Nanny Returns (30 page)

“Yes, I am trying to reach a guest.”

“One moment, please, I’ll connect you.”

“Thanks.”

“Chinatown Holiday Inn, this is the operator.”

“Hi. I’m trying to reach your guest, Mrs. X.”

“One moment, please.”

It rings. And rings. Finally: “Hello?”

“Mrs. X? It’s Nan again, we must have gotten discon—”

Dial tone. Dammit! Oh my God …is she hanging up on me? She’s hanging up on me. Oh my God!

“Chinatown Holiday Inn, how may I direct your call?”

“Yeah, trying to reach a guest.”

“One moment, please, I’ll connect you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Chinatown Holiday Inn, this is the operator.”

“Mrs. X, please.”

“One moment—oh, yes, that guest has been asked not to be disturbed, but I can put you through to the message system, one moment—”

I hang up, my heart pounding. “Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuck.
” I pound the device into the soft white pillow.

“Nan?” I hear a man’s voice at the door.

“Yes?”

“It’s Clark.”

“Sorry, yes, come in,” I say, standing.

The door opens and he leans inside, toweling off his sweaty face from a round of golf. “I’m about to hop in the shower.”

I realize I’m looking at him blankly. “Okay.”

He grins. “Then we’re all going to hang at the pool. You play poker?”

“What?”

“Poker, we could use one more.”

“Oh, yes, but, I’m, uh, triaging a work crisis. Maybe later?”

“Cool.” He spins around, slapping his hand on the top of the door-frame. “We’ll have a drink waiting.”

I stare after him, at a total loss.

Hiding from the smattering of poolside conversation behind Citrine’s
Us Weekly,
I peer across the ruffling water to where Grayer is racked out on his chaise. His chest rises and falls under his sweatshirt, his Oakleys obscuring his eyes. A rumble of thunder rolls in off the Atlantic. “We may just have to go inside and drink,” Bitsy Newhouse, a Core Fusion buddy of Tatiana’s, announces chipperly, lowering her sunglasses, realizing the sky has clouded over their purpose. She slips them off and drops them into the whale-patterned tote that matches her kelly green hot pants. Probably a snub-nosed blue-eyed baby, Mary in the pageant, prom queen, sorority president. What happens to the Bitsys when our thirties give way to our forties, when we’re supposed to start looking more like women and less like girls? “Does anybody make a decent Bloody Mary? My ex, he could mix a drink,” she says, a little ruefully.

“Bits, you want a Bloody Mary?” Clark calls from the patio where the men are playing poker a respectable seventh-grade-dance-distance away. He picks up his phone.

“Well, yeah!”

He texts something. “Coming right up! Anybody else?”

“Pellegrino!” the other wives call. “Those seaweed chips!”

Grayer stretches, his glasses falling down. He sees me watching and pushes them back into place. Flipping up his hood, he sinks back into unconsciousness, or at least the appearance of.

Roger folds and pushes back from the table, as he has been doing every round. This time he wanders across the grass, down to the pool area, and sits himself on the edge of his wife’s chaise. “What’re you reading?” he asks.

“God, you’re worse than Astin,” Alex scoffs, not taking her eyes from her Candace Bushnell novel. “Why can’t you just play with the other boys?”

He hunches his shoulders and stares at his hands. “Clark doubled the stakes to a thousand a hand and I—I—we—”

“We what?”

He looks around. I pretend I’m not listening.

“We’ve talked about this,” he mutters.

“Oh my God,” she says loudly. “You’re such a worry wart.” She lowers the book to her chest and leans in. “You got a two-million bonus last year,” she says through tight teeth.

“In
options,
” he whispers. “Clark’s been saying some seriously scary shit. Doomsday shit.”

“And he doesn’t seem worried. He just bought a motherfucking Chagall, for Christ’s sake.”

“Alex.” He pulls back to look squarely at her. “He’s a short-seller. That’s how he makes his money.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s a nice weekend. Go have a nice weekend.”

