Not to be outdone, I hear myself talking. rying to establish my status as a person of the world; I name-drop, brand-drop, place-drop. Then self-consciously deprecate myself with humor so as not to intimidate her. I become aware that I am talking way, way too much. I am babbling about why I left Brown,whyI leftmylastrelationship. otthatI'm aleaver no,no,no! I picksomething, I stickwith it! Yessiree! Did I tell you about my thesis? I am revealing information that will be dragged up repeatedly for months in awkward attempts to make conversation. Soon I am just bobbing my head and saying "Okay-ay!" while blindly groping for the doorknob. FinaRyshe thanks me for coming, opens the door, andletsmepress fortheelevator.
I am caughtmid-sentenceastheelevator doorstartstoclose,forcingme toshovemybaginfrontof the electronic eye so I can finish a meaningful thought on my parents' marriage. We smile and nod at one another like animatrons until the door mercifully slides closed. I collapse against it, exhaling for the firsttime inanhour.
Minuteslater thesubwaybarrels downLexington,propellingmetowardschoolandbacktothegrindof myown life. I slump against theplastic seat,imagesfromthepristine apartmentswimming inmyhead. Thesesnapshotsare sooninterruptedby a man or woman. ometimes both. hufflingthroughthecar begging for change while gripping their worldly possessions in a shredded shopping bag. Pulling my backpackup ontomylap,mypostperformance adrenalinelevelingout,questionsbegintopercolate.
Just how does an intelligent, adult woman become someone whose whole sterile kingdom has been
reduced to alphabetized lingerie drawers and imported French dairy substitutes? Where is the child in
thishome?Whereis thewoman inthismother?
Andhow,exactly, am I tofitin?
THE NANNY DIARIES
Ultimately, there would come a turning point in every job when it seemed that the child and I were the
only three-dimensional people running around on the black-and-white marble chessboards of those
apartments. Makingitinevitablethatsomeonewouldgetknockeddown.
Lookingback,itwas asetup tobeginwith.Theywantyou.You wantthejob.
Buttodoit wellis toloseit.
Hitit.
PART ONE
Fall
Then, with a long, loud sniff,thatseemed to indicatethatshe had made up her mind, shesaid:"l'U. take
theposition."
"For all theworld,"asMrs. Bankssaidtoher husbandlater, "asthoughshewere doingusanhonour."
. ARYPOPP1NS
CHAPTER ONE
anny for Sale
"Hi, this isAlexis atthe Parents League. I'm just calling to follow up on theuniform guidelines we sent
over . .." The blond woman volunteering behind the reception desk holds up a bejeweled finger, signaling me to wait while she continues on the phone. "Yes, well, this year we'd really like to see all your girls in longer skirts, at least twenty inches. We're still getting complaints from the mothers at the boys' schools in the vicinity... Great. Good to hear it. Bye." With a grand gesture she crosses the word "Spence"offher listof threeitems.
She returns her attention to me. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. With the school year starting we're just
crazed."Shedraws a bigcirclearoundtheseconditemonherlist, "papertowels." "CanI help you?" "I'm here to put up an ad for a nanny, but the bulletin board seems to have moved," I say, slightly confusedasI've beenadvertising heresinceI wasthirteen.
"We had to take it down while the foyer was being painted and never got around to moving it back. Here, let me show you." She leads me to thecentral room, where mothers perch at Knoll desks fielding inquiriesaboutthePrivate Schools. Beforemesitsthefull
THE NANNY DIARIES range of Upper East Side diversity. alf of the women are dressed in Chanel suits and Manolo Blahniks, half arein six-hundred-dollarbarnjackets,lookingasif theymightbe askedtopitch anAqua Scutumtentatanymoment.
Alexis gestures to the bulletin board, which has displaced a MaryCassattproppedagainst the wall. "It's all a bit disorganized at the moment," she says as another woman looks up from the floral arrangement she's rearranging nearby. "But don't worry. Tons of lovely girls come here to look for employment, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding someone." She raises her hand to her pearls. "Don't you have a sonatBuckley?You looksofamiliar. I'mAlexis?
"Hi,"I say. "I'm Nan.Actually,I tookcareof theOleasongirls. I thinktheylived nextdoor-toyou."
She arches an eyebrow to give me a once-over. "Oh...Oh, Nanny, that's right," sheconfirms for herself, beforeretreatingbacktoherdesk.
I tune out the officious, creamy chatter of the women behind me to read the postings put up by other nanniesalsoinsearchof employment.
