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The Manny
Holly Peterson


Sex and the City with a baby: the hot new Manhattan novel is a brilliantly entertaining romantic comedy about a harassed working mum who hires a male nanny.Welcome to the Grid, home to New York’s uber rich, where a manny – a male nanny – is the hottest new hire in town.And Peter Bailey is young, fun and drop-dead gorgeous. He could be the answer to Jamie Whitfield’s prayers, even if her husband disagrees.Peter comes from a very different world to Jamie’s. He’s cool, calm and he sees right through her attempts to fit in with her chic and sleek neighbours.Ditching high society dinners for dancing in Brooklyn, Jamie begins to wonder if a married uptown girl can fall for a downtown guy. He’s good for her children. Could the manny be good for her too…?









HOLLY PETERSON

The Manny










Dedication (#ulink_8df7dc04-acf9-5178-8d33-2b4d8c157877)


For Rick My life source.




Contents


Cover (#u3bb69654-641e-593f-88d5-c7e1bf4d07a1)

Title Page (#uf11e375e-f894-5396-a7b3-330bb0fd2555)

Dedication (#ua618735e-e2aa-5ef4-9969-284c09f82d4e)

Chapter One: Wheels Up!

Chapter Two: Morning Sickness

Chapter Three: The Waffle

Chapter Four: Everyone Knows That

Chapter Five: Is There a Manny in the House?

Chapter Six: Time to Talk Turkey

Chapter Seven: The Manny Makes his Debut

Chapter Eight: Nannies Are So Much Simpler than Mannies

Chapter Nine: Exposed!

Chapter Ten: Wherefore Art There, Fabio?

Chapter Eleven: Rotten Eggs

Chapter Twelve: The Big ‘Get’: Be Careful What You Go For

Chapter Thirteen: Backstage Sitters

Chapter Fourteen: Kidnapped!

Chapter Fifteen: Boundaries, Boundaries

Chapter Sixteen: Sartorial Situations

Chapter Seventeen: A Job Well Done

Entr’acte I

Chapter Eighteen: That Whole Style Thing

Chapter Nineteen: Say it Ain’t So

Chapter Twenty: More than just a Manny

Chapter Twenty-One: Winter White-out

Chapter Twenty-Two: Table Talk

Chapter Twenty-Three: Day of Reckoning

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Other Side of the Tracks

Chapter Twenty-Five: Clashing Cultures

Chapter Twenty-Six: Epic Snow Job

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Wrong Week to Stop Sniffing Glue

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Morse Code for Big Trouble

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Cool-Down Period

Chapter Thirty: Hold on to Your Birthday Hats

Chapter Thirty-One: The Boudreaux Bombshell

Chapter Thirty-Two: Wild Life

Chapter Thirty-Three: A Funny Thing Called Fear

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Belle of the Ball

Chapter Thirty-Five: Grown-up Time-out

Entra’acte II

Chapter Thirty-Six: Return Engagement

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Rude Awakening

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Resolution

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher




CHAPTER ONE Wheels Up! (#u1fd351cf-23a5-5afa-9c80-1f12c4bf974b)


If you want to see rich people act really rich, go to St Henry’s School for Boys at 3 p.m. on any weekday. Nothing makes rich people crazier than being around other rich people who might be richer than they are. Private school drop-off and pick-up really gets them going. It’s an opportunity to stake their claim, show their wares and let the other parents know where they rank in the top .001 per cent of the top .0001 per cent.

A cavalcade of black SUVs, minivans and chauffeured cars snaked its way up the block beside me as I raced to my son’s after-school game. I’d skipped another meeting at work, but nothing was going to keep me that day. Gingko trees and limestone mansions lined the street where a crowd gathered in front of the school. I steeled myself and waded into a sea of parents: the dads in banker suits barking into their phones and moms with their glamorous sunglasses and toned upper arms – many with dressed-up little darlings by their sides. These children played an important role in their parents’ never-ending game of one-upmanship as they were trotted out in smocked dresses, shuttled from French tutor to Cello class and discussed like prize livestock at a 4-H Fair.

Idling in front of the school, with his tinted rear window half open, a cosmetics giant read about himself in the gossip columns. His four-year-old little girl watched a Barbie Fairytopia DVD on the small screen that dropped down from the ceiling of the vehicle while he finished the article. The nanny, in a starched white uniform, waited patiently in the front seat for him to inform her it was time to go inside.

A few yards down the block, a three-and-a-half-inch green lizard heel was reaching for the sidewalk from the back of a fat, silver Mercedes S600. The chauffeur flashed its yellow headlights at me. Next I saw a brown tweed skirt jacked up on a shapely thigh, ultimately revealing a thirty-something woman shaking out her honey-coloured hair while her driver sprinted like a madman to get her arm.

‘Jamie! Jamie!’ called Ingrid Harris, waving her manicured hand. Dozens of chunky gold bangles jangled as they slid down her arm.

I tried to shield my eyes from the glare. ‘Ingrid. Please. I love you but no. I’ve got to get to Dylan’s game!’

‘I’ve been trying to reach you!’

I ducked into the crowd, knowing she would come after me.

‘Jamie! Please! Wait!’ Ingrid caught up to me, leaving her driver behind to contend with her two boys wailing from their car seats. She let out a huge breath as if the fifteen-foot walk from the Mercedes to the kerb had taxed her. ‘Hooo!’ Remember this is a crowd that touches down on actual pavement as seldom as possible. ‘Thank God you were home last night!’

‘No problem. Any time.’

‘Henry is so in debt to you,’ said Ingrid.

The burly chauffeur carried each of her younger boys in one graceful arc from their car seats to the kerb, as if he were placing eggs in a basket.

‘The four Ambien. Henry was going hunting with some clients for five days, it was wheels up at 10 p.m. to Argentina and he was crazed!’

‘Jamie.’ Next, voice I loved. My friend Kathryn Fitzgerald. She commuted from Tribeca and she was wearing jeans and French sneakers. Like me, she wasn’t one of those people who grew up on the Upper East Side and never touched a doorknob in their entire life. ‘Hurry. Let’s plough up front.’

As we started up the marble stairs, a white Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the kerb. You could tell a hundred feet away that there were children of a major CEO inside. It came to a stop and the aristocratic driver, wearing a bowler hat like Oddjob, walked around to open the door and the four McAllister kids piled out with four Filipina nannies – each holding a child’s hand.

All four of the nannies were wearing white pants, white rubber-soled shoes and matching Dora the Explorer nurse’s shirts with little Band-Aids all over them. There were so many little children and nurses in their tight little pack that they looked like a centipede making its way up the marble steps.

At five minutes after three, the school opened and the parents politely, but forcefully, pushed each other to get in. Up four flights of stairs to the gym, I could hear echoes of young male voices and the screech of sneakers. St Henry’s fourth-grade team was already out practising in their royal-blue-and-white uniforms. I quickly scanned the court for my Dylan, but didn’t see him. I looked up at the crowd to my right. The moms and dads from Dylan’s school were beginning to gather on one side of the bleachers. Scattered among them were the team’s siblings with their nannies representing every country in the United Nations. No Dylan. I finally spotted him huddled on a bench near the locker-room door. He was still dressed in his khakis and white button-down shirt with the collar undone. His blue blazer was draped on the bench beside him. When he saw me, he squinted and looked away. My husband Phillip summoned the exact same expression when he was angry and feeling put upon.

‘Dylan! I’m here!’

‘You’re late, Mom.’

‘Sweetheart, I’m not late.’

‘Well, some of the moms got here before you.’

‘You know what? There’s a line outside, four moms deep, and I can’t cut the line. There’s a lot of moms still coming up behind me.’

‘Whatever.’ He looked away.

‘Honey. Where’s your uniform?’

‘In my backpack.’ I could feel the waves of stubborn tension emanating from my son.

I sat down next to him. ‘It’s time to put it on.’

‘I don’t want to wear my uniform.’

Coach Robertson came over. ‘You know what?’ He put his arms in the air, signalling his exasperation. ‘I’m not gonna force him into it every time. I told him he would miss the game, but I can’t make him put the uniform on. If you wanna know the reality of the situation here, he’s being ridiculous …’

‘You know what I say, Coach? It’s really not being ridiculous. OK?’ This guy was never in tune with Dylan. I brought the coach to the side. ‘We’ve all discussed this – Dylan’s unease before a game. He’s nine years old. It’s his first year on a team.’ The coach didn’t seem to be moved, and he took off. Then I put my arm around Dylan. ‘Honey. Coach Robertson isn’t my favourite person, but he’s right. It’s time to put on the uniform.’

‘He’s doesn’t even like me.’

‘He likes all the boys the same, and even if he’s tough, he just wants you to play.’

‘Well, I’m not gonna.’

‘Even for me?

Dylan looked at me and shook his head. He had big brown eyes and strong features with thick dark hair that never fell just right. Dylan’s mouth smiled more than his eyes ever did.

‘Dylan!!! Hurry!!!’ Douglas Wood, an obnoxious little kid with freckles, a crew cut and a pudgy bottom waddled over. ‘What’s wrong with you, Dylan?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Well, how come you don’t have your uniform on?’

‘Because my mom had to talk to me. It’s her fault.’

Coach Robertson, angry with Douglas for leaving the warm-up and with my son for his refusal to play at all, marched towards us pumping his elbows. ‘Come on, kid. Time’s up. Let’s go.’ He picked up Dylan’s backpack and pulled him by his hand towards the locker room. Dylan rolled his eyes back at me and lumbered along, dragging his uniform behind him on the floor. I walked up towards the bleachers with an ache in my heart.

Kathryn, who’d gone ahead to save me a seat in the bleachers, was now waving to me from the fifth row on the St Henry’s Boys’ School side. She had twin boys in Dylan’s grade, as well as a daughter at our nursery school. Her twins, Louis and Nicky, were fighting over a ball and Coach Robertson leaned down to whistle loudly into their ears to break it up. I watched Kathryn stand up to get a better look at their arguing, her long blonde ponytail cascading down the back of her worn suede jacket. As I edged by twenty people to slip in next to her, she sat down and squeezed my knee.

Kathryn smiled. ‘We made it just in time.’

‘Tell me about it.’ I placed my tired head in the palms of my hands.

A few beats later, the Wilmington Boys’ School team burst through the gym doors like an invading army. I watched my tentative son hang back beside the other players. His sweaty teammates ran back and forth, all in their last fleeting years of boyhood before the gawky ravages of adolescence took hold. They rarely threw the ball to Dylan, mostly because he never made eye contact and always jogged along the periphery of the team, safe outside any commotion. His lanky build and knobby knees made his movements less than graceful, like a giraffe making short stops.

‘Dylan’s not playing well.’

Kathryn looked at me. ‘None of them play well. Look at them; they can barely get the ball up into the hoop. They’re not strong enough yet.’

‘Yeah, I guess. He’s just down.’

‘Not always down. It’s just sometimes,’ Kathryn answered.

Barbara Fisher turned around from the row in front of me. She was wearing tight jeans, a starched white blouse with the collar turned up against gravity and an expensive-looking fuchsia cable-knit sweater. She was too tan and as thin as a Giacometti statue.

‘Ohhh, here’s the busy-bee-worky-worky-mom at a game.’

I jerked back. ‘I know it means so much to him.’

I looked over her head towards the boys.

Barbara moved her head up five inches to block my view and make another point. ‘We were talking at the school benefit meeting about how hard it must be for you, never being able to get involved in Dylan’s activities.’

She was so annoying.

‘I like to work. But if you choose not to work outside the home, I can certainly understand. It’s probably a more enjoyable lifestyle.’