Dismissed, he lumbers back to the game, reluctantly taking his seat at the new rate.

“So what did you decide about your name?” Alex turns chipperly to Bitsy.

“Oh, I decided I’m keeping his,” she says, fingering with one hand the large diamond pendant that looks like a converted cushion-cut engagement ring, and scrolling her BlackBerry with the other. “My mom pointed out it opens more doors—oh, the Jarndyce helicopter thingy was yesterday. Wow. Want to hear something disgusting?” She runs her thumb down the roller ball as she talks. Alex and Pippa nod. “It seems the event planner wouldn’t leave without payment. Made some kind of stink. God, that’s so gauche. My friend’s saying we should all boycott her.”

“Of course. Forward me that, would you?” Pippa sits up on her chaise, exposing the cushion’s navy blue interlocking double C monogram—lest we go ten feet on this property without knowing whose house this is, as if Vicente was decorating for amnesiacs. Closing the
Vogue
in her lap, she swings her espadrilles to the slate rimming the pool and turns to Alex. “I’d better talk to the chef about lunch for the children.” She gestures to the darkening sky. “They’ll probably be back from the beach soon.”

“Or not,” Alex retorts, pressing her freckled lips together. “Gloria is very resourceful—she can keep them out there for hours.” Except Stilton, who forsook the beach to trail Citrine since they got back from the morning’s equine excursion.

“Good,” Bitsy rejoinders. “My daughter needs to be worn out like a greyhound.”

“I loved that little sundress you had her in this morning,” Alex says.

“Well, I have to draw the eye down.” Bitsy pulls a face. “Don’t get me started. I’m counting the seconds until I can get her into Dr. Imber. Of course she takes after her father and looks weren’t exactly the asset he brought to the party.”

My cell rings and, all too ready for a break from these ladies, I swipe it from under my chair. “Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Oh, thank God, hold on a sec.” I slip my feet into my flip-flops and stride out to the base of the dunes. “Thanks so much for getting back to me. I’m going nuts. I tried calling, but she keeps hanging up on me. What exactly did you find?”

“Okay,” Josh says, and I picture him flipping through his worn palm-sized Moleskine. “I schmoozed the front-desk clerk—Pepper helped—and she confirmed a blond woman checked in two weeks ago. Never leaves the room, but gets daily deliveries from Bouley—and a manicurist came twice.”

“Wait, she doesn’t leave the room?”

“Nope.”

“So doctors come to her.”

“Not that they know of.”

“Then it’s some sort of alternative outpatient treatment? An Asian healing retreat thing?”

“Not unless she finds coq au vin therapeutic.”

“Are you saying—”

“She’s a big fat faker? Yes, that is what I’m saying.”

I shake my head, uncomprehending, as I look back to see Grayer stretched out on his chaise. “But
why
would you
do
something like this?” My mind reels. “It’s monstrous.” I hold my hand up. “Whatever, she can answer that Monday evening when I drag her by the neck back to 721.”

“I want the blow-by-blow. I’ll need the entertainment in Poughkeepsie.”

“I’m
so
sorry, Josh. You know if I had a bank I’d hire Jen in a heartbeat.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“You’re awesome to do this, especially with everything else you’re juggling. And tell Pepper she’s a rock star. As soon as I get this sorted—”

“No worries. Good luck, Nan.”

“Wait, Josh?”

“Yup?”

“What do
you
think I should do?”

“I dig the neck dragging.”

“If that’s not feasible.”

I hear him sigh. “Fuck, Nan. Maybe …maybe you really should just ask her if you can have them—oh, that’s Jen, gotta go.”

I hang up and cross my arms to take in the expanse of gray blue clouds moving in low from the water, an effervescence moving out from my chest.
Maybe I really should . . .

“Does anybody think it’s going to rain?” Citrine comes around from the side of the house carrying gardening shears and wearing wellies, tiny black running shorts, and one of Clark’s shirts open over a straining spaghetti tank top. Stilton follows on her heels with a basket full of fresh hydrangeas as I make my way back on the grass path.

