The Nanny Diaries Part 6

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 hatp.r.i.c.kup. "Where doyouwork?"

"Are youinana.n.a.lyst 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 p.o.r.n film ever screenedintheirfrathousebas.e.m.e.nts.

"So,"thedrunkestbegins, "isthedadhot?"

"Hashehitonyou?"

"Urn,no.I haven't met himyet."

"Is theMomhot?" anotheroneasks.

"Well, I don't thinkso?

"Whataboutthekid?Isthekidhot?Hasheever made apa.s.s 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, blus.h.i.+ng 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 f.u.c.ked 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 f.u.c.king the nanny. They're not f.u.c.king their wives. They're not f.u.c.king anyone. Because they get fat, they go bald, they lose their appet.i.tes 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 justreallya.s.sholes."

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?wors.h.i.+ping,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.

CHAPTER THREE.

ight ofthe Bankin 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,myG.o.d,couldyou?" shepantsup fromwhereshe's crouchedonthefloor.

I gointothekitchenandbuzzthesuperontheintercom,whopromises tosendup thehandyman.

"He's onhis way. So,urn,what'sinthere?"

Shehuffsandpuffsa.s.sheworksatthecrate, "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.

DearG.o.d.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 pa.s.singsiren.

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?"

"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 theh.e.l.l they're called. Butas soonas I startinonGrayer's facehe gets a ma.s.sive attack of the faceitchies.

"Laa-Laa, Nanny. I'm Laa-Laa."Heraisesbothmittedhandstohis nose. "You'reTinkyWinky?

"Grov,pleasedon't touchyourface. I'm tryingtomakeyoulooklike aTeletubby."

Themudhutrushesbackin. "MyG.o.d,helooksawful!Whatareyoudoing?"

"Hekeepsmus.h.i.+ngit,"I trytoexplain.

She looks down at him, straw stalks trembling. "GRAYER ADD/SON X, DO NOT TOUCH YOUR FACE/"Andshe's off.a.gain.

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. "h.e.l.lo?h.e.l.lo,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, c.u.mbersome purple albatross and smearing my skin in white lard) later and we rea.s.semble awkwardly around the crates in the front hall. mall yellow Laa-Laa,largepurplea.s.shole,andMrs. X in a dignified Jil Sanderpantsuit.

"Is ittoowarmformymink?" sheasks,adjustingmyhoodsothepurpletriangle,thesizeof a s...o...b..x, 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 Eeeex.x.xx.x.xx,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 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 s.h.i.+ny 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?