‘You’re not doing it for the money. Obviously. Phillip’s such a heavy-hitter lawyer these days.’ She was whispering – she thought – but everyone around us could hear her. ‘I mean, you can’t possibly be contributing much financially on a scale that matters.’

I rolled my eyes at Kathryn. ‘I actually make a pretty good salary, Barbara. But, no, I’m not really working for the money. It’s just something I like to do. Call it a competitive streak. And right now I need to concentrate on Dylan’s game because he can be competitive too, and I’m sure he’d like me to watch him play.’

‘You do that.’

Kathryn pinched my arm too hard because she hated Barbara more than I did. I jumped at the pain and smacked her on the shoulder.

She whispered into my ear, ‘Amazing Barbara didn’t find a way to bring up the new plane. In case you missed the billboard, Aaron’s Falcon 2000 jet finally got delivered this weekend.’

‘I’m sure I’ll hear about it soon,’ I answered, staring out at the court. Dylan was now attempting to block a shot, but the player ran right around him towards the basket and scored. The whistle blew. Warm-up over. All the kids retreated to their sides in a huddle.

‘You know what’s so obnoxious?’ Kathryn whispered to me.

‘So many things.’

‘They can’t just say, “We’re leaving at three for the weekend”, which would actually mean they are leaving at 3 p.m., either by car or train or some commercial flight or whatever.’ She leaned in closer to me. ‘No, they want you to know one thing: they’re flying private. So suddenly they start talking like their pilots, “Oh, we’re leaving for the weekend, and it’s wheels up at 3 p.m.”’ She shook her head and grinned. ‘Like I give a shit what they’re doing in the first place.’

When I first married into this crowd, coming from middle-class, Middle American roots, these Upper East Side families naturally intimidated me. My parents, always donning sensible Mephistos on their feet and fanny packs around their waists, reminded me all too often that I should keep a distance from the people in this new-found neighbourhood – that back home in Minneapolis, it was easier to be haaaaapy. Though I’ve tried to adjust for the sake of my husband, I’ll never get used to people throwing out their pilot’s name in conversation as if he were the cleaning lady. ‘I thought we’d take a jaunt to the Cape for dinner, so I asked Richard to please be ready at three.’

Dylan was on the bench with about ten other teammates as Coach Robertson threw the ball in the air for the first string. Thankfully, Dylan was excited by the game. He was talking to the kid next to him and pointing to the court. I relaxed a bit and let out a breath.

Two minutes later, a sippy cup ricocheted off my shoulder and landed in Kathryn’s lap. We both looked behind us. ‘So sorry!’ said a heavily accented Filipina nurse. The McAllister centipede was trying to manoeuvre into a row of bleachers behind me. Two of the younger children were braying like donkeys. This was the kind of thing that really got Kathryn going. She was no stranger to poor behaviour from her own children, but she couldn’t stomach the lack of respect the bratty Park Avenue kids spewed at their nannies.

She looked at them and turned to me. ‘Those poor women. What they must put up with. I’m going to do it. Right now. I’m going to ask them which day is which uniform character and see what they say.’

‘Stop. Kathryn. Please. Who cares?’

‘Hello? Like you, the obsessive list keeper, wouldn’t want to know?’ Kathryn smiled. ‘Next time you’re at Sherrie’s house for a birthday party, sneak into the kitchen and go to the desk next to the phone. There’s a bound colour-coded house manual that she had Roger’s secretary type up. Instructions for everything – I mean every single thing you could imagine.’

‘Like what?’

‘I thought you weren’t interested.’

‘OK, maybe I am a little.’

‘Timetables for the overlapping staff: first shift, 6 a.m. to 2 p.m., second, nine to five, and third, four to midnight. Schedules for the pets, for the dogs’ walkers and groomers. Directives on which of the children’s clothes should be folded or hung. How to organize their mittens and scarves for fall, for winter dress, for winter sports. Where to hang all the princess costumes in the walk-in cedar closet once they’re ironed – yes, you heard me – after they are ironed. Which china for breakfast, lunch, dinner and season: seashells for summer, leaves for Thanksgiving, wreaths for the Christmas holidays. I can’t even remember half of it.’ Kathryn pressed on, ‘It’s priceless.’

‘You know what’s even sicker?’ I added. ‘I’d want to get cosy under my sheets with a mug of hot tea, and read every goddamn word of that insane manual before bedtime.’

Thirty minutes later, the game was going strong. Suddenly Wilmington scored and the crowd jumped to their feet and roared. I stepped on top of the bleacher to get a better look, almost falling on to the Barbara Fisher creature. Then Wilmington stole the ball again from St Henry’s. My Dylan, in sync with them for once, wildly trying to block the ball while his opponents threw it back and forth around the key. Time was running out before half-time. Wilmington was up one point. One of their players made a bold move to score again, but the ball bounced off the hoop. They grabbed the ball and tried again. This time, it bounced off the bottom corner of the backboard at a hundred miles an hour. Right at Dylan. Miraculously he caught it, and was completely stunned. Looking petrified, he surveyed the distance to his basket on the other side of the court, miles and miles to go before he scored. Then came an opening between two opposing guards and Dylan sprinted. The crowd cheered him on. I looked at the timer: 07–:06–:05–:04. We all counted the seconds before the buzzer rang. Dylan was directly under the basket. Oh please, God; scoring this shot would rock his world.

The shot was clear. He looked at me. He looked at his teammates rushing towards him. He looked back at the basket. ‘Shoot, Dylan, shoot!!!’ they screamed.

‘C’mon, baby. C’mon, baby. Right up there, you can do it.’ I dug my nails into Kathryn’s arm. Dylan took the ball, grasped it in both his arms like a baby and fell to the floor sobbing. He just could not shoot. The half-time buzzer honked. Silence on the court. All eyes on my little mess of a boy.




CHAPTER TWO Morning Sickness (#u1fd351cf-23a5-5afa-9c80-1f12c4bf974b)


‘So what’d he say this morning?’ My husband Phillip was leaning over his sink naked, wiping a dab of shaving cream off his ear with a thick white towel.

‘He says he’s fine, but I know he isn’t.’ I stood half-dressed at my own sink three feet from him, jamming the mascara wand back into the tube. ‘I just know he isn’t. It was really bad.’

‘We’re going to work together to get him through this, Jamie,’ Phillip answered calmly. I knew he thought I was overreacting.

‘He doesn’t want to talk about it. He always talks to me. Always. Especially at night, when he’s going to bed.’ I crinkled the crow’s-feet around my eyes.

‘By the way, I know what you’re thinking right now and you look thin and very young for thirty-six, and, secondly, I don’t blame Dylan for not wanting to relive it. Give him a few days. Don’t worry, he’s gonna make it.’

‘That was a big moment, Phillip, I told you that last night.’

‘Fourth grade is tough. He’s going to move on. I promise, and I’m going to make sure to get him there.’

‘You’re so good to try to reassure me. But still. You just don’t understand.’

‘I do, too! There was a lot of pressure on the kid,’ Phillip continued. ‘And he freaked out. Let it rest or you’ll make it worse.’ He patted my bottom and walked towards his dressing room. At the door, he turned around and winked at me, his expression full of his easy confidence.

He peeked back into the bathroom. ‘Enough with Dylan. I have a surprise for you!’

I knew. The shirts. I tried very, very hard to switch gears.

Phillip disappeared again into the bedroom and yelled behind him. ‘You’re going to faint when you see what finally arrived!’

The shirts lay nestled in a large navy felt box on the bed. Phillip had been waiting for them with more anticipation than a child on Christmas Eve. When I returned to the bedroom, he had pulled the first two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar custom-made shirt from the box and was carefully peeling off a sticker that held the red tissue paper wrapping together. The tissue was thick and expensive, soft like a chalkboard on one side and shiny and slick on the other. The paper made a loud, crackling noise as he tore it open to reveal a shirt with wide yellow and white candy stripes. Very British aristocracy and very every other lawyer we knew.

I had no patience for shirts that morning. I walked down the hall towards the kitchen.

‘Jamie! Come back here. You didn’t even …’

‘Give me a minute!’

I came back stirring my coffee and clutching the newspaper under my elbow.

‘The kids are getting up. You have two minutes for your little shirt show.’

‘I’m not ready yet.’

I sat in the corner armchair and started reading the headlines.

‘Just look at this!’ Phillip, delighted with himself, slipped the yellow shirt on his broad six-foot-two frame. A few wet blond curls covered the top of the back collar and he combed his wavy hair back, and then slicked it down with the palm of his hand. He chuckled to himself and hummed a happy little tune as he buttoned himself in.

‘Very nice, Phillip. Nice cloth. Good job on that choice.’

I went back to my papers and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him head towards his mahogany dressing room with an ever-so-light skip and rummage through a silver bowl that he had won at a sailing regatta in high school. He picked out three sets of cuff links and placed them on top of his bureau – a little ritual that only developed once Phillip began making good money and could afford to have more than one set of good cuff links. He chose his favourite Tiffany gold barbells with navy-blue lapis marbles on either end.

‘OK, honey.’ I threw my papers down and headed for the door. ‘We done here? Mind if I …’

A dark storm cloud appeared out of nowhere. ‘Shit!’

There was clearly a very big problem with his new shirt. Phillip was trying to jam the cuff links into the holes that were sewn too small. This made him what one might call angry.

He took off the yellow striped shirt and squinted.

Our five-year-old Gracie walked in rubbing her eyes. She grabbed him around his slender thigh.

‘Pumpkin. Not now. Daddy loves you very much, but not now.’ He shooed her over to me and I picked her up.

Phillip returned to the bed, no skip in his gait now, and took out another custom-made shirt; lavender and white stripes this time. He paused and breathed rather deeply, kind of like a bull in a Madrid ring before it charges. He held the starched shirt in front of him and cocked his head sideways as if to help him remain positive. Standing there in his blue Oxford cloth boxers, white T-shirt and charcoal socks, he put on the brand-new shirt and again attempted to stuff his lapis barbell cuff links into the holes. Again they didn’t fit. Our Wheaten Terrier Gussie loped in, sat on his hind legs and cocked his head sideways like Phillip had just done.

‘Not. Now. Gussie. OUT!!!’ The dog cocked his head in the other direction, but his body, rigid and firm, remained in place.

I leaned against our bedroom doorway biting my lip, with Gracie in my arms.

Third-generation Exeter, Harvard, Harvard Law attorneys do not possess tremendous psychological apparatus for dealing with life’s little disappointments. Especially the ones like Phillip who were born and bred on Park Avenue. Nannies have raised them, cooks have served their meals and doormen have silently opened their doors. These guys can win and lose three hundred million of their clients’ dollars in the blink of an eye and retain their cool, but God forbid their driver isn’t where he’s supposed to be after a dinner party. When a glitch discomforts my own husband, his reaction is not, in any scenario in the history of the world, commensurate with the problem at hand. As a rule, it’s the most insignificant events that unleash the most seismic explosions.

This morning was one of those times. This was also one of those times when Daddy’s strict rules about swear words didn’t apply.

‘Fucking Mr Ho, obsequious fucking midget, comes here from Hong Kong, charges me a goddamn fortune for ten fucking custom-made shirts, in two separate goddamn fittings and the guy can’t sew a goddamn buttonhole? Two hundred and fifty dollars can’t get me the right goddamn fucking buttonhole?’ He stormed back into his dressing room.