“I love rain,” Stilton says, gazing up at her. “Grayer, look!” Stilton puts the basket down and runs around the pool to where his brother is prostrate. “A baby frog.” He opens his hand and places the gumball-sized creature on Grayer’s chest. Grayer startles, leaping up.

“My frog!” Stilton screams.

“Dude, you scared the shit out of me, what the fuck?”

“Yo,” Clark calls from the patio. “Language.”

I hustle over as Stilton drops to where the slate meets the grass, manically looking for the tiny guy. “Stil.” I bend down and touch his shoulder. “I bet he hopped off to rejoin his froggy friends. Do you want to play cards? Maybe they have an extra deck for us.”

Eyes wet, he turns to Citrine, who now stands behind Clark’s shoulder at the table like a fertility talisman. “What are you doing now, Citrine?” he entreats.

She looks down at the basket. “Putting these in vases?” she says testily.

“I’ll do that for you!” He runs from me to her uncomprehending side, picking up the basket on his way. With a sigh, she lets him follow her inside and I’m torn between rescuing her and giving her practice.

“He thinks she’s the new Carter,” Grayer mutters for only me to hear as he sits back heavily on the chaise.

“I thought maybe he’s now imprinting on real estate.” We both stare after them for a moment before I turn to him. “Listen, do you want to go for a walk on the beach? I think we should talk.”

“It’s about to rain, Nan.” He reaches into his sweatshirt pocket and pulls out his cigarettes.

“Ooh, can I have one?” Bitsy scrambles around past the deep end and plants her tanned legs before him. “You don’t mind?” she asks me, pulling the pendant chain up over her lower lip. “Oh, right, he’s not yours.”

Grayer and I exchange a look. Despite Grayer’s zoned-out state, or perhaps, because of it Josh’s suggestion gathers momentum and I cross my arms in the gathering wind. “What do you think, Grayer?”

“What?” He tilts the pack at her and she sits down on the edge of his chaise for him to light the cigarette she slides out.

“So,” she says, blowing out a strong stream of smoke through her nostrils like a baby dragon. “Your dad’s the investment guru who swept up Carter Nelson.”

“Yeah.” He fixes her with a look that’s not uninterested.

“What’s Carter Nelson like?” she asks conspiratorially.

“She’s a stuck-up cunt.”

“Bitsy,” I strain. “Actually, we were going to try to get in a walk before the rain starts.”

“Cunt, huh?” Bitsy ignores me, laughing as she tosses her hair. “Ooh, we don’t like those, do we?” Oh, God, no, no, no. This is how the Grayers become their fathers—the women who should be keeping them in check were someone else’s neglected daughters and their reflex is to flatter and cajole, no matter what asinine offensive thing trips from the guy’s mouth.

A tray of drinks arrives and Bitsy offers Grayer a sip from her Bloody Mary, which turns into a gulp. And another. While I stand there awkwardly—what—waiting for them to finish?

CLAP!

Fat raindrops splash down to darken the slate and everyone grabs their drinks and reading material and dashes for the patio. Grayer unzips his sweatshirt, throws it around Bitsy’s shoulder, and, with his arm secured around her, runs her inside.

21

The cold evening breeze snaps the canvas awning as Bob Marley—which Clark put on with a wink to me—wails around us on the deck overlooking the dark dunes. “Di-vine,” Tatiana pronounces, folding her CC-embroidered napkin beside her plate. Underneath the heat lamp I nod in agreement, mouth full of the foie gras bison burger prepared to decadent perfection by Clark’s chef—amazingly sans an interlocking set of Cs seared into its bun. I’m now wondering if Citrine was chosen to match the monogram.

“Excellent meal, Clark.” Pippa’s husband, Stuart, pokes his finger into his mouth to pick between his back molars.

