The Nanny Diaries Part 5

"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 beentalkingtoandwhat.i.tcosther?

"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.

"h.e.l.lo?" I whisper,crouchingdownwith myheadbeneaththedesk.

"Nanny?"

"Yes?"

"It's Mrs. X."

"Um, yeah,I'm incla.s.s."

"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 pa.s.sages ?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 thefactthat.i.t'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 a.s.sess 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 kneesscrubbingthedoork.n.o.bwith 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 t.i.tles in the floor-to-ceiling bookcase: WhyShouldYouHavetheBaby?Stress andtheFertility Myth They'reYourb.r.e.a.s.t.sToo: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 here, Nan. Now,if memory serves, you signed onto provide child care forthis woman.That's all, right?

Isshepaying youanymoreforthis.e.xtra service?"

"No.Mom, thisisnot agoodtime tobehaving?

"I mean,youshouldspend adaydownhereatth.e.s.h.elterkitchen.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 sh.e.l.ls 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, sc.r.a.pingburnedbeets outofthepot.

"Whatever happenedtopeanutb.u.t.ter andjelly?" shelaughs,puttingher briefcasedownonthetable.

"Nanny,I wantpeanutb.u.t.ter 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 b.u.t.ter 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 thePica.s.soover themantelandtheRothkoabovethesideboard.

I follow hertothelivingroomandthenthelibrary. Shetakesin 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 ...

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,goodG.o.d,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. Cla.s.sic.

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 G.o.d, 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 c.o.c.kS 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 a.s.ses and give me a hand with these drinks, you lazy b.i.t.c.hes!" H. H. comes over to a.s.sist 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.