I placed Gracie under the covers of our bed, with tightened lips and big saucer eyes. Even at five, she knew Daddy was being a big fat baby. She also knew if she said anything right now, Daddy would not react favourably. Michael, our two-year-old, toddled in and reached his hands in the air next to the bed, signalling he wanted help getting up. I placed him next to Gracie and kissed his head.

I waited while I struggled with the zipper on the back of my blouse, knowing …

‘Jamieeeeeeeeee!’

When Phillip proposed to me, he told me he wanted a woman with a career, a woman who first and foremost had interests outside the home. He declared himself a modern man, one who didn’t care to have his mundane needs serviced by a wife. A decade later, I beg to differ. I put on the Pinky Dinky Doo tape for the kids and calmly walked towards the voice now in the study, wondering, at that exact moment, how many women across America were dealing with early-morning husband tantrums over absolute nonsense.

‘How many times do I have to tell Carolina NOT to touch the contents on my desk? Would you please remind her that she will lose her job if she once again takes the scissors off my desk?’

‘Honey. Let’s try to remember we’re just dealing with a cuff-link problem here. I’m sure she didn’t take them, you must have put them …’

‘I’m sorry, honey.’ He kissed my forehead and squeezed my hand. ‘But I always put them in this leather cup right here so I know where to go when I need them. Fucking little idiots. Fucking Mr Ho.’

‘Phillip, cool it. Do not call Chinese people little idiots. I know you don’t mean that. Stop that, please. It’s extremely offensive. I’ll get you another shirt.’

‘I do not want another shirt, Jamie. I want to find some small scissors, preferably some nail scissors so that I can cut a little bit out of the hole.’

‘Phillip, you will ruin your shirt if you do that.’ I retrieved a perfectly fine laundered shirt from his closet. At the sight of it, he closed his eyes and took some long deep breaths through his nose.

‘I’m sick and tired of my old shirts.’

He jerked open the drawers of his desk and rummaged through each one until he found a pair of small silver nail scissors. Then for the next two minutes I watched my husband – a man who was a partner in a prestigious law firm – try to operate on the expensive Egyptian cotton.

The cuff link went through the hole and fell to the floor. ‘Fuck, now the goddamn cuff-link hole’s too big.’

Dylan picked this unfortunate moment to enter the scene. He had no idea what was going on and didn’t care.

‘Dad, I heard that. You said the F-word so you owe me a dollar. Mom can’t do my math. She can’t even do percentages.’ He thrust a fourth-grade math book at his father. ‘I need you to help me do it.’

Dylan was dressed for school in a blue blazer, striped tie, khakis and rubber-soled loafers. Even though he’d tried to smooth the top of his head down with water, there was still a clump of messy hair sticking out the back of his head. I reached out to give my son a hug but he shrugged me off.

‘Not right now, Dylan.’ Phillip studied the enlarged holes and kept poking at them with the nail scissors. ‘I’ve got a major problem here.’

‘Phillip, I told you, you’re just going to ruin your new …’

‘Let … me … do … what … I … need … to … do … to … get … to … my … client … meeting … on … time … so … that … I … can … make … a … living … here.’

‘Mom says she forgets how to multiply fractions.’

‘Dylan, now is not the time to be asking for help with work you should have done yesterday.’ Phillip was trying to be gentle, but his voice came out high-pitched and strained. Then he softened a bit, remembering. He sat down in his desk chair so he could be eye level with his son. ‘Dylan. I know you had a really really bad experience on your basketball team yesterday and …’

‘Did not.’

Phillip looked at me for guidance; he hadn’t gotten home last night in time to even talk with Dylan. ‘You didn’t have a, uh, rough time at the game?’

‘Nope.’

‘OK, Dylan. Let’s forget the game for now and talk about the math …’

‘Just so you know, I don’t ever want to talk about that game. Because it’s not important. My homework is important and it’s too hard.’ Dylan crossed his arms, and with a wounded look on his face, stared at the floor.

‘I understand.’ Phillip was really trying to reason here. ‘That’s why I want to discuss the math situation as well. How come you didn’t finish it last night? Is it because you were upset after the game?’

‘I told you! I wasn’t upset! The game doesn’t matter! We’re supposed to be talking about why you can’t help with my math. Alexander’s dad always does his math homework with him and picks him up on his tandem bicycle after school.’

‘Alexander’s daddy is a violinist and Alexander lives in a hovel.’

‘Phillip, please! Grown-up time out. Come with me.’ I grabbed his hand and pulled him back into his dressing room and closed the door.

He winked at me. I crossed my arms. He clenched his hands like two big suction cups on my bottom and pulled me into him. Then he kissed me up and down my neck.

‘You smell so good. So clean. I love your shampoo,’ he whispered.

I wasn’t having any. ‘You have got to listen to yourself this morning.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s the client meeting. It’s gotten me nervous. And now you’ve gotten me hot.’

I slapped his hand. ‘You can’t say Chinese people are little idiots within earshot of the kids. It’s so offensive to me, first of all, and if they ever heard you …’

‘You’re right.’

‘And if Alexander lives in a small apartment, you don’t need to use that as a criticism against his father, who happens to be a world-class musician. What the hell kind of message do you think that sends?’

‘That was bad.’

‘So what are you thinking? You’re driving me crazy.’

He tried to unzip my shirt. ‘You’re driving me crazy.’ He tickled the back of my ribcage.

Gracie banged on the door.

‘Mommy!’

‘Stop.’ I laughed, despite myself. ‘I can’t take it. I’ve already got three children. I don’t need a fourth. It’s a cuff-link hole, OK? Can you try to get a grip?’

‘I love you. I’m sorry. You’re right. But those shirts cost me a lot of money and you would think …’

‘Please.’

‘Fine. Let’s start again.’ He opened the door for me, gallantly motioned for me to go through it and carried Gracie back into the study like a bundle of wood under his arm.

Dylan was staring out the window, still furious. Phillip sat down at his desk chair and concentrated once again on his son. ‘Dylan. I know the homework’s hard. I suppose if you can give me some time and not ask when I’m rushing to the office.’

‘You weren’t here yesterday, or I would have asked you to help then.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Phillip grabbed Dylan’s hands and tried to look him in the eye. But Dylan pulled away. ‘You’re a big boy now and you’re old enough to do your own homework without your mother or father. If you need a tutor, then we can discuss it, but it is almost seven thirty and I have my car waiting and you have to get to school on time.’

Dylan flew on to the sofa in abject frustration. ‘Oh, maaaaaan.’ He laid spread-eagle on his back, his eyes buried in the crook of his elbow. He was too old to cry easily, but I know he wanted to. I also knew that if I went to hug him, his fragile composure would crumble and he would lose it. I kept a safe distance.

‘All the moms can’t do the math homework, and all the dads in my class have to do it for everyone. It’s not fair that you won’t help me.’

‘Were you spending too much time on your Xbox?’ Phillip looked at me. ‘Jamie, we’ve got to start monitoring his time with those screens, it’s just too …’

‘Dad, you’re the one who bought me Madden 07!’

‘He doesn’t play video games until he’s finished with his homework. He knows the rules,’ I answered. ‘You know, today’d be a good day to ease up on the rules around …’

‘Dylan,’ he said tenderly, now sitting on the edge of the couch. ‘It’s just that Daddy has a hard time understanding sometimes. I love you very much and I am so proud of you and I will figure out some time tonight to get this done.’ He tapped him on the nose. ‘You got it?’

‘Yeah.’ Dylan stifled a smile.

Gracie appeared at the doorway of Phillip’s office with a small pink pair of plastic Barbie scissors and raised them in silent offering.

Phillip looked at her. Then at me. Then he laughed out loud. ‘Thank you, honey.’ He pulled Gracie over and ruffled her hair. Then he picked up Dylan and gave him a huge bear hug. Just when I was convinced Phillip was a real monster, he would do something that would make me think that maybe I could still love him. In my moments of deep honesty, I tell my friend Kathryn I might leave Phillip at some point down the road. We drift, he’s impossible, and then he acts responsible and fatherly and I think I’m going to try to make this work after all.

‘Dylan, we’re going to get through this together. As a family.’ Then he turned to me. ‘Give me the old shirt. I’m late. Call Mr Ho for me and tell him he’s got twenty-four hours to fix all ten shirts. If I have to deal with him, I’ll call in a hit squad.’

We rode down in the elevator together with backpacks and cell phones and jackets flying everywhere: my husband, Dylan, Gracie and baby Michael, Carolina the housekeeper with our Wheaten Terrier Gussie, and our nanny Yvette. The fact that Phillip had moved beyond his buttonhole tantrum didn’t mean he was actually going to engage with the rest of us. Dressed in his lawyer suit and shiny black shoes, he was readying himself for a client meeting and successfully ignoring the chaos around him. Jamming his cell-phone earpiece into his ear, he started dialling his voicemail with his thumb while he pressed a thick bunch of folded newspapers into his hip with his upper arm.

I picked up Gracie with one hand and put a clip in my hair with the other. Yvette, filled with pride over her well-kept charges, dressed my two little kids like every day was a Sunday church day in Jamaica. And since she’d been with us since Dylan was born, I didn’t interfere. Gracie was wearing a red gingham dress with matching red Mary Janes and a huge white bow the size of a 767 on the side of her head.

‘Mommy, are you going to pick me up or is Yvette?’ Gracie started whimpering. ‘You never pick me up.’

‘Not today because, you know, Tuesday is a work day, sweetheart. I have to go to work all day. But remember I try to pick you up on Mondays and Fridays.’ ‘Try’ being the operative word there: though I worked at the network part-time, my hours were erratic and increased to full-time when a story broke. This lack of consistency wasn’t easy on the kids. Gracie’s delicate face began to curl up in that look I knew so well. I brushed her hair down with the palm of my hand and kissed her forehead. I whispered, ‘I love you.’

Dylan’s backpack was bigger than he was. He pulled it around to find the Tamagotchi on his keychain and began poking at it like a mad scientist. Just like Daddy with his BlackBerry.

‘I can’t do a conference call at 3 p.m.’ Even if we’re in an elevator, Phillip insists on returning voicemail messages the second he hears them. ‘Call my secretary, Hank, she’ll work it out. Now let me give you a full report on the Tysis Logics litigation …’

‘Phillip, please, can’t that wait? It’s just so rude.’

Phillip closed his eyes and patted me on the head and then put his finger up to my lips. I wanted to bite it off. ‘… It’s just going to be a hell of a crapshoot for the following three reasons – let’s start with the stock split; we don’t even have enough shares authorized …’

Michael grabbed at my skirt from his stroller and dug his nails into the inside seam, tearing a few stitches out.

Carolina pulled tighter on Gussie’s leash as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor. Phillip shot her a scary look; apparently he hadn’t recovered from the missing nail scissors.

The elevator door slid open for a white-haired, seventy-eight-year-old man wearing a striped bow tie and a beige suit. Mr Greeley, a stuffy Nantucket old-timer from apartment 4B, had recently retired, but still wore his suit every morning to get his coffee and papers. Somehow he mustered the courage to step into the packed elevator only to have Gussie begin feverishly scratching and sniffing at his groin as if he’d found a rabbit hole. Carolina yanked at the leash and now the dog was standing on his hind legs with his front paws on the door. Phillip was still barking into his cell phone about battle plans. I nodded at Mr Greeley with an apologetic smile and a pleading look in my eyes. He, meanwhile, focused on the elevator’s descending numbers, pointedly ignoring us all. In the two years we had lived in this building, he had never once smiled back at me – all I ever got was a discreet nod.

