These Girls (9 page)

“Here’s your room—I mean, if everything works out,” Anna-belle’s father, Bob, had said, showing Abby around the basement. There was a bedroom with a full-size bed and chest of drawers in matching white wicker, a bathroom with a shower and pretty blue tiles on the floor, and an adjoining rec room that had been transformed into a playroom for Annabelle. With its deep green sectional sofa and wall-mounted television, it could double as a living area for Abby. “We’re getting a mini-fridge and a microwave, and of course you could use the kitchen upstairs anytime you wanted,” he said.

“I love it,” Abby said, looking right at Annabelle. And miraculously, Annabelle smiled at her. It wasn’t gas; Abby believed babies really could smile at that age. They had all sorts of emotions, and they expressed them clearly. It was the adults’ job to learn how to decipher their signals.

“Can I hold her?” Abby asked.

“Sure. Of course.” Bob handed her over. She was impossibly light, but her hand wrapped tightly around Abby’s index finger. “My wife, Joanna—she’s not officially back at work yet, but she had to run in for a bit today, which is why she’s not here—anyway, she thought we should sign Annabelle up for a few classes.”

The wife was working instead of interviewing nannies?

“We thought maybe Mozart for babies music class,” Bob was saying. “And a sign language course.”

Abby couldn’t help smiling. “Or I could just play Mozart over the stereo. I mean, if you want I could take her to classes. But she’s eight weeks old. I was thinking lots of long walks, time in the fresh air and sunshine so she can see the world. Do you have a Björn? Babies like to be held close instead of sitting in a stroller. I can show her picture books and give her massages, too.”

Bob was nodding enthusiastically. He was a solid-looking, all-American kind of guy. Blond hair that was just beginning to thin, broad shoulders, well-shaped eyebrows, and an easy smile. Handsome in an effortless way. Probably a high school football player and homecoming king, Abby decided. The sort of guy who floated through life on charm and goodwill.

“And we’re getting a gadget to puree her food,” he said. “We’re going to make everything homemade and organic.” This time Abby hid a grin. Sign language, homemade baby food, and Mozart? He was so sweetly eager. She’d seen it before: parents overly anxious to do everything perfectly with the first child.
The third kid would get an Eggo to gnaw on for breakfast while watching
SpongeBob SquarePants
.

“She seems happy with you,” Bob said. Abby looked down and realized she was unconsciously swaying back and forth, back and forth, transforming herself into a human swing for Annabelle.

“She’s a little angel,” Abby said. She wiggled the finger Anna-belle was clutching. “She’s absolutely perfect.”

“Can you come back tonight?” Bob blurted. “I’d really like you to meet my wife.”

That was the moment Abby knew the job was hers.

Joanna Armstrong was the top aide for a Democratic senator on Capitol Hill. She was trim and fit—all evidence of her pregnancy had already been neatly erased—with a short cap of dark hair, creamy white skin, and a slightly jutting chin. She fired questions at Abby like they were tennis balls, and she’d decided that Abby needed to work on her returns.

“Are you from the area?”

“Yes,” Abby said. “I grew up in Silver Spring, and I went to college at the University of Maryland at College Park.”

“What made you want to become a nanny?”

“I adore kids,” Abby said, an involuntary smile spreading across her face as she looked at Annabelle sleeping in Bob’s lap. The baby’s tiny pink lips were making sucking motions, as if she was reminiscing about a particularly fabulous meal.

They were sitting in the living room, Abby in a chair across from Bob and Joanna on the couch. The walls were painted a rich burgundy that complemented the distressed brown leather furniture. It was an elegant room, sleek and symmetrical, with red tulips overflowing from a crystal vase and a big bay window overlooking the grassy front yard, but Abby couldn’t stop looking
at the sharp corners on the glass-topped coffee table and imagining Annabelle’s head making contact when she started to walk.

Bob kept adjusting a pink knit blanket to make sure it covered Annabelle. Abby would have to show Bob how to swaddle; there wasn’t anything sweeter than a baby wrapped up like a burrito.

“I think you know I’m working at a day-care center now?” Abby asked. “But I’m in school at U Maryland, too, getting my master’s degree in education. I’d like to become a teacher eventually.”

Joanna nodded approvingly. “Any siblings?”

