by Melody Mayer
The implication was clear. She could go right back to the Amazon. Lydia shuddered at that prospect. Maybe down the road, when her nanny agency business took off, she could risk losing this gig. But until then, this was Anya’s gulag, and the rest of them just lived in it. It meant that Lydia would have to cheat with care.
Speaking of. “Where’s Anya?” Lydia asked, knowing that Kat was in New York for a production meeting about Wimbledon. Once that championship was under way in a week or so, Lydia would be alone with Anya and the kids for almost two weeks— not Lydia’s notion of a good time.
“Out for a run with Oksana. You know, the Russian tennis player she’s training? They’re doing ten miles this morning. Did you hear? She’s seeded fourteenth for Wimbledon.”
That was nice. Oksana had befriended Lydia when she’d first arrived in L.A. Of course, she’d wanted to be more than friends, but Lydia found that bisexuality didn’t really speak to her. Now she went to the fridge and rummaged: soy milk, protein powder, fruit, vegetables, and fresh fish. She knew the freezer wouldn’t look any better. Was the occasional pint of Ben & Jerry’s too much to ask for? In the cheese compartment, though, she was pleasantly surprised to discover a thick wedge of brie. She broke off half and munched on it as if it was an apple, knowing she had to finish before she woke the kids. Supposedly they were both lactose intolerant. Of course, Lydia had snuck them both milk products many times and neither had gotten the least bit sick. Breaking this news to Anya, however, would be the height of folly.
Time to wake up the kids. Lydia went to Martina’s room first, since the girl was a notoriously heavy sleeper. Her room was young and girly, with tea-party toile wallpaper, thick pink carpeting, and an enormous array of stuffed animals. As Lydia watched Martina sleep from the doorway, she imagined Anya tearing down the wallpaper, burning the stuffed animals, and putting up posters of Amelie Mauresmo and Maria Sharapova.
Martina had just finished fourth grade but from the neck down was already fifteen. Of course, she made sure that people rarely saw her from the neck down, hiding her very developed breasts and rolls of baby fat under oversized sweatshirts. Her posture didn’t help, either; shoulders caved in, bowed head hiding a pretty face behind lank brown hair.
Yesterday, an edict had come down from the moms . . . well, from Anya. Martina needed to drop twenty pounds, pronto. Anya handed Alfre and Lydia what she called a “healthy weight loss” regimen that included daily private aerobics, Tae Bo classes in their home gym, and a portion-controlled, low-carb, sugar-free meal plan.
Lydia wished she could tell the moms what a truly terrible idea this was for a fourth grader. One thing that had really struck home on her return to so-called civilization was how skinny the girls were in Los Angeles. What looked good in magazines looked kind of scary in real life. Her Amazonia friends ranged in size and shape from very skinny to very chubby. Girls were encouraged to eat, to be strong. One never knew when you’d have to skip a meal or two or three, when a pounding rainstorm ruined the fishing or the squirrel monkeys were too busy copulating to cooperate in the hunt.
“Wake up, sweet pea,” Lydia said softly, then opened the pink and white color-block shades. Martina’s room faced east; bright sunlight flooded the bedroom.
Martina groaned and turned over, burrowing into the pillow.
“I’ll be back.” Lydia left her to awaken Jimmy. He’d just finished sixth grade and was a good three inches shorter than his sister. Anya had recently decreed that he get a buzz cut for the summer, which made his face look rounder and his skin pastier. By his own choice, his room was strangely institutional, free of personality. Plain white walls; bare wood floor; a simple wooden desk, chair, and dresser; a single bed with one woolen summer camp–style blanket.
Lydia sighed as she looked at him. These kids had no apparent friends. They enjoyed no particular activities other than eating, and then only when Lydia snuck them something that actually tasted good. How could they possibly be her cousins? They might as well have BIG LOSER tattooed on their foreheads. Still, this could change, Lydia was sure of it. It was just a matter of finding the one thing that rang their chimes instead of the moms’ chimes. She was sure she was just the woman to do it.
The road to find that one thing could be a really long one.