The door slid open again and we poured into the marble lobby. Clutching his overflowing, Dunhill briefcase, Phillip waved goodbye and rushed ahead, jamming his earpiece further into his ear. In his distracted mind, his meeting had started five minutes ago. ‘Love you!’ he yelled without looking back. The doorman, Eddie, offered to carry something, but Phillip paid no attention and bolted into his waiting car. As his Lexus peeled away, I could see the Wall Street Journal snap open in front of him.

Yasser Arafat’s motorcade had nothing on ours. With Phillip’s car out of the way, my driver, Luis, pulled up in front of the awning in our monstrous navy-blue Suburban. Luis is a sweet, forty-year-old Ecuadorian man who works at our garage and speaks about four words of English. All I really know about him is that he has two kids and a wife at home in Queens. For fifty dollars a day – all cash – he helps me drop off Dylan at eight and Gracie at eight thirty. Three days a week he also waits while I come home, change and play with Michael, then he takes me to work at the television network by ten. It doesn’t escape me that for two hundred and fifty dollars a week in Minneapolis, my mother could feed us, pay all the utility bills and still have some left over.

Eddie helped me place Gracie into the car seat as Dylan climbed clumsily over her, brushing her face with his backpack. ‘Dylan! Stop it!’ she yelled. I kissed Michael in his stroller who reached out for me and tried desperately to yank off the shoulder straps binding him to his seat. In an instant, Yvette put a tiny Elmo doll in front of his face and he smiled.

In the rear-view mirror I watched Gussie’s Doggy Daycare van take our place. On the side of the van it read ‘The Pampered Pooch’. The doors slid open magically for Gussie, and Carolina managed to get in a big kiss on his head before he disappeared inside to greet his slobbering pals.

I closed my eyes as we drove the twenty blocks up Park Avenue to Dylan’s school, grateful to be out of eye-contact range with everyone. Luis never spoke at all, just smiled his warm Latin grin and concentrated on dodging the taxis and delivery trucks around us.

Gracie was young enough that the motion of the car made her sleepy, so she stuck her thumb in her mouth, her eyes fluttering like butterflies as she resisted slumber. Dylan grabbed some electronics from the back of the seat. His thumbs sped over the keys of his Game Boy as he knew I’d let him continue if he put the sound button on mute.

‘Gracie, stop! Mooooooooom!’

My head ached. ‘What is going on?!’

‘Gracie kicked my hand on purpose so I missed the last few seconds and now I’m back at level three!’

‘Did not!’ Gracie screamed, suddenly very alert.

‘Dylan. Please,’ I pleaded.

‘Why are you taking her side?’ he screamed.

‘I’m not taking sides, it’s just that she’s five and I think you can move on. We’ve talked about this.’

‘But it’s so wrong what she did, Mooooom. She made me lose my game.’ He threw the Game Boy on the floor and stared out his window, his eyes welling with tears. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea for him to take a break from Dr Bernstein. He hated going to the psychiatrist and said that all they did was play Monopoly and build model airplanes. I felt forcing him to go was stigmatizing him, as he didn’t even have a formal diagnosis such as the ubiquitous Attention Deficit Disorder. And, I didn’t want to pathologize a situation which seemed primarily to be about sadness and loss of self-esteem, more than likely due to an absent dad, and, yes, maybe a harried, distracted mom too – though it pains me to say that.

I looked back at my son and his Game Boy on the car floor. Dr Bernstein said it was important to show empathy with Dylan, to acknowledge his feelings. ‘I’m sorry, Dylan. That must be really frustrating. Especially when you were about to win.’

He didn’t answer.




CHAPTER THREE The Waffle (#u1fd351cf-23a5-5afa-9c80-1f12c4bf974b)


‘Hurry, we gotta talk.’ My Korean colleague, Abby Chong, had spotted me across the crowded newsroom as our colleagues completed a live newsbreak of a space shuttle landing. I passed the rows of cubicles and said hello to some of the twenty-something PAs inside, most of them looking like they hadn’t slept in days. I navigated round the portable screening machines lined up outside the cubicles with tapes piled precariously on top. In my ears was the familiar cacophony of ringing phones, the tapping of computer keyboards, and the audio of dozens of televisions and radios going at once. As Abby grabbed my elbow and pulled me towards my door, I managed to pick up three newspapers from the pile.

‘You almost knocked my coffee on the floor!’ I looked down at a few drops on my new blouse.

‘Sorry,’ Abby answered. ‘I’m tired. I’m frazzled. But you’ve got bigger problems now.’

‘Really big? Like your Pope problems?’

‘No. Crazy Anchorman’s off that. Now Goodman wants a Madonna interview.’

‘How do you get from an exclusive with the Pope to an exclusive with Madonna?’

‘The cross thing. The crucifixion stunt at her concert from a while ago. He went to a dinner party last night. Sat next to someone who convinced him she would appeal to the eighteen to forty-nine demo. He decided she was edgier than the Pope. But only after we were here till 4 a.m. doing research. He used the fresh word. Everything had to be fresh. He wanted Pope references in the Bible so he could write a letter to the Pope and quote them. I told him there weren’t any. He said, “He’s the Pope for Christ’s sake, find them!”’

‘Well, I won’t be working on Madonna either. I don’t produce celebrity profiles. It’s in my contract.’

‘Well, you’re not going to get another contract when you hear what shit you’re in.’

I figured she was overreacting. Abby was always calm when we were live and rolling, and a nervous wreck the rest of the time – like now. Her black hair was clipped on the top of her head like a witch doctor and she was wearing a bright violet suit that looked simply awful on her. She pushed me into my office and closed the door behind her.

‘Sit down,’ she said, while she paced around the room.

‘You mind if I take my coat off?’

‘Fine. But hurry up.’

‘Just give me two minutes please?’ I hung my coat on the hanger behind my door, sat down and took my cranberry scone and coffee out of the bag. ‘OK, Abby. What’s got you so wound up this time?’

She leaned over the top of my desk with her arms straight out. She didn’t hesitate, no niceties, just delivered the fatal news.

‘Theresa Boudreaux granted the interview to Kathy Seebright. They taped it on Monday in an undisclosed location. It’s airing this Thursday on the News Hour. Drudge already has it on his website.’ She sat down and her left knee bounced uncontrollably.

I laid my head face down on the desk with a thunk.

‘You’re screwed. No other word for it. I’m sorry. Goodman’s not in yet, but apparently our fearless leader called him fifteen minutes ago to give him the news. So the two big cheeses already know.’

I struggled to look up. ‘Is Goodman trying to reach me?’

‘I don’t know. I tried your cell, but it went straight to voicemail.’

I fished my cell phone out of my purse by pulling the cord for my earpiece. The ringer had been in the ‘off’ position since last night and I had forgotten to switch it back. Six messages. I plugged the phone into the charger on my desk. Nausea roiled up inside me. It didn’t help that I’d swallowed a bunch of vitamins on an empty stomach. I ripped apart the cranberry scone, picked out a few berries and lined them up while I thought about my next move. ‘Give me a sec to figure out how to handle this disaster.’

‘I’m here waiting.’ She leaned back in her chair with her arms across her chest. Abby was a very pretty woman who, at forty-two, looked young for her age with her straight hair and creamy Asian skin. She was head researcher on the show, and during live broadcasts always sat off-camera five feet from our anchor Joe Goodman. On the console in front of her were thousands of index cards with any fact and figure a pompous newsman could want in an instant: type of armoured tank most commonly used in the Iraq War, number of passengers killed on Pan Am flight 103 and biographies of important historical figures like Kato Kaelin and Robert Kardashian.

I rattled off some options. ‘I could just apologize to Goodman right now before he comes charging in here. Preemptive action is always good.’ Deep breath. ‘I could listen to my messages to see if that Boudreaux lawyer bothered to give me a head’s up that his client was talking to another network. He only promised me the interview on Friday. No wonder he didn’t return my calls over the weekend.’ I moved the piles of broadcast tapes to create some space on my desk and they slid on the floor like a mudslide.

‘I thought the interview was yours.’ Abby was trying to help. ‘Really I did, especially after your charm offensive trip last week – I thought you’d nailed it down. Goodman’ll be here in fifteen minutes. Check your messages first so you sound on the ball, even though …’

‘Even though what?’ Even though I had lost the biggest ‘get’ of the year to a perky blonde: Kathy Seebright, America’s official cutie-pie. As insiders, we knew her as the woman with the sugary smile who would chomp a man’s testicles off and spit them in his face. ‘Why did I tell Goodman on Friday that we had a done deal? I should have known it doesn’t count till the tape is rolling.’ Even Abby didn’t know I’d left work early on Friday to take my daughter to her ballet class. They’d probably assumed I was out greasing the wheels for the interview.

Sometimes sexy women like to act stupid because it helps them get exactly what they want. Theresa Boudreaux was one of those types: a bodacious waffle-house waitress with a devilish streak. Unfortunately for a certain high-ranking elected leader, she had the wits to go to RadioShack and buy herself a nine-dollar phone-recording device. She then used it to tape her dirty phone calls with US Congressman Huey Hartley, a powerful, sanctimonious, married-for-thirty-years politician from the solidly red state of Mississippi. When network news anchors lose interviews like this one, they get mean and scary. That’s why producers call them anchor monsters, whether they just lost an interview or not. They’re scary people even when they’re trying to be nice. But no one was being nice to me that day.

For a moment, I thought I’d be fired. In my defence, I really thought we had it. I grabbed my cell phone.

Message number four was in fact Theresa Boudreaux’s lawyer calling at ten last night. What a sleazebag. Just after the Seebright interview was in the can, he thought he should tell me that things had changed.

Jamie. It’s Leon Rosenberg. Thank you again for the flowers on Friday. My wife thought they were beautiful. Uh, we need to discuss some changes in the plan. Theresa Boudreaux has had some concerns. Call me at home tonight. You have all my numbers.

I dialled Leon at work, fury raging inside. His irritating assistant Sunny answered. She never knew where he was, didn’t know how to reach him, but always put me on hold to ‘see’. I waited two full minutes.

‘I’m sorry, Ms Whitfield. I’m not sure where he is right now, so I can’t connect you. Is there a message?’

‘Yes. Could you please write this down verbatim: “I heard about Seebright. Fuck you very much. From Jamie Whitfield.”’

‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to write that down.’

‘Mr Rosenberg won’t be surprised. He’ll think it’s appropriate given the situation. Please pass it along.’ I hung up.

‘That’ll get his attention.’ Charles Worthington gave a nod of approval as he strode into my office, found a place on my couch and grabbed a newspaper. Charles was a fellow producer who did all the investigative work on the show. A thirty-five-year-old fair-skinned African American, he grew up as part of the black Creole elite in Louisiana. He was short, thin and always immaculately dressed. Charles spoke in a soothing voice, with a discreet Southern drawl. We’d worked together for ten years, growing up in the business side by side. I often referred to him as my office husband, even though he was gay.

The phone rang thirty seconds later.

‘Yes, Leon.’

‘Jamie. Really. That’s so rude; she’s just my secretary, and she’s all shook up now. And very embarrassed.’

‘RUDE? RUDE? Why don’t you try unethical? Unprofessional? Fraudulent?’ Charles leapt from the couch with two fists clenched, giving me the rah-rah sign. ‘You said we had a done deal. How many letters did I write that little sex vixen client of yours? How many times did I bring big Anchorman Goodman to try out her soggy pancakes? What’d you do, grant the interview to Kathy Seebright at ABS and shoot the Theresa Boudreaux No Excuses jeans ad the same day? And, why did she go with a woman anchor anyway? Doesn’t fit the bill.’ Vixens like Theresa always go for the male anchors who can’t concentrate on the proper follow-up question because they’re discreetly rearranging the bulge in their pants.