Babysitter needchildren
verylikekids
vacuums
I lookyour kids
Manyyearswork
You callme
The bulletin board is already so overcrowded with flyers that, with a twinge of guilt, I end up tacking myadover someone else's pink paper festoonedwith crayon flowers, but spend a few minutesensuring thatI'm onlycoveringdaisies andnoneof her pertinentinformation.
I wish I could tell these women that the secret to nanny advertising isn't the decoration, it's the punctuation. t's all in the exclamation mark. While my ad is a minimalist three-by-five card, without so muchas a smiley faceon it, I liberally sprinklemy advertisement with exclamations, ending eachof mydesirabletraitswith thepromise of a beamingsmile andunflaggingpositivity.
NannyattheReady! ChapinSchoolalumna available weekdayspart-time!
Excellentreferences!Child DevelopmentMajoratNYU!
TheonlythingI don't haveis anumbrellathatmakesme fly.
I do one last quick check for spelling, zip up my backpack, bidAlexis adieu, and jog down the marble stepsoutintotheswelteringheat.
As I walk down ParkAvenue theAugust sun is still low enough in the sky that the stroller parade is in full throttle. I pass many hot little people, looking resignedly uncomfortable in their sticky seats. They are too hot even to hold on to any of their usual traveling companions. lankies and bears are tucked intobackstroller pockets. I chuckletomyself atthechild who waves awaytheofferof a juicebox with a flick of the hand and a toss of the head that says, "I couldn't possibly be bothered with juice right now."
Waiting at a red light, I look up at the large glass windows that are the eyes of Park Avenue. From a population-density point of view, this is the Midwest of Manhattan. Towering above me are rooms. ooms androoms androoms.Andtheyareempty. Therearepowderrooms anddressingrooms andpiano rooms and guest rooms and, somewhere above me, but I won't say where, a rabbit named Arthur has sixteenfeetsquareall tohimself.
I cut across Seventy-second Street, passing under the shade of the blue awnings of the Polo mansion, andturnintoCentral Park.
THE NANNY DIARIES
Pausinginfrontof theplayground,where a fewtenaciouschildrenaretryingtheir bestdespitetheheat,
I reachinmybackpackfor a small bottle of water. ustassomethingcrashesintomylegs. I lookdown
andsteadytheoffendingobject,anold-fashionedwoodenhoop.
"Hey, that's mine!" A small boy of about four or so careens down the hill from where I see he's been posingfor aportrait withhis parents. His sailorhattopplesoffintothepatchygrass asheruns.
"That's myhoop,"heannounces.
"Are yousure?" I ask.Helooksperplexed. "It couldbe awagonwheel."I holdit sideways. "Or a halo?"
I holditabovehis blondhead. "Or a reallylargepizza?" I holditouttohim,gesturingthathecantake it.
He's smilingbroadly atme ashegraspsitinhis hands.
"You, silly!" Hedrags itbackupthehill, passinghis motherasshestrolls downtoretrievethehat.
"I'm sorry," she says, brushing dust off the striped brim as she approaches me. "I hope he didn't bother
you."Sheholdsherhandout toblockthesunfromher paleblueeyes.
"No,notatall."
"Oh,butyourskirt? Sheglancesdown.
"No bigdeal," I laugh,dustingoffthemarkthehoopleftonthefabric. "I workwith kids, soI'm usedto
be
ingbangedup."
"Oh, you do?" She angles her body so her back is to her husband and a blond woman who stands off to
thesideof thephotographerholding a juiceboxforthe boy. His nanny,I presume. "Aroundhere?"
"Actually,thefamily moved toLondonover thesummer,so?
"We're ready!" thefathercalls impatiently.
"Coming!" she calls back brightly. She turns to me, tilting her delicately featured face away from him.
She lowers her voice. "Well, we're actually looking for someone who might want to help us out part-time."
"Really? Part-time wouldbegreat,becauseI have afull courseloadthissemester?
19
"What's thebest waytoreachyou?"
I rummage through my backpack for a pen and a scrap of notebook on which I can scribble down my information. "Here you go." I pass her the paper and she discreetly slips it in the pocket of her shift, beforeadjustingtheheadbandinher long,darkhair.
"Wonderful." She smiles graciously. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you. I'll be in touch." She takes a fewstepsup thehill andthenturnsaround. "Oh,howsillyof me.'m Mrs. X."
1 return the smile before she goes back to take her place in the contrived tableau. The sun filters through the leaves, creating dappled sunshine on the three figures. Her husband, in a white seersucker suit,standssquarelyinthemiddle,hishandontheboy's head,assheslidesinbesidethem.
