Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

thediningroom."

"Are youcookingfortheparty?" sheasks, gesturingtothesinkoverflowing with pans.

"No. t's his dinner," I say, scrapingburnedbeets outofthepot.

"Whatever happenedtopeanutbutter andjelly?" shelaughs,puttingher briefcasedownonthetable.

"Nanny,I wantpeanutbutter 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 butter 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 thePicassoover themantelandtheRothkoabovethesideboard.

I follow hertothelivingroomandthenthelibrary. Shetakesin

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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 ...

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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,goodGod,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. Classic.

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 God, 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 COCKS 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 asses and give me a hand with these drinks, you lazy bitches!" H. H. comes over to assist 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.

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 hatprickup. "Where doyouwork?"

"Are youinananalyst 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 porn film ever