‘Jamie, try to calm down. It’s just television. At the last minute, Theresa decided that Kathy would lob easier questions in the interview. She got scared about your guy. He does have a reputation for going for the jugular.’

‘And I’m sure it was all her decision, Leon. You had no input whatsoever.’ I rolled my eyes at Abby and Charles.

‘Now look,’ said Leon. ‘I promise I’m going to make this up to you. I’ve got some O.J. Simpson sealed court documents that would blow the roof off that little network of yours and I can sure …’

I hung up on him.

‘What was his excuse?’ asked Charles.

‘Same thing every time we lose one to her: “Seebright seems so much sweeter than Joe Goodman.”’

How had I let this interview slip through my fingers when we had it solidly in the bag? Why hadn’t I taken extra steps to secure her? And why were we doing this interview in the first place? Just because Hartley was a controversial, pro-family politician with four children? Did his prurient behaviour deserve all this media coverage? Absolutely.

Hartley wasn’t a deeply entrenched Christian conservative, but his ferocious anti-homosexual, pro-family oratory singled him out as one of the most outspoken Southern politicians. About eighty pounds overweight and six feet four inches tall, he usually walked around the lectern to speak so he could tower over the audience, rattling his fist in the air as his jowls jiggled. His grey moustache and goatee highlighted his enormous mouth and protruding lower lip. He had crystal-blue eyes and a perpetually sweaty bald spot that reflected the camera lights. He helped win the 2004 elections for Mississippi and the White House by supporting the drive to put the anti-gay-marriage referendums on ballots in twenty-four states. That White House strategy brought all the mega-church crowds out in their Greyhounds and was a major factor in the triumph of the Republican Party. Now he’d already jumped on the anti-gay bandwagon again for 2008: lobbying to put the ancient anti-sodomy laws on the ballots in the thirty-odd states where they weren’t already on the books.

I tried to accept the magnitude of my screw-up before I walked into executive producer Erik James’s office. That way, I wouldn’t argue. Arguing was never a good idea when Erik was angry. He was behind his desk finishing up a call when his assistant showed me in. I stared at the dozens of Emmy Awards lining his top shelf. He had worked for NBS for almost twenty years, at first executive-producing the Sunday news shows and then launching the multi-award-winning ratings bonanza Newsnight with Joe Goodman.

He hung up the phone and stared me down. Then the diatribe began.

‘You talk a big game.’

‘I don’t mean to.’

‘And your follow-through is lacking.’ He pushed his chair back, walked around to the front of his desk and took off his gloves. At five feet six, Erik had a pot belly like a pregnant woman two weeks past her due date. Even though he was standing a safe distance away, his stomach was almost touching me. ‘YOU! SUCK!’

‘I do not!’

‘DO TOO!’ He waved his hands in the air like King Kong. One of his suspenders popped and he furiously clawed at his back trying to reach it. Now he was really pissed off.

‘Erik, Leon Rosenberg assured me …’

‘I don’t care what he assured you! How many times did you go down there? What were you doing, shopping?’ That was low. No question I was the only Newsnight producer with a rich husband, but I’d worked my behind off for over ten years for this guy and I’d broken more stories than any producer on his staff.

‘That’s really unfair. You know I’ve killed myself to get this story.’

He flared his nostrils. ‘Last I checked, you didn’t get me any story, F-fuckin’-Y-I.’

‘I, I …’

He sneered at me. Then he reached into a huge glass jar on his desk and gobbled a fistful of jellybeans. ‘Get out o’ here,’ he mumbled, and some of his Kelly-green spit landed on my shirt, next to a coffee stain.

The battle was over for now. We’d start fighting for another angle on this Theresa Boudreaux story together as a team again in the morning. This wasn’t the first time I’d gone through this. Not that my defeat didn’t depress me, but I refused to let it derail me. The pressure was intense to break some news and advance the story. Every tabloid in the country had published cover photos of Theresa, many with a question mark, ‘Hartley’s Heartthrob?’ Right-wing radio talk shows chimed in with their unwavering support of Hartley while they trashed the bloodthirsty members of the liberal media elite.

Ultimately, as the story played out, Theresa gave nothing away to Kathy Seebright, she’d merely gotten her to confirm that she knew Hartley, that they were ‘close’. So, at that moment, my bosses and I were having a meltdown over nonsense. But histrionics over nothing are the price of entry in the network news business.

Back in my office, I applied some lipstick very carefully as I tried to take control of my day. I stopped for a moment with the compact in my hand and stared out the window at the Hudson River. The anxieties piled on: a major professional screw-up, my insufferable husband, Dylan and his troubles. My watch read eleven o’clock – Dylan had gym before lunch: perhaps the exercise had already cheered him up. He had asked me to cancel his play dates that week. Obviously the humiliation at the game made him want to hide behind his door after school and get lost in a Lego robotics trance, but I told him I wouldn’t cancel anything, believing that interaction with his friends was curative. I felt bewildered about what else to do with him except follow the routine and make sure he didn’t close in on himself. When I get very depressed, I eat KitKats. As I tore the wrapper off with my teeth, my cell phone rang.

‘Honey, it’s me.’ I heard honking and car brakes screeching in the background.

‘Yes?’

‘I want to apologize.’

‘All right. Let’s hear it.’

‘I’m sorry about this morning. I’m sorry I was difficult.’ A siren whizzed by.

‘Difficult?’

‘Sorry I was impossible.’

‘You were.’ I took a bite of chocolate.

‘I know. That’s why I’m calling. I love you.’

‘Fine.’ Maybe I could forgive him.

‘And you’re going to love me more than ever.’

‘Oh, really? And why would that be?’

‘Well, you know my success with the Hadlow Holdings deal has had some ripple effects.’

‘They owe you big.’

‘And they’re giving me something big.’

‘OK. And what might that be?’

‘The question is, what are they giving my wife?’

‘Phillip, I have no idea. It’s not cash, so what is it? How can they repay you?’

‘They asked me that very question.’

‘And …?’

‘How does pro bono work for Sanctuary for the Young sound?’

My charity. The board I had served on for a decade that supported foster children. The organization was broke, almost going under, they could barely serve the desperate kids. My eyes welled. ‘You didn’t.’

‘I did.’

‘How much help?’

‘Lots.’

‘Like how much?’

‘Like they’re going to treat it like a regular account.’

‘I can’t believe you did this. It’s going to change everything.’

‘I know. That’s why I did it.’

‘I don’t even know what to say.’

‘You don’t need to say anything.’

‘Thank you, Phillip. It’s totally amazing. You didn’t even tell me you were considering this.’

‘You give them a lot of your money, and a lot of your time, but I wanted you to give them something even more substantial. I know what they mean to you.’

‘So much.’

‘I know.’

‘I love you back.’

‘Item two: there is something you need to do for me before my flight to Cleveland.’

‘Where are you, anyway?’ I asked. ‘I can barely hear you with all those horns honking. Are you in Times Square?’

‘I’m actually rushed as all hell. Are you going to pick up the kids?’

‘Just Gracie. I couldn’t deal with her expression this morning. I’m going to pick her up in her classroom, but ask Yvette to meet me outside to take her home. Then I’m hightailing it back to the office.’

‘Perfect. I need you to stop at home before you get Gracie.’

‘I won’t have time.’

‘This is critical.’ Phillip suddenly sounded like a British boarding school headmaster. ‘I need you to go home. Go into my office. Turn on my computer. Get the code for my new safe. The screen will automatically ask for my password.’

‘Phillip, can’t this wait?’

‘Please do as I say, for God’s sake!’

‘No. I’m not doing as you say. I’ve had a shitty day so far and I’ve got more work to do. I’m telling you, this is most definitely NOT a day I am going to be leaving the office for a long time. I can’t tell you how much the pro bono thing means to me. You know that. But I still can’t do this right now.’

‘Honey. This isn’t an ask. This is a “you gotta do this for me now”. I’m travelling for three days and before I take off I need to know that this is handled.’

‘This is really so important?’

‘Yes, beautiful.’ He laid on the charm with a soft voice. ‘It is. I love you. Please. I’m going to owe you huge.’

I decided I would make a quick stop at home after picking Gracie up, perhaps without anyone even noticing I’d left the office. ‘Hurry up. What is the password?’

No answer.

‘Phillip, I will do this for you, but I am very rushed too. What is the password for your home computer?! Couldn’t you have thought of this this morning?’

‘I was distracted this morning. By Dylan of course.’

Tapping my pen on a notepad, I sighed. ‘You were telling me the password …’

‘Uh …’

‘Phillip! What is the password?’

‘The password is Beaver.’

‘What? You’re kidding.’

No answer.

‘Phillip, your password is Beaver? That is so lame. Is this on your work computers too? In a stuffy law firm like yours? What happens if your IT guy has to get into your account?’

‘Why should I care about an IT guy?’

‘Phillip, I can’t believe you want me to type in B-E-A-V-E-R.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. It’s a private password. I’m the only person who knows it and now unfortunately for me you do too. I’m a horn-dog, so shoot me. Now go into my office when you get home and type B-E-A-V-E-R into my computer. Get the new safe code, it’s hidden in a document titled “Kids’ Activities”, it’s 48-62-something …’

‘And then what?’

‘On my desk, in the in-box, under some bank stuff, or just on a pile to the right on top of the desk you’ll see a folder marked Ridgefield. I need you to put it in the safe.’

‘Why?’

‘Carolina.’

‘Carolina what?’

‘First it’s the nail scissors. Then she puts a pile of newspapers to be thrown out on top of my desk as she’s dusting, then by accident, she grabs important folders, then she throws everything out. I lose everything. And I can’t risk losing this.’

‘Phillip, please. You’re being crazy neurotic. I’ll call her up and tell her not to touch your desk.’

‘Every day I tell her not to touch my nail scissors or my collar stays or my favourite Mont Blanc pen, and every day I can’t find any of them. She doesn’t listen.’

‘You know that husbands are more work than children, don’t you?’ My body was now splayed over my desk like a banana peel.

‘I never would be asking you this, but in this age, you never know.’

‘You never know what?’

‘Never know anything! It’s the information age! Everything is stolen from people’s trash, their mailboxes, their computers.’ Phillip was now in calm, lawyerly I-know-everything-there-is-to-know-on-the-planet mode. ‘I come from three generations of lawyers, and I am trained and versed in making prudent decisions. This is a prudent precaution and I’m going to Newark airport, no way to stop on the East Side. I want to leave knowing this is taken care of.’

‘Why can’t I just do it tonight when I get home?’

He’d lost his patience. ‘For the last time, I beg you, please stop questioning me. It’d be so much easier for me today, if, for once, just this once, you could just do as you are told.’

I harrumphed and went straight home, where I didn’t exactly do as I was told.




CHAPTER FOUR Everyone Knows That (#ulink_8df7dc04-acf9-5178-8d33-2b4d8c157877)


It was pouring in New York at noon the next day.

‘Oui?’ The maître d’ stuck his enormous French nose through a crack in the thick, chocolate-brown lacquered doors.

‘I, uh, came for lunch?’

‘Avec?’

‘I’m getting wet here. Susannah, she’s …’

‘Qui?’

‘Susannah Briarcliff, surely you …’

The door opened. Jean-François Perrier looked right through me. I pointed out to him that I was with my friend Susannah over there, smiled foolishly and stared plaintively into his deep blue eyes. He waved his hands to motion for the busboy to take me there. No-contact rule in play. Francesca the check girl sized me up and concluded that I wasn’t really one of them. So she decided to sip her Diet Coke at the bar rather than bother with my raincoat. I shook the raindrops off my umbrella in disgust.