Four and a half hours later, Lydia stood in the spartan waiting room at the LEAP (Creative Leap Educational Activity and Play) Center in Northridge, out in the farthest reaches of the San Fernando Valley, and peered through the glass. Inside, Martina and Jimmy attempted to scale a climbing wall under the watchful tutelage of a young climbing instructor. The idea was for them to build confidence and strength at the same time. There were eight or ten kids at the wall, each with an expectant parent in the waiting room or standing at the glass.
Getting the kids ready to climb had been an ordeal. If not for the climbing instructor—a Cal State–Northridge phys ed major named Krissy whose clingy LEAP T-shirt revealed a pair of consistently perky nipples—Lydia doubted that Jimmy would have even put on his climbing safety harness. As for Martina, she got into her harness just fine, but each halfhearted attempt at climbing required a fifteen-minute pep talk from Krissy.
Since Krissy was in the midst of one of these pep talks, Lydia turned away from the glass window and went to the modest snack bar, where she selected a bottle of strawberry-mango juice from the fridge and brought it to the cashier.
“Wow, nice bag,” the cashier commented as she put Lydia’s money in the register and handed over her change. “It’s a Fendi limited edition, right? How’d you score it?”
“Friends in high places,” Lydia joked. She’d taken the bag from Kat’s closet right before leaving for LEAP. The cashier grinned. She was fresh-faced and apple-cheeked, with glossy blond hair held back neatly by a tartan-print headband. She wore a white T-shirt with the LEAP logo and carpenter khakis. Everything about her screamed Healthy! Normal!
Lydia made a snap judgment. Definite nanny material.
“So, what’s your name?” she asked casually as she cracked open her juice.
“Alexis. You?”
“Lydia. Nice to meet you.” Lydia flashed her best Texas beauty queen smile and took a swig from the juice bottle. “You like working here, Alexis?”
“Yeah, sure. The people are nice. We even have a softball team. Kicked the butt of Burbank Twenty-four-Hour Fitness.”
Lydia smiled as if she found this information captivating. But the last thing on her mind was fitness.
“Want anything to eat with your juice?” Alexis asked. “The menu is on the blackboard. We’ve got bean sprout and wild mushroom sandwiches, soy bars—”
“Oh, no thanks.” Lydia patted her stomach. “I filled up on trail mix before I got here.” This lie was rewarded with an approving nod from Alexis.
So far, so good. Lydia snuck a look over her shoulder. No one was in line—all the other mothers were gazing at their little darlings through the glass. Lydia leaned forward conspiratorially against the counter. “So, Alexis. I guess this job doesn’t pay all that well.”
Alexis shrugged. “It’s okay. Steady. I need to work my butt off all summer—the tuition for Santa Monica College just went up again.”
“What are you studying?”
“Early childhood education. I love kids.”
Pay dirt.
Lydia set her open bottle on the counter. “I happen to know of a fantastic job working with kids. I’m guessing it pays a whole lot better than here.”
“Huh.” Alexis cocked her head at Lydia with interest and lowered her voice. “What is it?”
Lydia reached into her purse and tore off the corner of Martina and Jimmy’s schedule, then scribbled her name and number on it. “Call me. This is totally for real.”
Alexis held up the paper with a dubious look. “You don’t even know me.”
“I’m real in tune with the universe,” Lydia said, careful to look as earnest as possible. “I have a strong vibe about you. So call
me.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Still unconvinced, Alexis stuck the paper into her pocket.
Hmmm. Time to change tactics. “I can tell that you’re not going to call me.” Lydia shrugged. “Oh well. Your loss. See ya, Alexis. Have a pleasant life.”
As Lydia returned to the observation window, she saw Alexis take out the scrap of paper with Lydia’s phone number and study it.
Dang. It was almost as easy as finding edible hellgrammites.
10
Esme held tight to Weston’s hand as she opened the massive double mahogany doors of the Major Modeling Agency, located on the twenty-first floor of the high-rise at the northwest corner of La Cienega and Beverly Boulevard. The agency was fortunate to be on that corner, since it came with a Beverly Hills address instead of one in West Hollywood.