The blond woman steps forward with a comb and the little boy waves to me, causing her to turn and follow his gaze.As she shields her eyes to get a better look at me I turn and continue on myway across thepark.
My grandmother greets me in her entryway in a linen Mao Tse-tung outfit and pearls. "Darling! Come in. 1 was just finishing my tai-chi." She gives me a kiss on both cheeks and a solid hug for good measure. "Honey, you're damp. Would you like to shower?" There is nothing better than being offered Grandma's buffetof amenities.
"Maybe just acoldwashcloth?"
"I know what you need." She takes my hand, weaving her fingers through mine, and leads me to her guest powder room. I've always adored howthe small lights of theantique crystal chandelier illume the rich peach chintz. But my favorite part is the framed French paper dolls. When I was little I would set up a salon under the sink, for which Grandma would provide real tea and topics for the discussions I wouldleadwith all of mylovely Frenchguests.
THE NANNY DIARIES
She places my hands under the faucet and runs cool water over my wrists. "Pressure points for distributing fire," she says as she sits down on the toilet seat, crossing her legs. She's right; I begin to cooldownimmediately.
"Haveyoueaten?" sheasks.
"I hadbreakfast."
"Whataboutlunch?"
"It's onlyeleven, Gran."
"Is it? I've beenup since four.ThankGodforEuropeor I'd havenoonetotalkto till eight."
I smile. "Howhaveyoubeen?"
"I've been seventy-four for two months, that's how I've been." She points her toes like a dancer and slightly lifts the hem of her pants. "It's called Sappho. had it done atArden's this morning?what do youthink?Tootoo?" Shewigglesher coraltoes.
"Gorgeous,very sexy. Okay,asmuchasI wouldlovetospendtherestof thedayinhereI've gottodrag myself downtown and make my offering to the Tuition Gods." I turn off the sink and shake my hands dramatically over thebasin.
She hands me a towel. "You know, I don't remember having a single conversation like the ones you describe when I was at Vassar." She is referring to my endless history of tete-a-tetes with the administrative staffatNYU.
I follow behind her into the kitchen. "Today I'm prepared. I've got my Social Security card, my driver's license, my passport, a Xerox copy of my birth certificate, every piece of mail I've ever received from NYU, and my letter of acceptance. This time I won't be told I don't go there, haven't completed the last semester, haven't paid my tuition from last year, haven't paid my library fees, don't have the correct ID number,SocialSecuritynumber,proof of myaddress,therightforms, orsimply don't exist."
"My, my, my." Sheopensthefridge. "Bourbon?"
"Orangejuicewouldbegreat."
"Kids." She rolls her eyes and points me to her old air conditioner sitting on the floor. "Darling, let me
getthedoormantohelpyoucarryit."
"No, Gran, I got it," I say, trying valiantly to heave the machine into my arms before slamming it back downonthetile. "Yeah,okay,I thinkI'm goingtohavetocome backlaterwith Joshandgetthis." "Joshua?" she asks with a raised eyebrow. "Your little blue-haired friend? He weighs five pounds
soakingwet."
"Well, unlesswe wantDadthrowinghis backoutagain,that'sabout all I havetochoosefromintheboy department." "I chant for you every morning,darling," shesays, reachingfor a glass. "Come on. Let me whip you up
someEggsBenedict."
I glanceup at theold Nelson wall clock. "I wish I hadtime, but I've gotta get downtown before the line attheregistrarisaroundtheblock." She gives me a kiss on both cheeks. "Well, then bring that Joshua by at seven and I'll feed you both a
propermeal. ou're disappearing!"
Joshgroansandrollsslowlyontohis backfromwherehehasnearly
blacked out after dropping the air conditioner outside my front door. "You lied to me," he wheezes.
"You saiditwasonthethirdfloor." "Yeah?" I say, shakingoutmylowerarms whileleaningback
againstthetop stair.
Helifts hisheadaninchoffthefloor. "Nan,thatwassix flights.
Twoflights afloor,whichmakesthistechnically,like,thesixth
floor."
"You helpedmemove outof thedorm?
"Yeah,whywasthat? Oh,right,becauseithasanel-e-va-tor."
"Well, thegoodnews isthatI'm notplanningonmovingout of
here, ever. Thisis it. You canvisit meup herewhenwe're oldand gray."I wipethesweatoffmyforehead. THE NANNY DIARIES "Forget it.'ll be hanging out on your front stoop with the rest of the blue hairs." He drops his head
backdown.