“See, he’s
still
enjoying it!” Pippa lifts her glass of rosé to his roving hand. Everyone laughs, and Citrine, seated at the end of the cedar table, sends a text to the kitchen. The wall of glass between the deck and the house slides open and the couple sweeps out to clear. The plates lift past me, four of the nine burgers mangled but essentially uneaten.

Stroking his hands down the front of his shirt, Clark drums the table with finality. “Great,” he says to no one in particular, pushing his chair back from where he sits at the end opposite his wife. “Who’s up for a stogie? Just brought some Cohibas back from Geneva.”

With a rousing chorus of “Hey now” and “Can’t turn down that offer,” the men grab their microbrews and excuse themselves—well, not so much excuse themselves as leave—to follow Clark down to the far side of the deck.

“And now we gather in the music room for cordials and singing?” I ask, thankful Grayer took off to hang out with some Haverhill kids who live down the lane and is missing this opportunity to diversify his lung cancer. Stilton is happily tucked up in the breezeway, studying the
Oceanside Gardening Essentials
he found on the coffee table. I take another sip of wine, returning to what has become a ceaseless playing through of asking his mother if she wants to give them to me. And what that will be like. And if we can afford to rent something little while the renovation is completed, something near their school. And if Ryan will get along with Grayer right away or they’ll need to grow on each other. And if Sarah still sees that great therapist who I could maybe take Grayer to—

“Ugh, the smell of that foie gras is foul.” Citrine twists her lips. “I’m so exhausted.”

“Has anyone gotten a text from Bitsy? How’s her date going?” Tatiana asks.

Pippa picks up her phone, taps it with her thumb, and then grimaces. “They haven’t even ordered apps and he’s already brought up his ex. Twice.”

We wince.

“Mommymommymommy!” We collectively turn to the glass behind us, where Astin slip-slides in his pajamas into the illuminated living room. A red-faced Gloria rounds the staircase in hot pursuit.

“Christ,” Alex says, sighing as if she fully expected this to be the next phase of what the evening held for her. As Astin paws at the glass, Alex stares into the night with her wine poised halfway to her mouth.

Astin moves his way across the pane, palms out, like a panic-stricken mime, until he finds the handle and flings it to the side, running out onto the deck. “Why is Gloria making me sleep?” He hurls his arms around Alex from the back of her chair. “I want to go swimming! I want you to go swimming
with
me.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Baxter.” Gloria, out of breath, hustles onto the deck. Tatiana raises her glass and an eyebrow of disgust. Or attempts to. I think. Her cheek twitched. So sushi and soft cheese, no. Botulism and wine, yes?

“Go swimming with me!” Astin buries his head in the back of his mother’s tan neck. “Go swimming with me!”

Alex’s eyes energize to shoot Gloria a look that packs a slap before swiveling in her son’s direction. “Astin, Mommy went swimming with you already today.”

She didn’t.

“And now Mommy was just enjoying her dinner.”

She wasn’t.

“Go upstairs and Mommy will come check on you.”

She won’t.

“Gloria?” Alex mutters with unmitigated annoyance. “Get him to bed so you can mix my shots.”

Murmuring apologies, Gloria steps forward to unlock a screeching Astin and literally drag him back inside. “She always does that. Indulges him and then he’s up until all hours and I have to do my shots at exactly nine fifteen. She knows I can’t do them by myself. And he cries when he watches.”

The men make their way back from the far side of the patio, stogies in mouths, lighters being passed.

“Shots?” I’ll bite.

“IVF,” Tatiana explains on Alex’s behalf, making a syringe gesture.

“Conceiving Astin was disgusting.” Alex grimaces. “It was, like, five straight days of watching porn. I was so full of sperm. But with IVF I’m just a fucking dartboard. Gloria needs to be more sensitive.”