First Esme shepherded Weston inside; then she held the door for Jonathan and Easton. Jonathan had insisted on bringing the twins to the agency, though he had a tennis date at the Riviera Country Club and was dressed in tennis clothes. He would drop them at the agency and then pick them up. Along the way, they had stopped in Hollywood at the main offices of Puppy Love, an upscale pet-grooming service. There they’d dropped off Diane’s Pomeranian to have its nails done and hair bow changed; Diane planned to switch the current zebra stripes to hot pink with tiny pale pink polka dots, in honor of FAB’s two-toned pink logo.
Fortunately, the twins had escaped the same treatment. Instead, they were wearing matching crimson silk kimonos with smiley-faced dragons hand-embroidered on the back, and thick obi sashes at their nonexistent waists. These were samples of Emily Steele designs that the girls would be wearing in their FAB fashion show late that afternoon. As for Esme, she knew she had a long day ahead with the kids; she’d dressed for comfort in jeans, a white T-shirt, and flip-flops.
It had been a strange ride from Bel Air to the agency, to say the least. Jonathan and Esme had sat together in the front seat of the Range Rover (one of the nine vehicles Diane and Steven owned, including a Lotus that Steven drove only on a special closed racecourse in Riverside). The twins had been buckled into their safety seats in the back. They had been in an ebullient mood, singing Spanish songs all the way. But Esme had found herself extremely taciturn, giving monosyllabic answers to Jonathan’s questions about her plans for the day, what she had done the night before. She wasn’t about to say that she’d been out with her paramedic boyfriend. Not because Jonathan would care, but rather because she was so sure he wouldn’t.
Jonathan explained that he’d been at a pre-FAB party hosted by some record label. Esme stared straight ahead. Of course he hadn’t invited her to this party. For all she knew, he’d been there with Mackenzie. Then he had the nerve to bring up the unfinished tattoo Esme had designed on his bicep; when could Esme finish it?
She told him she was busy in a tone that closed down the conversation. She’d finish his damn tattoo when hell froze over. If he couldn’t be public about their relationship, then he could damn well walk around with a half-done Ferris wheel tattoo on his bicep.
Esme rubbed the space between her eyes; her own hypocrisy gave her a headache. Had Jonathan come to her guesthouse the night before when she’d been with Junior, thinking they’d fall into bed per usual? If he had, he didn’t say.
While Jonathan went to chat with the receptionist, Esme looked around the agency’s elegant, low-key lobby. A pair of black suede couches faced a coffee table covered in what Esme had learned were called the trades—newspapers and magazines of the show business industry—Variety, Hollywood Reporter, Publishers Weekly. On one couch, a middle-aged brunette with a hip, short haircut and a Botoxed face sat with her toddler daughter. The girl was fidgety, alternately kicking her mother and the coffee table. Opposite them was a set of tow-headed triplets a little older than Easton and Weston, dressed identically in jean overalls and red and white checkered shirts. A bored-looking brown-skinned woman with dreadlocks watched them, arms folded. The boys were completely wrapped up in their PSPs, connected to each other by a three-way game link.
She’s their nanny, Esme reckoned. All of us poor brown-skinned girls taking care of all the rich white-skinned children. Except in my case, the brown-skinned kids look like they actually could be mine.
For lack of anything else to do, she took the FAB final banquet invitation from her pocket and stared at it.
TENTH ANNUAL LOS ANGELES FASHION BASH
June 22–23
Shows: Staples Center
Final Dinner Banquet: The Queen Mary, Long Beach Harbor
8:00 p.m., June 23
Dress: Black tie
Theme: Classic Hollywood, to Benefit
International Coalition for an AIDS-Free Planet (ICAP)
Photo Identification and Invitation Required for Admission
Banquet Hosts: Steven and Diane Goldhagen
There was no admittance fee on the invitation, but it was understood that banquet tickets were a thousand dollars each. When Esme had awakened that morning, Diane was already at the Staples Center; she’d warned Esme that she would be largely unavailable over the two days of FAB.
