The Nanny Diaries Page 7

  "Um, probablyjustsomeneutraltones?Maybe thatnicelipstickyouworetolunchtheotherday?"

  "No, I meansomething, you know .. . tribal?" Grayer looks up athis mother in complete bewilderment,

  his eyes wide.

  "Mommy,is thatyourcostume?"

  THE NANNY DIARIES

  "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

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  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!"

  "Well!"

  "Well?"

  "Well, for someone who didn't like it when snap judgments were made about you, it's pretty

  hypocritical ofyoutojudgeme soquicklybasedontheirbehavior."

  "Fair enough." I take a deep breath and try to straighten to my full height. "Let me clarify, I'm judging

  youonthefactthatyoudidn't step intoshutthemup."

  He looks back at me. "Okay, I should've said something. I'm sorry things got so out of hand." He tucks

  his hair behindhis ear. "Listen, come out with me tonightand let me make it up to you.I'm hangingout

  with some college friends. t's a whole different crowd, I promise." The door slides open and both a

  woman in a cashmere wrap and her standard poodle glare with annoyance because there is no room for

  themaroundmycostume. Thedoorslidesclosed.I realizeI haveonlytwomorefloorstoacquiesce.

  "Obviously, I have a really decadent affair ahead of me." I gesture with one three-fingered hand to my

  purpletorso. "ButI cantrytostop byaroundten."

  "Great! I'm not sure exactly where we're going. We were thinking of Chaos, or The Next Thing, but

  we'll definitely beatNightingale's till eleven."

  THE NANNY DIARIES "Well, I'll try to make it." Despite the fact that I am not completely clear where, in his list of

  destinations, I should aim to make it to.The doors open to the lobby and I attempt a sexywaddle to the

  car,tryingtoremember toleadwith myhips.

  I wait until H. H. is safely around the corner and then, after one last ass-push from the doormen, we are

  on our way. I take a little bit of pleasure from the fact that Mrs. X is forced to lean across and pin the

  cardonGrayer herselfasshehastheuseof all tenofherfingers.

  "Honey, 1 finally found out who
the Brightmans used to book their safari? she begins, but Mr. X

  gestures to the phone and shakes his head. Not to be outdone she pulls her Startac out of her Judith

  Leiberpumpkinclutch anddials. Thepuffy,primary-coloredsideof thecarsits inprolongedsilence.

  "... I don't thinkher decoratordid averygoodjob..."

  "... takeanotherhardlookatthosenumbers?

  "... andmauve?"

  ".. .atthatAPR?Is henuts?"

  "... bamboofor akitchen!"

  "... buybacktenbillionover thenextthreeyears..."

  I lookdownatGrayerandpokehisyellow tummy with apurplefinger. Helooksup andpokesme back.

  I squeezehis feltchub,he

  squeezesmine.

  "So." Mr. X flips his phone closed with a loud click and looks at me. "Do they have Halloween in

  Australia?"

  "Um, I, uh, think they have something calledAll Souls' Day, but, um, 1 don't think people dress up or,

  uh,trick-or-treat,traditionally,"1 answer.

  "Honey,"Mrs. X intercedes. "ThisisNanny.Shetookover from

  C-a-i-t-1-i-n."

  "Oh,right,right,of course.You're prelaw?"

  "I wanttositnexttoMommy!" Grayer suddenlybursts out.

  "Grove,staynexttomeandkeepmecompany,"I say, looking

  down.

  "No!I wanttositnexttoMommy now."

  Mrs. X looks over at Mr. X, who has retreated back behind his paper. "We don't want to get your fun makeup onMommy's coat?staywith Nanny,sweetie."

  After a few more rounds,he finally tuckersout andthefour of ussit insilenceas thecarglides down to the very bottom of the city, where the dense, narrow streets of Lower Manhattan give way to the imposing towers of the Financial District. The neighborhood appears deserted, except for the funereal lineoftowncarsformingoutside Mr. X's company.

  Mr. and Mrs. X slide out and march ahead of us into the building, leaving Grayer and me unassisted to maneuveroursphericalbodiesoutofthecarandontothesidewalk.

  "Nanny,saythreeand I'll push!Saythree,Nanny! SAY IT!"

  With his little feet in my backside and my face nearly on the sidewalk it's no wonder he can't hear me whenI scream, "Three!"