The breeze shifts and I wrap my sweater closer, shimmying my chair nearer the heater. “She did keep Astin entertained all day,” I say tentatively, “even with the rain.” I glance at Citrine, but she’s focused on refolding her napkin exactly as it was in her napkin ring. “Plus Stilton, Calliope, Wendy, William”—the latter two Pippa’s twins—“and Itsy Bitsy,” I choke out the name. “She’s a find.”

“O-kay . . .” Alex says as if I’m taking it upon myself to explain to her how her toilet works.

“Astin’s probably overtired, that’s all. You know, big day in the country,” I conclude, unsuccessfully trying to reroute into a “No need to be embarrassed” tone. About him. Green light on your miserable self.

“This is based on raising your own two sons?” Alex smiles tightly at me.

“Well,
I
had a big day in the country.” Tatiana stands from the table, tugging at her Dior romper. “I’m turning in for my disco nap. Didier?” she calls over to her troll of a husband. “What time’s the car coming?”

“Ten sirty,” he lobs back as he strolls over to the table, the other men ambling behind. “And get your ass moving, eh,” he says to her departing back as she slides the glass closed behind her. “You always make me late!” He smiles his blackened smile to all of us. “So fucking disorganized, right? Right, girls? My wife is a fucking mess.”

The girls return his smile.

“You’re going out?” I stand, eager to be out of Alex’s rage range. Hoping if I sell it with enough enthusiasm, she’ll go, too.

“We go to ze Pink Trout!”

“Shit, I haven’t been there since it was the Banana,” Clark says through puffs. “Those’re days you can’t get back, eh?”

Citrine blanches.

“I haven’t been to a club since the twins.” Pippa claps her hands together, the zest so palpable at the shower returning.

“We’ve been lying low,” Stuart says a little too quickly. “Unwinding.”

“He means dying on the vine. I call it parenting.”

“C, let’s go!” Clark grabs Citrine’s shoulders as if about to massage them, but doesn’t.

“To a
club
?” Citrine balks, twisting to look up at him, nauseous perspiration dotting her upper lip. “Clark, I can’t.”

“We already have ze table. My friend’s ze manager.” Didier puffs up. “Don’t be fucking losers, come out!”

An hour later finds me pulling on a beaded filmy YSL tunic as Citrine stomps around her closet for a pair of matching shoes. “Here,” she pronounces before emerging to slap a pair of glittering heels into my hands. “I knew I had them here. That fits you perfectly.” She glares, her face drawn from throwing up dinner, her first-trimester morning sickness dragging on into second-trimester all-day misery. “You can probably just have it. I’m sure to be up three sizes when this nightmare is over.”

“Citrine,” I try yet again, tucking the shoes under my elbows to put both hands on her caramel forearms. “I’d really rather be here when Grayer gets back. We can watch a movie. Just hang out, catch up with you. Life has been plenty exciting and I would love some mellow—”

“Earrings.” She pulls away from me and over to a chest of drawers to rifle through a Louis Vuitton case next to her makeup mirror.

“I don’t need earrings. I don’t need to go to a club.”

“Nan!” She whips around, case in hand, as she drops her voice and steps away from the door to their bathroom, where Clark is showering. “Clark can’t go out with a bunch of couples. He’ll be totally bored. It’s not fair to him. He’d have to find someone to keep him company. Just go and have fun. Can’t you do that?” Her bottom lip trembles.

Socially depleted from navigating dinner’s twists and turns of barbs and smiles, I make one last attempt. “Citrine, you’re pregnant. And hosting all these people,
and
it’s okay to have needs. Why not ask him to stay home with you?”

“Because I don’t want to hear the answer.” She tugs away from me and wipes at her eyes. “God, just …be a friend, would you?”

I sit on the bench at the end of their bed and obediently slide a four-hundred-dollar shoe onto each foot.

Our town car, one of the two ferrying our significantly prepartied crew, crunches onto the gravel lot of the Pink Trout and jockeys behind the other limos up to the white clapboard building with black shutters. If it weren’t for the diminutive sign by the hedge lit pink and the line of people snaking to its unassuming door, this could easily be mistaken for the ice cream parlor down the lane. Or the bagel shop. Or the post office.