La Pierre Noire has no sign on the awning, no published phone number. It is the executive watering hole of one of the world’s most peculiar tribes: a breed of very rich humans inhabiting a specific grid that stretches from Manhattan’s 70th to 79th Streets to the north and south, bordered by Park Avenue and Fifth Avenue to the east and west.

Pity the poor West Sider who strolls by and mistakenly believes this is a restaurant operating by normal procedures, one that actually caters to the public. None too soon will they learn that they are not welcome, even though many tables are free. From the window, one can see rich tangerine velvet banquettes that surround the small, café-style mahogany tables. Handsome thirty-something French waiters dressed in blue jeans and starched, yellow Oxford cloth shirts squeeze between the tight tables.

My closest girlfriends don’t have lunch for a living like Susannah Briarcliff. Most of them have actual jobs, but Susannah is one of the few inhabitants of the Grid whom I go out of my way to see. It’s easy to forget that beneath Susannah’s fabulous wealth and stunning genes, there’s a fun girl that lurks inside. You can basically look for her in any column with party pictures – Harper’s Bazaar, Vogue, the New York Times Style section – and it’s kind of like finding Waldo. Susannah has two kids, three dogs, seven on staff and one of the largest apartments in the city. All this courtesy of her family ties to one of America’s great real-estate dynasties. She’s five feet ten, has a thin athletic build and a shortish blonde Meg Ryan haircut. She is also married to a top editor for the New York Times, which sets her apart from most of the East Side socialites married to dead-wood bankers. Although she doesn’t reach the best-friend category – Kathryn from downtown and Abby and Charles from work all hold that title – she’s a close second.

I slipped into the plush banquette beside her. ‘Jamie. You look good. Really good.’

‘I’m not sure I’m properly dressed …’

‘Stop.’

Twelve of the fifteen tables were taken, filled with New York’s young socialites in fur-collared sweaters and their gay party planners, most of them charlatans who charge three hundred and fifty dollars an hour to pick out just the right fuchsia water goblet to go with a kasbah-themed dinner for twelve. Or just the right cheetah-print heel for a plain black suit. If any of these women purchase a recognizable piece of a certain season, they have to burn it before the following year. And once a blouse or shirt appears in Vogue, it’s already passé for them. I studied my khaki trousers, white blouse and plain black silk sweater. When I’d tell my mother about these women around me – and how sometimes I felt that I didn’t measure up – she’d chastise me for getting sucked into their nonsense. ‘How do you expect to get where you want to go if you’re rubbernecking at everyone else along the way? Don’t focus on what you wrongly perceive as your shortcomings.’

Ingrid Harris blasted through the door with her nanny and four-year-old daughter Vanessa. Jean-François stumbled on his thick French loafers as he ran to greet her. ‘Chérie!’ Kiss kiss.

He snapped his fingers and Francesca eagerly swept the tan shawl off Ingrid’s shoulders. She then unbuckled the fireman hooks from Vanessa’s rain jacket, revealing a pink tutu underneath. The nanny stood back, and held her own coat, used to this drill.

Ingrid looked perfectly gorgeous: she had far-apart brown doe eyes and long layered hair pulled back with a Jackie O-sized pair of black sunglasses. Better than anyone, Ingrid knew that serious style is all about attitude. She was wearing ratty jeans and a four-thousand-dollar lime-green Chanel jacket, as if she just grabbed it off the closet floor. It’s not what you’re wearing, it’s how you wear it; you can’t act like you’re all excited about an expensive fancy new jacket. You wouldn’t be ‘one of them’ if you did that.

‘Jamie, nice to see you. Hello, Susannah.’ Susannah mustered a smile but didn’t speak or even look up. She concentrated on dipping bread into her rosemary-scented olive oil and twisting a straw in her San Pellegrino.

An uncomfortable silence ensued. I broke in. ‘Ingrid, I still can’t believe you had a baby just a month ago. Your body – you look fabulous!’

Ingrid threw back her silky caramel mane. ‘Well, I told them what path to take to get me back to normal quickly, and I was right, even though they all objected.’

Susannah chortled. ‘What you did wasn’t normal. I’m sorry but most doctors would object.’

Ingrid, not at all intimidated, put her hands on her hips. ‘It may have sounded abnormal to you with your two perfect children delivered naturally. But I don’t come from the same Pilgrim stock as you do. My people don’t believe in voluntary discomfort.’

‘That doesn’t mean …’

‘And that means nothing was going to make me push. I said that to my doctor the second he told me I was pregnant. I said, “Dr Shecter, that’s wonderful news but just so you know: I don’t push.”’

I thought Susannah was going to kill her.

‘Too sweaty. Told him my motto: “If I can’t do it in heels, I’m not interested.” I just told him I wouldn’t do it. And I wanted a C-section.’

‘And what did he say?’ asked Susannah.

‘He said, “Sweetheart, I got news for you. Your body’s gonna push whether you like it or not.” And I said, “No, buddy, I got news for you which you are clearly not understanding: I do not push.”’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I went to another doctor who understood that I meant what I said, so he basically agreed to the C-section and told me we’d do it in the thirty-ninth week.’

Susannah rolled her eyes.

‘But then that doctor wouldn’t promise to give me general anaesthesia.’ Ingrid tapped her boot and crossed her arms impatiently. ‘Well, I told them at East Side Presbyterian that they were bringing it back for me!’

‘And they agreed?’ Susannah asked incredulously. ‘Without a medical reason?’

‘Well, my dear, they sure didn’t want to, but I made Henry give the Chief of Obstetrics a membership at the Atlantic Golf Club, so they really had no choice.’

Susannah coughed into her napkin like she might throw up. Despite Ingrid’s crazy behaviour, I admired her for always getting what she wanted and never being scared to ask.

‘Which is why I came over here, Jamie,’ Ingrid continued. ‘Did you get my email about the auction?’

‘I did.’

‘This year they aren’t holding it in that hideous gallery space in the West Village. I told them if they did, I wouldn’t chair the event. I said to the organizing committee, “Hello?!! Look at the crowd that is coming. Rich people don’t like to leave the Upper East Side! We also don’t like to pretend we’re poor and hip. OK? Because we’re not.” So they’re doing it at Doubles. Nice and close for you.’

‘I’m not sure I can come.’

‘Even if you can’t, we want your anchor to let us auction off a visit to a taping of Newsnight with Joe Goodman. You’re close to him, right? I mean you’ve worked at his show for as long as I’ve known you.’

‘Well, he is my boss – I, I, I’m not sure I really feel comfortable …’

‘Oh, puh-lease, Jamie. What’s more important to you, a few awkward moments with your boss or a cure for Alzheimer’s? So I can count on you?’

‘Well, I, I have to check with his …’

‘Tell you what. How ‘bout I just send him a nice note on my personal stationery saying you and I are the dearest of friends and couldn’t he please …’

‘Ingrid, I don’t think he’d respond well to that, I think I should ask him.’

‘OK, fine, that’s what I said in the first place. You ask him.’ She had outfoxed me and she knew it. I had to smile.

‘And, by the way,’ she whispered as she raised her newly waxed eyebrows and glared down at my feet.

I looked down at my strappy black sandals, thinking I had stepped in something on the sidewalk.

‘Those shoes,’ she instructed with grave concern. ‘Soooo night-time. It’s noon, for God’s sakes.’

As the main courses arrived, chicken paillard with braised endives for Susannah and tricolore salad with grilled shrimp for me, I broached the one topic that had been on the forefront of my mind.

‘I’m worried about Dylan. He kind of lost it at a basketball game.’

‘I heard.’

‘You did?’

‘Yeah. Foetal position instead of scoring a basket?’

‘Oh, no, do you think all the kids are talking about it?’

‘Yes.’

‘They are? Oh, God.’ I buried my head in my napkin.

Susannah pulled it away. ‘Sounds like it was a scary moment in the game.’

‘He just sobbed in my arms. He was so ashamed.’

She rubbed my shoulder. ‘Performance anxiety, that’s all.’

‘Well, that and a little more. Whether it’s normal or not, I don’t know – but I think Phillip’s hours are creating serious self-esteem issues for him. He doesn’t want me to do his homework, he wants Phillip to help. He was completely devastated last week when Phillip didn’t take him to the baseball birthday party on Saturday. He was crying like a four-year-old, throwing his toys all over his room, and dumping his baseball cards on the floor. And then the whole basketball moment too.’

‘Is he still seeing that shrink?’

‘We stopped. He begged me not to make him go. And honestly that guy didn’t seem to be helping. He made him feel like something was wrong with him. And you know, he’s fine, there’s nothing wrong with Dylan. I don’t want to paint him as this hyper-depressed kid. He’s still my wonderful boy who gets enthusiastic about his Lego, and he’s a great reader and so school is fine, but there’s still something not right.’

‘And what does that darling Phillip have to say about all this?’ Susannah adored my husband; they had so much in common, both coming from the same little inbred WASPy fantasia land.

‘Who knows?’ I shrugged my shoulders.

‘What does that mean?’

‘He is concerned about Dylan. Of course he is. He’s just … you know, we don’t have a lot of time to talk these days.’

Susannah shook her finger at me. ‘Remember what I told you …?’

I bobbed my head.

She leaned in close to me. ‘And are you doing it?’

I put my hands in the air, like maybe I wasn’t.

She tapped the table. ‘I’ve told you this a hundred times. Always blow your husband. Always blow your husband.’

Even though I loved Susannah, it was sometimes hard to bond with her because there was so much about her that made me feel inferior. Starting with the fact that she always blew her husband first thing in the morning.

She tapped my hand this time. ‘Don’t ever forget what I said.’

‘You know what? I don’t always want to blow my husband.’

‘Neither do I! But it takes, like, ten minutes and you’re done and he’s so happy he’s bouncing around the room. It’ll save any marriage. I promise you. I wish I could go on Oprah and say this; it would prevent a lot of divorce. It’d be a good episode: “Always Blow Your Husband.”’

‘So how often, really, are you doing this now? Don’t exaggerate.’

She looked up and hesitated for a moment. ‘Four times a week.’

‘That’s a lot.’

‘And I initiate, that’s the key. You have to act really into it. That’s the other key.’

‘Really into it? Like what?’

‘Like you have to act all horny, that’s what they love.’

‘Well, even if I wanted to, even if I felt all horny first thing on a weekday morning, which I certainly don’t, Phillip is never around.’

‘Is Phillip travelling more now than he used to?’

‘He’s gone three nights a week now. And has a lot of client dinners when he’s in town.’

Susannah stepped off her blow-job soapbox and sighed. ‘That’s a lot for a nine-year-old. They didn’t sign up for the absent father thing.’

So true. ‘When I first moved to our apartment, I met all the East Side mothers who hired huge full-time staffs. Nothing against you, Susannah, I’d just never seen that. Separate nannies for each child, housekeepers to clean, chefs to cook, drivers to drive, house managers to run the whole household.’ Susannah nodded. She had all of those, and then some. ‘I even heard that they hired “guys” to roughhouse with the boys while the absentee investment banker fathers were kneading the dough. That one stuck out for me, hiring a “guy” to parent your child. I swore I’d never be one of those women who hired a substitute father in the afternoons.’

Susannah smiled. ‘And?’