This was always a trick question for Abby. She wouldn’t—
couldn’t
—say “One brother” because it wasn’t the full truth. Her family never talked about little Stevie, her brother who’d died of a sudden illness just before turning two, but Abby always felt his absence. Some of the older people at the nursing home where she’d volunteered had sworn their old bones could sense rain coming. She understood exactly what they meant; her heart ached when she sensed imminent questions about her family.

Sometimes she thought her little brother’s death explained why she always wanted to be around kids. She was barely four when he died, and had no memories of him. But it was too awkward to explain the full story to strangers. They always looked uncomfortable and apologized, and she had to reassure them it was all right, even though it wasn’t.

So she fudged it: “My older brother, Trey, lives in New York. He’s a journalist.”

That diversion worked: Joanna zeroed in on Trey’s glamorous-sounding job, as Abby knew she would.

“Where does he work?”

“
The Great Beyond
magazine. He just did a big piece about the young couple who got caught in a massive storm that overturned
their sailboat. They floated for three days, clinging to a piece of wood, until they were found.”

Joanna snapped her fingers. “I’ve heard of him.” She turned to Bob. “He’s the one who was on TV, remember? They interviewed him about the movie based on his book.”

Bob nodded and steered the conversation back on track. “Right. . . . So, Abby, it would be a full-time job, but we could be a bit flexible. If you wanted to take a morning class one day a week or something, I could adjust my hours.”

“That would be great,” Abby said. “I was planning on taking classes at night, but thank you. What sort of work do you do?”

“Tech support. I fix rogue computers. Boring stuff,” he said. Joanna didn’t contradict him, even though he’d proudly told Abby about his wife’s job, joking that she’d be a senator herself someday.

“I wish I had that skill,” Abby said. “I can barely manage spell-check.”

“Free computer support is a fringe benefit of this job,” Bob said, and they all laughed a bit more loudly than the joke warranted.

Abby reached for a cracker from the platter with Brie and green grapes that Joanna had set out, then put it on a little cocktail plate. She was hungry but felt self-conscious being the only one eating. But a moment later, Bob reached out, cut off a hunk of Brie, and spread it on a cracker.

“Try the cheese, it’s good,” he said, swallowing it in one bite.

Abby smiled as she reached for the knife. “Thanks.”

“I’m going to be traveling a bit for my job,” Joanna was saying. “So we may need flexible hours from you, too. Of course, we wouldn’t interfere with school, but could you work the occasional weekend?”

Abby shrugged. “I’m sure we could work it out. Other than school, I won’t have very many commitments.”

“You’re not dating anyone?” Joanna asked. The question felt
oddly out of place; it hung between them for a swollen moment. Even though they’d talked about personal things, this seemed different. Joanna’s dark eyes stayed fixed on Abby. What was her motivation for asking?

Abby finished chewing her cracker before she replied. “Actually, I do have a boyfriend. But I would never have him stay over here or anything—”

Bob cut her off. “We’re not worried about it. That’s your business.”

“Well, actually, she raises a good point. I wouldn’t want a strange guy in our basement,” Joanna said. “I think no overnight guests is a good rule.”

Hadn’t Abby just said that? She felt her cheeks flush, wondering how her dating habits had suddenly become part of this conversation and why Joanna seemed to be acting like her mother.

Abby changed the subject. “Can you let me know a bit more about the salary and benefits? Will you be offering health care?”

“I think Bob and I should talk a little bit privately, then maybe we can give you a call with all the details?” Joanna said. She phrased it like a question, but it wasn’t one. She was letting Abby know the job hadn’t been formally offered. Somehow the two of them had become locked in a silent struggle.

Abby gave in first. “That sounds perfect. You have my references, so I’ll just wait to hear from you.”

It wasn’t until Abby was turning the key to start her Honda Civic that she realized: The whole time, Joanna hadn’t held Annabelle. Had she even looked at her new daughter?

Later Abby would wonder if Joanna had a premonition about Abby and Bob; it could’ve been why she was so prickly. But then why would she have offered Abby the job?

The next morning, Joanna had called. Abby was still asleep—
it was eight o’clock on a Saturday, and it took her three rings to locate the phone.

“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Joanna asked.