  I smush my face to the left to see Grayer sticking his lips out the crack in the window. "Didja say it, Nanny?Didja?"

  I can sense a flurry of activity behind my enormous haunches, accompanied by snippets of the mastermind atwork. "Okay, nowI'm Rabbit... and you .. . you're Pooh ... and ... are youcounting?... and

  ... after all the honey ... stuck in the tree. HAT'S THREE, NANNY, on THREE!" He could be constructing acatapult outofcocktailnapkinsbacktherefor all I know?

  WHOMP!

  "I didit!Nanny,I didit!"

  I right myself, reach down with my three-fingered hand for his, and we waddle with pride toward the entrance. Mr. andMrs. X havekindly heldtheelevator forusandwe rideup totheforty-fifthfloorwith

  anothercouplewhosechildrencouldn't attend. "Homework."

  We all step out into a cavernous reception area, which has been transformed into a Tim Burton film. hemarblewalls arecoveredincut-out batsandfakecobwebs,every inchoftheceilingdrips in

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  streamers, spiders, and skeletons. Thereare numerous bar tables strategically placed at regular intervals aroundtheroom,eachaglowwith a hand'carvedpumpkin centerpiece.

  It seems as thoughevery unemployed actor in thetristate area has been called in to entertain the troops. At the reception desk Frankenstein pretends to answer phones, Betty Boop walks by with a tray of drinks, and Marilyn is singing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President" to a cluster of Mr. X's colleagues in the corner. Grayerlooksaroundwith a bitof trepidationuntilGarfield comes bywith a trayof peanutbutter andjellysandwiches.

  "You can take one. Go ahead, Grayer," 1 encourage him. He has some trouble with the gloves on, but managestosecureoneandmunches,slowlymushinghis bodytighteragainstmyleg.

  The far wall is a breathtaking, floor-to-ceiling view of the Statue of Liberty. I seem to be the only one appreciating it, but then I'm also one of the few nannies with a visible face.Apparently Mrs. X was not alone in her concept for the evening; all the nannies are in huge rented costumes at least three feet in circumference; the child is a small Snow White, nanny is a large Dwarf, the child is a small farmer, nanny is a very large cow, the child is a small Pied Piper, nanny is a large rat. However, the winners, hands down, are the Teletubbies. I exchange wan smiles across the room with two Tinky Winkys from Jamaica.

  A couplewith asmallWoodstockandlargeSnoopyintowcomes over tous.

  "Darling,youlookfabulous!" says thewifetoMrs. X,ormaybe Grayer.

  "HappyHalloween,Jacqueline,"Mrs. Xreplies,givingher anair kiss.

  Jacqueline, wearing a tiny pink pillbox hat with her blackArmani, barrels on to Mr. X. "Darling, you're notincostume, youbadboy!" Herown betrothediswearing a captain's hatwith his pinstripedsuit.

  "I'm dressedas a lawyer,"Mr. Xsays. "Butreally,I'm aninvestmentbanker!"

  "Stop!" Jacqueline says, giggling. "You're such a stitch!" She looks down at Laa-Laa and Woodstock. "You little darlings should go check out the games area. t's fabulous!" I look over at Snoopy, who's listing under the weight of the giant head. "We got a much better company this year to organize the wholething.TheydidBlackstone's 4thof JulyBungeeJump andCocktails."

  "I heard that was lovely. Mitzi Newmann's gotten addicted. She had a free-fall bridge installed in Connecticut. Go ahead, Grayer," Mrs. X encourages. He stares up at all the macabre mayhem and doesn't lookentirely convincedthathewantstobeseparatedfromhisparentsrightnow.

  "Go on,sport,and ifyou're good, I'll takeyoutoseetheexecutive diningroom," Mr. Xsays, prompting Grayer tolookup atme.

  "Where Daddy has lunch," I explain. I take his hand and follow our Peanuts teamto the children's area, which is cordoned off with a little picket fence. As Barbie opens the gate I look at her. "Good idea," I say, "let's keepout thegrown-ups."

