The nanny Diaries

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE NANNY DIARIES

I sit down on the leather couch and slump my face in my hands. I don't want to know this I don't want to know this I don't want to know this.

I grab a shooter from the deserted tray of chilled vodka shots on the coffee table and down it.

Thankfully, within minutes the Xes and I are flying up the FDR and Grayer has completely passed out with his head in my lap.

I suspect there may be a stain on the seat when we get out, but, hey, we were all adequately warned.

Mr. X leans his head back against the leather upholstery and closes his eyes. I crack the window an inch to let some fresh air blow over me from the East River. I am a little drunk. Yeah, I'm a little more than a little drunk.

In the distant background, I hear the tentative chatter of Mrs. X. "I was talking to Ryan's mother and she says Collegiate is one of the top schools in the country. I'm going to call tomorrow and set up an interview for Grayer. Oh, and she told me that she and Ben are taking a house in Nantucket this summer.

It turns out that Wallington and Susan have summered there for the last four years and Sally says it's a delightful break from the Hamptons.

She said it's so pleasant just to get away from the Maidstone every once in a while, so the children can experience some diversity.

And Caroline Horner has a house up there. Sally said Ben's brother is going to Paris this summer, so you could take his membership at their tennis club.

And Nanny could come, too! Wouldn't you like to join us for a few weeks on the ocean this summer, Nanny? It will be so relaxing."

My ears perk up at the sound of my name and I find myself responding with unmitigated enthusiasm.

"Totally. Relaxing and fun. F-U-N. Bring it on!" I say, trying to give a purple thumbs-up, as I imagine me, the ocean, my Harvard Hottie.

"Naaantucket --- swim, sand, and surf. I mean, what's not to love? Sign . . . me . . . up." Beneath my half-closed eyes I see her look at me quizzically before turning to the snoring Mr. X.

"Well, then." She pulls her mink up close around her and speaks to the city racing by outside the window. "That settles it. I'll call the realtor tomorrow."

A half hour later my cab whizzes back down the FDR in the opposite direction toward Houston Street as I check for traces of greasepaint in my compact.

I lean forward to catch a glance at the cabbie's clock and the glowing green letters read back 10:24. Go, Go, Go.

My heart starts to race and the adrenaline sharpens my senses considerably; I feel the bump of each pothole and can smell the last passenger's cigarette.

The combination of the surreal tenor of the evening, the numerous drinks I have consumed, the leather pants I'm poured into, and the promise of a potential hookup with Harvard Hottie all add up to a lot pressure.

I am, in no uncertain terms, on a mission. Whatever reservations I had, political, moral, or otherwise, have melted past my lace underwear and into my Prada shoes.