The Nanny Diaries (9 page)

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

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?"

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"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!"