  The whole twenty-foot area is rilled with activity tables and games that seem mostly to involve throwing things. (A miscalculation on someone's part, I think, as a small Big Bird goes down.) I notice veryquicklythatthegrown-up drink traysaren't circulatinginhereandleanoutover thefencetoswipe a little relief. Occasionally parents swing by, like maitre d's, to ask if the child is enjoying him/herself andremark, "Amarshmallow ghost! Ooooh,scary!", thenturnbacktoeachothertoadd, "You justhave no idea what our renovation is costing. t's really staggering. But Bill wanted a screening room."And theyshrug,rolltheireyes, andshaketheirheads.

  Mrs. X has come in with Sally Kirkpatrick, a woman I recognize from Grayer's swimming class, to watch her three-foot Batman try to obliterate his ring-toss opponents. I come up behind them to check inaboutbedtime.

  THE NANNY DIARIES "Your newgirl's reallygoodatgetting Grayerinthepool,"Mrs. Kirkpatricksays. "Thanks, I wish I could take him, but Tuesday's my day at the Parents League and with ice skating on

  Fridays and French on Thursdays and CATS on Wednesday I need one day to do something for

  myself."

  "I know, I'm so busy. I'm on four different committees this season. Oh, can I put you down for a table

  fortheBreastBall?"

  "Of course."

  "So whathappenedtoCaitlin?Your newgirldidn't seemtoknow."

  "Sally,itwas a nightmare. I'm luckyI foundNannywhenI did! Caitlin, whosework I never foundtobe

  exemplary, by the way, but I put up with it, because, well, one does. Anyway, she had the nerve to ask for the last week ofAugust off after I already gave her the first two weeks of Januarywhen we went to Aspen."

  "You're kidding."

  "Well, I justfeltshewastryingtotakecomplete advantageofme?

  "Ryan,playfair. hatwaslolanthe's ring,"SallyshoutsatherBatman.

  "ButI positively didnotknowwhattodo,"Mrs. Xcontinues,sippingPerrier.

  "So youfiredher?" Sallyasks, eagerly.

  "First I talkedto a professionalproblemconsultant?

  "Oh,who'd youuse?"

 
"BrianSwift."

  "I hearhe's great."

  "He was fantastic. elped me put the whole thing into perspective. He made it clear that my authority

  as house manager had been called into question and I had to bring in a replacement to drive the point

  home."

  "Brilliant. Don't let me forgetto get his number from you. I'm having suchproblems with Rosarita. The otherdayI askedherto

  runup to Midtown to pick up a few things while Ryan was inhockey class and shesaid she didn't want tobecauseshedidn't thinkshe'd haveenoughtime togetback.I mean,doesshethinkI don't knowhow longittakestogetaround?"

  "I know,it's appalling.Afterall, whenthekids areinclass they're justsittingthere,onourdime. I mean, really."

  "So,areyoudonewith all yourinterviews?" Sally asks.

  "Well, we have Collegiate on Tuesday, but I'm not sure if I want him on the West Side," Mrs. X says, shakingherhead.

  "But it's such a good school. We'd be thrilled if Ryan got in there. We're hoping the violin gives him an edge."

  "Oh,Grayerplays thepiano. hadnoideathatwasimportant," Mrs. Xsays.

  "Well, itdependsonhis level. Ryan's alreadycompetingregionally..."

  "Oh,I see.That's fantastic."

  Apprehensiveof what I mightsaytoMrs. X atthis moment on two vodkatonics,I tiptoebackwardand spot Grayer, still slinging beanbags like a pro, which leaves me free to grab another drink and observe the grown-up side of the room. Everyone is dressed in black, the men are tall, the women slim, they all standwith theleftarmfoldedacross theirabdomen,thelefthandsupportingtherightelbowsotheright hand can wave a drink around as they talk.As the pumpkin centerpieces slowly burn down they begin to cast long shadows of bankers and banker wives and everyone is starting to look to me like a Charles Addamscartoon.

  I realizeI'm getting woozyfrom theheatand thealcohol, but mypurple posterior doesn't fit into anyof the pint-size plastic chairs. So I sit on the floor a few feet away from the cupcake table where Grayer has stationed himself while his pitching arm recovers. There is so much commotion around us from the Busby Berkeley staff of hired activity folk that I must consciously fix my stare on Grayer while he decorateshis fourthcupcake. I leanmyheadagainstthe

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  wall andwatchwith prideasheassertively grabs sprinklesandsilver balls, whileother childrenwait for their nannies, crouched beside them, to hand over tubes of frosting as if their charges were about to performsurgery.