‘And then I started thinking, here I am living this obscenely fortunate life, and I, well, maybe I should hire a “guy” for Dylan. You know, some male college kid who could pick Dylan up, kick the soccer ball around the park, talk about cars, whatever. But have I turned into one of these horrible women who can’t even deal with their own son? This is crazy.’ This conversation was making me anxious. I speared a huge shrimp and stuffed it in my mouth.

‘It’s not a “guy,” you fool,’ said Susannah.

‘Well, it is. That’s exactly what it is. I’ve surrendered. I’m like you. God help me.’

‘It’s not a guy,’ she interrupted. ‘It’s a manny. M for male nanny. Everyone knows that.’

Everyone but me. ‘Mannies? That’s what you call them? Are you kidding me?’

‘Forget the shrink. I’m telling you, get a manny! They give the sons male attention while the daddies are out sucking up to clients in Pittsburgh.’

‘So my city kid could go to the park and catch bugs and do all kinds of suburban boy stuff with his manny?’

‘Hell, yes! Jessica Baker’s manny takes her three sons to the ESPN Zone in Times Square every Tuesday. Do you want to go to the ESPN Zone in Times Square? No. Your housekeeper and nanny wouldn’t ever go there, or if they did, they’d sit in the corner and sulk. You know who else had mannies every summer?’

‘Who?’

‘The Kennedys. All those Kennedy cousins had mannies taking care of them up in Hyannis. Sailing mannies. Football mannies. Only they didn’t call them that. They called them governors.’ I laughed. Susannah continued, ‘Yes, dear, a manny is the answer to your prayers. Don’t fire the nanny or the housekeeper because I can assure you he won’t do windows or cook dinner. But, start hunting for one this afternoon. And your little pouty Dylan will be over the moon. Consider him the older cousin we all dreamed of, but with the patience only money can procure.’




CHAPTER FIVE Is There a Manny in the House? (#ulink_1d3198f5-a6f4-5219-b7f7-99b3b8012ce2)


The receptionist at work buzzed my phone. ‘Nathaniel Clarkson is here for you.’

I was hopeful. ‘Send him back, I’ll meet him halfway. Thanks, Deborah.’

I charged out my office door and almost knocked Charles over in the hallway. ‘Hey! It’s eleven in the morning. Nothing’s going on the air for hours, slow down, baby.’

‘Sorry. I have to meet someone. Don’t want him to get lost coming back here. I’ll call you.’

‘Who you meeting?’ he called after me.

‘Not meeting. Interviewing.’ Then I whispered with my hands cupping my mouth, ‘Mannies.’

‘Real professional thing to be doing in the office,’ he yelled over his shoulder as he walked back down the hall.

I didn’t care if it was professional or not. Who would notice exactly what I was doing anyway? They were all so crazed around the show. I had decided to do the manny interviews in the safety of the office because the first two guys I’d met at home had good résumés but looked a little off kilter; one had greasy hair with his warm-up suit hiked up too high on his crotch and the other never smiled once. Through a domestic help agency with a thorough vetting process over the past weeks, I’d already met about half a dozen young men who were interested in the afternoon job with Dylan: out-of-work actors or waiters, concert musicians looking for extra money, trainers hoping to get in a few extra hours. All wrong. They were either too talkative or too quiet, and all of them lacked the experience to handle a kid like Dylan. I was looking for someone who wouldn’t let Dylan manipulate them and wouldn’t let him fade into outer space.

Nathaniel seemed like a fine candidate on paper, his résumé impressive: he graduated from a reputable public school uptown with a 3.0 average. He hadn’t taken any college courses yet, but at twenty had spent most of his time coaching at a small charter school in Harlem. I’d called the principal, and he seemed to be well liked and a hard worker.

A black kid in an oversized hooded sweatshirt with a Tupac logo that covered his hands and hid part of his face waited for me in the reception area. Under the hood, he was wearing a do-rag, one of those stocking caps with a little knot on the top. ‘You must be …’

He stuck his hand out. ‘Nathaniel.’

‘Come on back,’ I said, trying to be as friendly as possible.

We walked into my office. He didn’t take his hood off and I could barely see his eyes.

I opened my manny folder and tried to keep an open mind: maybe this was the perfect antidote to Dylan’s malaise, maybe he needed a cool homeboy manny to contrast with his sheltered Grid life, maybe I needed a cool homeboy manny to help me chill out. His references told me this guy had hidden talents, a gift for bringing kids out. What the hell did I know about mannies? I had never hired one before. I looked over his résumé again.

‘So you coach a team in Harlem?’

He kept his head down. ‘Yeah.’

‘And is it just basketball or multiple sports?’

‘Both.’

‘Both? You mean basketball and a lot else?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Sorry, both what? Basketball and one other or lots of others?’

‘Just basketball, some baseball sometimes.’ He still didn’t look up.

Charles stopped in my doorway, checked out Nathaniel and looked at me like he thought I was insane. Then he walked in just to bug me and put the pressure on.

‘Oh, hi. Didn’t know you were doing some reporting here in the office.’ He sat down on my couch.

I sighed and gave him a look. ‘Charles, this is Nathaniel. Nathaniel, Charles is a colleague, he was just stopping by for a second.’ I turned to Charles. ‘But now, Charles, I’m going to ask you to leave because this is a confidential meeting.’ I gave him a fake, screw-you smile. He gave me one back and left.

Twenty minutes later after I had walked Nathaniel out of the office, Charles appeared again. When he didn’t have a story, he liked to come in my office and annoy me. I ignored him and kept typing, staring at the screen.

He sat down in front of me and put his elbows on my desk to get me to look at him. ‘You’re nuts, Jamie.’

‘What?’ I snapped.

‘Like Phillip’s really gonna go for you hiring a kid who looks like a badass dealer?’

‘Charles! You’re so racist. He’s a good kid, he works really hard, his mentor …’

‘Bullshit.’ He leaned back with his arms crossed behind his head. ‘You cannot hire a tough kid from the ‘hood for your manny job.’

‘How can you talk like that?’

‘Hey. He’s a brother. I’d like him to get the job. But I’m telling you, you’re out of your mind. This isn’t going to fly in your fancy-ass apartment with your uptight husband and the whole …’

‘It’d be good for Dylan. He was a good kid, smart, not that he actually said that much, but I could tell anyway he was. It’d bring Dylan down to earth,’ I answered, but not with great conviction.

‘You are the one stereotyping here, Jamie. Hiring a black kid who’s poor to help your kid be less spoiled? Like only a black kid knows or something?’

I buried my head in my hands. Maybe Charles was right – Nathaniel was monosyllabic and barely looked me in the eye. Clearly I was getting a little desperate. Most of the coaches I had contacted on my own and really wanted to hire had full-time jobs and were busy in the afternoons with their teams. Nathaniel was the one coach who was available.

I looked up at Charles. ‘But I need a man.’

‘You sure do.’ Charles was not a big Phillip fan.

‘Charles. I’m serious. I need an older, responsible male in the house in the afternoons, at least, taking Dylan to the park. Not a heavy-set Jamaican woman like Yvette who doesn’t know how to kick a soccer ball.’ I put my hands over my face. ‘The school called this morning. Again.’

‘Stomachache?’

‘Yeah. Came on five minutes before phys. ed. He goes to the school nurse, it’s not just basketball, it’s dodge ball, and now it’s soccer. At least after that basketball game, he was still doing gym.’

‘Make him go! I’m not a parent, but I watch you guys coddling your kids and, I’m telling you, it’s screwing them up. My momma was such an ass-kicker. And we weren’t poor; so don’t tell me it was some black thing to get out of the ghetto. She sure didn’t put up with any bullshit like this.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘So what’s the problem? Why is he still in the nurse’s office? Why is that allowed?’

‘Charles, it all looks simpler when you’re not a parent. You can’t force kids to …’

‘Hell, yes, you can!’

‘But he won’t leave the nurse’s office! The school shrink has to go in, with the gym teacher’s assistant, who can’t stay, because it’s the middle of class. But he won’t engage, just looks at them and says, “Hey, I said I’m not feeling well enough to play.” Then the teachers talk to him after school. They call me. Phillip and I go in to meet with them – of course Phillip, always wanting to present a united front to the school authorities, clears his schedule to come to these meetings, but can’t make it to a basketball game. What else do you want me to do?’

‘You need to be tougher. That’s exactly what’s fucked up. You should be tougher on him, then he’ll have no place to go and he will start coping.’

‘I am tough but you have to remember because he’s sometimes depressed, I just feel that he needs to be loved by me and feel safe with me to cry. He still does and if I play military commander role, he’s not going to come to me any more. Phillip doesn’t connect enough; tries to handle his little rough spots, but can’t seem to break through. And though he tells me not to worry, I know he’s secretly disappointed his son is so complicated.’

‘What happens with the basketball team?’

‘We make him go because I’m strict about it, like you say I’m supposed to be, but the coach says he won’t shoot, he’ll dribble and run around a bit. Kind of. Not really. But now it’s spread to just regular gym. Look. I know my kid. I know what he needs. I want to find a great guy every afternoon to kick his ass, just like your momma did, but in Central Park.’

Charles grabbed my wrist across the desk, converted. ‘You’re going to find the right guy. But it’s not any of the ones you just met. You know that.’

On an Indian summer day a week later and no further in my search, I walked across the park to my office after a business lunch on the East Side. I was in the middle of a call with Abby who was mortified by Goodman’s latest request.

‘I’m going to kill Goodman!’ she was screaming into my earpiece. ‘Literally I was daydreaming about it this morning on the subway.’

‘Oh, Abby. What now?’

‘You know Ariel LaBomba? The hot Latina weather girl from Good Morning New York?’

‘I guess. Maybe. Not sure.’

‘I promise you. She’s nothing great. But she does these adventure-travel-type pieces and Goodman wants to close the show with them, thinks she’s ready to jump from local to network.’

‘OK, so that’s not unusual. I’m sure she’s pretty.’

‘No. It gets worse. Listen to this: he’s meeting with her this afternoon and he wants to make sure I go down and wait for her outside the building.’

‘Not in the lobby? And his assistant can’t do this?’

‘Nope, he trusts me more. Then he wants me to take her down the block to the wrong entrance …’

I laughed. ‘I so know what’s coming next.’

‘Yes! Just so we can pass the bus stop ad with him anchoring on top of the World Trade Center rubble.’

‘Abby, wait …’

‘I hate that ad. He thinks it looks like Iwo Jima.’

Just then I happened upon a kind of Alice in Wonderland scene on the Great Lawn: about thirty kids were laying a huge chequerboard piece of fabric out on the grass. They were dressed in strange outfits too: A horse’s head, kings and queens, soldiers … was this some kind of performance piece? The director – a nice-looking guy in khakis, a Cassius Clay T-shirt and a baseball cap – was ushering each of them into position. Maybe he was running a rehearsal for an outdoor festival. This being New York, and the heart of Central Park where all the eccentrics come, I wasn’t surprised.

And then I realized: a human chess game. I couldn’t wait to get closer.

‘… Jamie, can you believe the Windex thing?’ Abby’s voice pierced through my headset.

‘What Windex thing?’

‘Are you listening? He gave an intern, of course that bitchy leggy one, five bucks and asked her to go get some Windex and clean the bus stop ad.’

I watched the kids.

‘Hello?’ Abby yelled. ‘Windexing a bus stop? Get angry with me! You’re so distracted!’

‘Honestly, Abby, I am. I’m going to have to call you back.’

I watched the director. ‘I guess you should first move the pawns out.’

Two kids at either end took two steps forward on the chequerboard.

‘No, no, no!’ he called through cupped hands. ‘You can’t have two kids go at once! Didn’t Charlie go over that?’

