “I think so, too.”