"Come on." I pull myself up by the banister. "Cold beers await." I unlock all three locks and open the
door. The apartment feels like a car that's been sitting in the hot sun and we have to step back to let the
scorchingair blowpast usintothehallway.
"Charlenemust haveclosedthewindowsbeforesheleftthismorning,"I say.
"And left the oven on," he adds, stepping behind me into the tiny entryway that also does double duty
as akitchen.
"Welcome to myfully equippedcloset. Can I toast you a bagel?" I drop mykeys next to thetwo-burner
stove.
"Whatare youpayingforthisplace?" heasks.
"You don't wanttoknow,"I say, aswepushtheair conditioneracrosstheroomtogetherinlittleshoves.
"So,where's thehotroommate?" heasks.
"Josh,not all stewardessesarehot. Somearethematronlytype."
"Is she?" Hestops.
"Don't stop." We resume pushing. "No. he's hot, but I don't like you assuming she's hot. She flew to
France or Spain or something this morning," I huff as we round the corner to my end of the L-shaped
studio.
"George!"Joshcries outingreetingtomycat,who's sprawledoutonthewarmwoodenfloorindespair.
He lifts his gray, furry head half an inch and meows plaintively. Josh straightens up and wipes his
foreheadwith thebottomof his Mr. BubbleT-shirt. "Wheredoyouwantthissucker?"
I pointtothetopof thewindow.
"What?You a crazylady."
"It's a trickI learnedontheAvenue, 'so asnotto interferewith theview.'Thosewithoutcentral air goto
greatlengthstohideit, darling,"I explainasI kickoffmysandals.
"Whatview?"
"If yousmooshyourfaceagainst thewindowandlookleftyoucanseetheriver."
"Hey, you're right." He pulls back from the glass. "Listen?this whole Josh-heaving-heavy-machinery!
up-to-balance-on-sheet-of-glass-thing,notgonnahappen,Nan.I'm getting a beer. Comeon, George." Heheadsbackto the "kitchen"and Georgestretchesup tofollow h
im. I usethemoment aloneto grab a clean tank top out of an open box and pull off mysweatyone.As I crouchbehind theboxes to change I catch sight of the red light from my answering machine blinking in a frenzy from the floor. The word "full" glaresup atme.
"Runningthat900 numberagain?" Joshreachesover theboxtohandme aCorona.
"Practically. I put my ad up for a new position today and the mummies are restless." 1 take a swig of mybeerandslidedownbetweentheboxestohit play. A woman's voice fills the room: "Hi, this is Mimi Van Owen. I saw your ad at the league. I'm looking
for someone to help me look after my son. Just part-time, you understand. Maybe two, three, four days a week, half-days or longer and some nights or weekends, or both! Whenever you have time. But I just wantyoutoknowthatI'm veryinvolved."
"Well, that'sjustobvious, Mimi," Joshsays, slidingdowntojoinme.
"HithisisAnnSmithl'mlookingforsomeonetowatchmyfiveyearold!sonhe'snotroublereallyandwerunaveryrelaxedhousehold?
"Ouch."Joshputshis handsuptoshieldhimself andI forwardtothenextmessage.
"Hi. I'm Betty Potter. I saw your ad at the Parents League. I have a five-year-old girl, Stanton, a three!
year-old boy, Tinford, a ten-month-old, Jace,andI'm lookingforsomeonewhocanhelp me,
THE NANNY DIARIES
sinceI'm pregnantagain.Nowyoudidn't mentionyourfeeinthead,butI've beenpaying six."
"SixAmericandollars?" I askthemachine,incredulously.
"Hey, Betty, I know a crack-whore down in Washington Square Park who'd do it for a quarter." Josh
swigshis beer.
"Hi, it's Mrs. X. We met in the park this morning. Give me a call when you get a chance. I'd like to talk
moreaboutthetypeof job you're looking for. We have a girl. aitlin. ut she's lookingtocuther hours
andyoumadequiteanimpressiononour son,Grayer. Lookforwardtotalkingtoyou.Bye."
"She soundsnormal. Call her."
"You think?" I ask as the phone rings, making us both jump. I pick up the receiver. "Hello," I say in
instantnannymode,tryingtoconveyutmost respectabilitywith twosyllables.
"Hello". y mothermatchesmydeep,fancytone?how'dtheair-conditioner mission turnout?"
"Hey."I relax. "Fine?
"Wait, hold on." I hear a scuffle. "I have to keep moving Sophie. he's determined to sit two inches
The Nanny Diaries Page 2