Esme sighed and looked at the children, wondering if they were bonding with their new adoptive mom at all. During the day, the girls rarely saw Diane. She was on the board of a dozen charities, all of which seemed to be planning major fund-raising events. The FAB final party was no exception, as ICAP was one of the most popular Hollywood causes of the moment. The year before had been for tsunami relief; in Diane’s home office was a photograph of her, Tom Hanks, and Meg Ryan with the prime minister of Thailand, presenting him with a check for twelve million dollars.
It wasn’t just her volunteer work, though. Diane’s personal grooming regimen was itself a full-time job: workouts at the Century City Gym, facials at the spa at the Peninsula Hotel, manicures and pedicures at Spa 415, brows at Valerie’s salon on Rodeo Drive, waxing at Pink Cheeks in Sherman Oaks (according to Diane, everyone knew they did the best Brazilian wax in the city), hair highlights by Raymond, ditto blowouts at the same Beverly Hills establishment, and a million other things that kept her looking perfect.
Esme snuck a look at Jonathan, who was still waiting for the receptionist. The outline of his broad shoulders tapering to a narrow V, the easy grace of his stance, the apostrophes of dimples he flashed at the receptionist when she held up a “one moment” finger to him and finished directing the phone call to the right office, filled her with a now-familiar twinge of desire.
“Hi, Jonathan!” the receptionist cried, her glossy chestnut hair held back by the headset through which she directed calls. The phone rang again. “It’s insane this morning, sorry,” she told him, and took another call.
So, the receptionist already knew Jonathan. Esme studied her. She was young, not much older than Esme, with round eyes that gave her a constant look of surprise. She wore a tiny citron T-shirt and lots of silver jewelry. What stood out about her, though, was the large bandage over the bridge of her nose, and a prominent bruise under her left eye.
Esme figured it out right away: I bet her boyfriend hits her.
“Major Modeling, can I help you?” the receptionist intoned. “Hold one moment. Major Modeling, can I help you? Hold one moment. Major Modeling, can I help you? No, he’s in a meeting; I’ll put you through to his voice mail.”
Finally, the calls stopped. The receptionist pulled off her headset and trotted around the desk, throwing her arms around Jonathan. “Gosh, it’s crazy with all the calls? How are you?”
“Terrific, Pandora. You’re healing up really well.”
“The doctor said in another week or so the bandage could come off?” Pandora the receptionist raised her voice at the end of the sentence, as if it was a question. “So, I can’t wait to see my new nose, you know?”
“It will be fantastic,” Jonathan assured her. “Barry Weintraub is the best.”
The girl nodded. “I have to thank your stepmother again so much for . . . you know?” She touche
d her bandaged nose again. “Because I would have been, like, middle-aged before I could save up enough money?”
Now Esme realized: The girl hadn’t been hit. She’d had a nose job. It was darkly funny, really, that Esme had jumped to the conclusion that the girl was battered before she’d considered plastic surgery. It just reminded her all over again what a totally different world this was. Plus, the clear implication was that Diane Goldhagen had either helped pay for her surgery or gotten this Barry Weintraub to reduce his fee. Just when Esme wanted to nail Diane in a box labeled Clueless and Selfish, her boss did something to prove she didn’t exactly belong there.
Jonathan grinned. “Forget it. Your mom has saved Diane’s butt a million times. She owed her. Esme?”
He turned to Esme, and Esme automatically stood. “This is our new nanny, Esme Castaneda. Esme, this is Pandora Carrier. Her mother worked for Diane in my dad’s production office.”
“Hola!” Pandora chirped. “Sorry, that’s, like, the extent of my Spanish, you know?”
“Oh, I think I can manage in English,” Esme said tartly.
“Esme’s English is better than my Spanish, too,” Jonathan joked, betraying nothing of a more intimate relationship between himself and Esme. Part of Esme was happy about this. Part of her was furious. He was treating her just like what she was—the hired help.
“Oh, that’s great, you know?” Pandora said without a trace of insult. “Diane told me that the children are still learning English?”
Esme nodded.
“Great. Could you ask the girls if they’re ready to learn how to be fashion models?”
Esme faced the kids. “¿Vosotros estáis listas hacer modelos de la manera?”