Abby could almost picture her, clad in top-of-the-line spandex, skin glistening from an early-morning aerobics class. She was probably feeding celery and apples into the restaurant-quality juicer Abby had spotted in the kitchen last night.

“Oh, no,” Abby lied. She held the phone away and cleared her throat and tried to sound alert. What was it about Joanna that made her feel like everything was a competition?

“I’m going back to work in a week,” Joanna said. “We actually had someone else lined up, but she took another job without telling us. Isn’t that lovely? So now we’re scrambling. Bob can take a little time off, but I don’t know how much longer his clients are going to be patient. We really need you as soon as possible.”

“I have to give two weeks’ notice at the day-care center,” Abby said. She added, “I’m the head caregiver there,” even though she’d already told Joanna that. She wanted to show Joanna that she was important, too. That people needed her.

“I understand,” Joanna said, but her voice was brusque. “Well, could you move in sooner and help out a bit in the evenings? Annabelle goes to bed early, and maybe Bob could get out and do some work if you’re in the house. I mean, we’d pay you, of course. We could do an hourly rate until you start fulltime. I’ve got to go to Michigan next week; we have a primary coming up and things are going to be nuts for me. And if Bob gets an emergency call from a client—well, it’ll look bad if he has to turn them down. That’s how you lose accounts.”

Did Joanna always talk this much, and this quickly? Abby was exhausted just listening to her.

“Sure,” Abby said. When she’d made her plan to go to grad school, she’d given up her apartment to save money and was
crashing with her girlfriend Sara, who spent most of the time at her boyfriend’s house. Abby paid half the rent, and everyone was happy with the arrangement—but Sara knew it would be temporary and wouldn’t mind the short notice. “I can move in over the weekend.”

The relief in Joanna’s voice was clear, and soon Abby realized why: Joanna was never around. She left every morning at 8:15 and was rarely home before 8:00
P.M.
At least one night a week, she traveled with the senator as he tried to shore up support in towns like Kalamazoo and Ann Arbor. She had a busy, important job—Abby heard her on the phone one evening, feeding information to a reporter for
The New York Times
—but Abby felt sorry for her.

Joanna didn’t know what it felt like to walk in the golden morning with a calm, alert baby tucked snugly against her chest. She hadn’t spooned the first taste of avocado into Annabelle’s mouth and seen a shocked look spread over the baby’s face before she spit it back out. Did Joanna ever take a long moment just to put her nose against Annabelle’s head and inhale deeply?

Joanna had handed over the best part of her life to Abby and walked away without a second glance.

Six

SHE WAS A FINALIST
for the beauty editor job!

She had to stop bouncing around like a game show contestant who’d just won a cheap toaster and think, Renee admonished herself. First she needed to assess her competition. Two other women, both in-house candidates like Renee, were in the running. Renee knew the name of one of them: Jessica, a fellow associate editor.

Jessica was nice enough, Renee supposed. Pleasant, that was the most fitting word for her. She had sleek blond hair, her best feature, although her face was a little pinched, as if she were perpetually sniffing a carton of milk to see if it had gone bad. She was slender and of average height and just kind of . . . vanilla. Jessica’s voice never varied from a low, easy pitch, and she didn’t show much emotion—no big smiles or deep frowns. She seemed to be lacking the gene for excitement. That couldn’t all be Botox, could it? Jessica was only in her twenties—although nowadays that’s when some women started preventative Botox. Renee suppressed a shudder, thinking of injecting poison into her forehead—though she reserved the right to become
a flaming hypocrite and embrace it in another decade or so if crow’s-feet made an appearance.

So, Jessica wasn’t a huge threat, unless she saved all her spark and channeled it into her writing. Who was the other contender? At times like these, it paid to be friends with all the best office gossips. Renee made a few calls and came up with the name: Diane Carlson.

Diane was tricky, Renee thought, idly doodling on a piece of paper on her desk. She was smart, for sure, a Yale grad who never let anyone forget it. And of course, she was skinny. A whippet probably had a higher body fat percentage than Diane. But Renee thought Diane wanted to be a writer. Other than bright, witty briefs about new products, there wasn’t a lot of writing involved in the job, although it did require a special talent to describe eyeliner in a hundred new ways during the course of a career. Maybe Diane saw the job as a stepping-stone. Or maybe she coveted all the free goodies, too.