Eager to be released from the perfume crossfire, I watch the driver get out and circle round to open the back door for us ladies. As soon as it’s unlatched, the frigid night air pours in and I rub my goose-pimpled thighs, waiting for Tatiana to squeeze out in her ass-skimming gold Hervé Léger bandage dress (is she actually using a surrogate?), followed by Pippa, “Woo!”ing in a Pucci print, and finally Alex, freshly pumped with ovary stimulants, care of Gloria, bringing up the rear in an apricot silk cocktail dress.

I take the driver’s hand and climb into the cold night air, dense with the cigarette smoke of our queuing twentysomething Léger/ Pucci/Calypso manqués. Crossing my arms over the chiffon, I watch my riding companions size up these 2.0s, jaws clenching at the ample display of taut perkiness.

“I
would
have packed for this,” Alex mutters, her ankles wavering as she navigates the tiny pebbles with her patent pumps. “Of course, I have the perfect Luca Luca just sitting in my closet. Now, when will I wear
that
?”

“It’s a problem,” I offer, and she takes it as we make our way over to the discernibly lit husbands being eyed as potential drink funders. Tatiana strides past the young’uns to grab Didier’s fleshy hand while he chats up the guy manning the door.

“Oh my God, is this taking you back?! It’s so taking me back!” Electrified, Pippa greets Stuart in his pink oxford.

“Back, yeah.” Not meeting her eyes, he adjusts the lime green cable-knit thrown over his shoulders.

“I could have worn my Dior, if I’d known to pack it,” Alex says, greeting Roger, who is intently following the offhand discussion of bottle service between Didier and the door guy. A slight ring of sweat glistens at the base of Roger’s neck where the collar of his striped oxford begins. And as soon as we all step inside the blacklit room, I almost suggest Alex stick a Day-Glo name tag on his back because it’s a densely packed throng of oxfords, moderated only by degree of gelled hair and orange tans. Tatiana raises her hand to lead the way, lifting it toward the low ceiling in time to the thumping beat. We weave past the crowd at the bar to a two-foot black cube with a “Reserved” sign tented on top. Our table?

Tatiana and her husband immediately sprawl on the crowded bench lining the wall. Having claimed the only seats, Didier slides his hand along his forehead and waves at us to make ourselves at home in the nothing that is our space. A waiter weaves over, a tray of Grey Goose bottles and decanters of mixers held high. The crowd parts all of a few inches for him to expertly balance it atop our cube. Didier lifts up on one hip to pull out his wallet and tosses the waiter his credit card, looking at the other husbands expectantly.

“How many more bottles you think he’s ordering tonight?” Roger leans across me to ask his wife.

“I don’t
know
.” Alex recoils. Well, recoils as much as is possible when we’re all stuck together like rush-hour commuters.

“I’m just saying I lost at poker and it’s three-fifty a bottle, so don’t rush it.”

“Nice,”
she pronounces, then turns a big smile to the group. “I THINK WE’LL NEED ANOTHER BOTTLE. MOËT CHANDON?”

The ladies nod as Alex flags down the waitress, her eyes challengingly fixed on Roger. Pippa, already playing bartender, hands Stuart a drink and then pours herself a stiff one. They cheers.

“FUCKING AWESOME.” Clark bends to pour himself a straight fifth and down it. There’s something about watching adults play bartender with tiny glasses in a minuscule space that feels reminiscent of the Easy-Bake Oven. “IT’S LIKE SOUTH BEACH.” He eyes the cube next to ours, where a pretty far along bachelorette party is getting their ya-yas out. Lobster skin and white strap marks cut unflattering lines out of tank and trapeze dresses. The girls dance on the banquette around their veiled friend with the penis necklace, hands braced on the ceiling and green palm wallpaper, their heels spiking deep valleys into the leather. Tatiana lists toward them as if on the brink of a whirlpool.