He could have been about twenty-six to thirty-two, tall and solid. He walked with his back very straight, a sense of confident poise about him. Longish brown curly hair pulled behind his ears framed his square, open face. His blue eyes were alert and warm. I wouldn’t have called him classically handsome, but he was definitely attractive.

‘Didn’t Charlie tell you any key strategies? Can’t believe he calls himself a teacher! First the pawns in front of the queen, not the ones at the ends.’ The kids, laughing and joking now, moved back into their lines and the soldiers in front of each queen took two steps forward.

Two giggly teenage girls standing nearby, but not on the chequerboard, sidestepped closer to him. I noticed one of them patting her chest and secretly batting her eyes at Directorman. One leaned over and whispered in the other’s ear, then pushed her towards him. This guy was radiating light and they wanted some of it.

‘What’s next, kids?’

A tiny boy with a huge papier mâché horse head covering his entire upper body raised his hand. ‘Me, me!’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

The other horse shot up his arm.

‘You! In the red hat. Alex, right?’

‘I know! Because you want your knights out early to control the centre and attack the other team.’

‘Yessssss!’ the director yelled. He reached into his pocket and threw a tiny chocolate bar at the kid. ‘And do you only want the knights out early?’

Four kids screamed, ‘No!’

‘Then who else?!’

‘Bishops!’ shrieked an eager kid. ‘Get the knights and bishops out of the way so you can castle early and protect the king!’ Mr Director took a handful of candy from a bag and threw it in the air at the boy. The kids piled on each other trying to grab the pieces from the ground.

‘OK,’ I thought. ‘This guy is obviously knowledgeable about the game. I’m not crazy about all the candy, but he’s tough without being a prick, just maybe …’ I stepped up beside him and waited for a momentary break, when I could get his attention. Finally, he stopped issuing orders to give the kids a moment to figure out the next move on their own.

‘May I ask you a question?’

‘Sure.’ He turned to me and smiled briefly, but his eyes instantly went back to the game.

‘What are you doing?’

‘It’s a chess game. A human chess game.’

‘I got that far …’

‘Excuse me. What ARE you thinking, dude?’

He trotted over to a kid and picked him up by his shoulders and placed him in an adjacent square. ‘No candy for you!’ He yanked the lolly out of the kid’s mouth and threw it high over his shoulder. The others all hooted and laughed.

‘Soooo …’ I began again when he returned ‘… are you part of a school?’

He ignored me. ‘Jason, is that your name, kid? What are you doing over there?’

‘I mean, are these kids …?’

‘You move the bishop like that and it’s game over, buddy. You’re crazy! Think again.’

OK. He was preoccupied. I waited two minutes then tried again. ‘So. Sorry to bother you, but I’m just so curious. Is this for a school?’

This time he looked directly at me. ‘You really interested?’

‘I am.’

‘It’s not a school. This is a group from a summer camp for kids with special needs or special situations.’

‘Serious situations?’

‘Some very awful situations. Yes.’

‘Why chess?’

‘Because it’s hard, I guess. Must make ’em feel smart. Do you know anything about chess and kids?’

‘I have a son who’s nine.’

‘Does he play?’

‘They do it at school, but he hasn’t gotten hooked.’

‘Well, maybe you should get him hooked.’ He smiled. Major-kilowatt smile.

Bingo.

‘Are you also a teacher?’ I was so excited. I knew this was my guy. ‘Are you working at a steady job in this field?’

‘I’m not a teacher at all.’

Shit. I thought he was a professional. Maybe he wasn’t my guy.

‘I’m taking a break while I figure out some plans.’

He waved to the kids. ‘OK. You in the white shirt.’ He pinged a bubble gum at the girl’s head. ‘You, with the goofy smile, you’re in charge of the whites and Walter is going to do the blacks. You can argue with their moves, but they get the final say!’ When he saw that I wasn’t leaving, he stopped and rested his arm on the park gate and looked me in the eye.

‘I’m just subbing for a pal. He’s my roommate who’s a teacher in the public school system and a counsellor in the summer. I’m not an expert with kids like him.’ He picked up a pile of cloth on the ground and smiled. ‘Excuse me, if you don’t mind …’ Still. He was really good with them.

One of the kids had stepped off the chessboard, and turned his back to the game. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears. Mr Director tried to drape the cloth on the kid’s shoulders, but he shrugged it away. He stuffed some candy down the back of his shirt, but the kid didn’t laugh. He threw the cloth on the ground and got down to business with the distressed kid, dragging him a few feet away to talk to him privately.

I couldn’t help but notice how his worn-out khakis traced the lines of his impossibly hard ass. I put down my tote bag full of newspapers and waited.

Mr Director flicked the kid’s baseball cap up. ‘Darren, c’mon.’ He held the kid’s shoulders and tried to manoeuvre him back into the group. Darren just slowly shook his head and then pushed the brim of his hat further down. Mr Director smacked the cap off the kid’s head. Darren didn’t think it was funny. He put it back on and pulled it down real hard. Something was wrong.

The Mr Director bent his knees and looked up under the kid’s hat, and then sucked hard on a lollipop as if it helped him focus.

‘Talk to me, man.’

Darren shook his head.

‘Russell! Take over.’ Russell, an older kid on the sidelines, waved back.

Mr Director put one arm around Darren’s shoulder and another on his arm and led him over to a park bench about thirty feet away. Darren, who seemed about eleven years old, wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. I was riveted. A few minutes passed and he seemed to be breaking through, gesticulating wildly. The kid started to laugh and this cute guy knocked his baseball cap off again – this time they both laughed – and Darren raced back and took his place again on the board.

All right, I thought. He doesn’t look like a psychopath. He doesn’t smell like a psychopath. Obviously, the kids like him. Let’s try this again.

‘Sorry …’

His expression was direct and polite. I was sure he wasn’t a native New Yorker.

‘You again?’ He smiled at me.

‘Yes, me again. I have a question.’

‘Want to get into the game?’ He cocked an eyebrow.

‘No … I mean, yes. My kid might.’

‘I’m afraid the group is pretty tight-knit. They’ve been together the whole summer …’

‘No, no, not that. I just was wondering,’ I asked, ‘do you have a full-time job?’

‘Yeah, I’m CFO of Citigroup. This is the investment banking division.’

I laughed out loud. ‘Seriously. Is this your job?’

‘No, it’s not.’

‘Do you have a job?’

‘Does it look like I have a job?’

‘Do you want a job?’

‘Are you hiring?’

‘Well, maybe. Do you know what a manny is?’

‘A what?’

‘Oh, God. I apologize. Let me start over. My name is Jamie Whitfield.’ I pulled out my business card and handed it to him. ‘I work at NBS News. I have three children. And I live nearby. Do you work with kids often in any capacity?’

He kept one eye on the group of kids. ‘Not really.’

‘You don’t work with kids? Like ever?’

‘I mean, I can fill in. They’re in no danger here, maybe have a little sugar high, that’s all.’

He just seemed like a guy who wouldn’t take any nonsense from Dylan and might turn things around. Maybe he had some free hours. Obviously if a real teacher asked him to control a group like this …

‘And what’s your name, and, if you don’t mind me asking, I have another question …?’

‘It’s Peter Bailey.’

I didn’t know how to begin, so I just blurted out: ‘I’m looking to fill a really good job that is high-paying. Afternoons and evenings.’

‘OK, so maybe I’m interested in a really good job that’s high-paying. What kind of job?’

I took a breath. ‘It’s complicated.’ I needed a few seconds to come up with my marketing strategy.

‘OK.’

‘I have a son. He’s nine. He’s, well, he’s kind of down. A bit depressed even.’

‘Clinically depressed?’ Now I had his full attention.

‘Well, no, there’s no formal diagnosis, he just had some panic attacks. Can’t perform at sports any more really because of them.’

‘And how do you see me fitting into this?’

‘Well, I don’t know, maybe the chess …’

‘I know how to play chess. But I’m not a chess tutor. Though the high-paying part might make me a good chess tutor.’ He grinned.

‘Well, not just a chess tutor exactly, but yes, why not, some of that.’

‘I see.’

My cell phone buzzed inside my purse. I reached to turn off the ring tone and saw Goodman was calling. Maybe he wanted more Windex.

‘Look, you need to get back to them and I have somewhere I’m supposed to be. You have my card. If you wouldn’t mind, please call me in the morning and I’ll tell you more.’

‘Sure. I’ll call you. Nice to meet you.’

I stopped for a moment and then walked back to him. ‘Can I just ask you one thing?’

He nodded.

‘How did one person get thirty-two kids with huge papier mâché contraptions on their heads into the middle of Central Park?’

‘Hey. I didn’t do anything. I had help: them.’ Then he turned back to the kids.

And as I wandered back to the West Side, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face.




CHAPTER SIX Time to Talk Turkey (#ulink_1e3c9b03-d631-5214-af7e-1fe43bee4fff)


‘So!’ I had no idea what to say.

Peter Bailey looked at me expectantly. He sat in a chair across from my desk at work wearing khakis and a white button-down shirt. I found his stillness strangely intimidating. I couldn’t figure out why I felt so ill at ease if I was hiring him.

‘So, thank you for calling me back,’ I said.

‘Thank you for asking.’

‘So!’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you get here OK?’

‘This building is on one of the biggest intersections in Manhattan. Avenue of the Americas and 57th Street is pretty easy to find, you know.’

‘It is. Yes. I …’

‘Cool seeing a newsroom behind the scenes.’

He took in the hundreds of tapes lining my office shelves, each categorized by topic and show with huge letters on the spines. Two colourful posters advertising a past broadcast inside the CIA and a ‘groundbreaking’ West Bank town meeting filled the walls on either side of my desk.

‘Yeah, it’s kind of messy behind the anchor desk.’

‘Not in here.’ Next to me were four newspapers neatly piled in a descending row and my office supplies in their black wire baskets on my credenza: Sharpies and Post-its in every colour, little boxes with drawers for different sizes of metallic binder clips, legal pads and reporter’s notebooks in perfect bunches.

‘You’ve worked for Joe Goodman for a long time?’ he asked.

‘Ten years. Since I started out here. I was twenty-six.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Great mind, lyrical writer. But, well, he’s demanding, let’s just say that.’ I didn’t want to tell a manny candidate that Goodman was cranky, crusty and usually ungrateful.

‘Yeah, seems like he’s pretty full of himself.’ Peter pointed to the enormous portraits of Goodman lining the hallways outside my office: one of Anchor Monster in front of an armoured personnel carrier dressed in a Kevlar vest and a blue UN helmet, another next to Boris Yeltsin on a tank and another with cameras and lights visible as he interviewed Lauren Bacall who threw her head back laughing as if he’d asked her the most brilliant question in the world.

‘You watch the show?’

‘Not really.’

Most people would at least pretend.

‘You’re at your computer a lot, I guess. I read on your résumé that you’re developing this online software? So doesn’t that take up a lot of time?’

‘The hours are flexible. The software program – I’m calling it Homework Helper by the way – will, I hope, change the way students in public schools communicate with their teachers. It’ll help them collaborate on assignments. Some people tell me it may be quite lucrative once the schools catch on.’

I liked this guy. I had no idea if this software thing was some lofty plan or if it had legs, but he seemed focused and assured underneath his scrappy exterior.

‘Well, that certainly sounds like it will be a full-time job. And if that happens, I worry you’ll …’

‘The software program isn’t a job. It’s an idea. And I believe it’s going to be big at some point, but, truth is, I’m not there yet.’

My phone rang. ‘So sorry. Give me a second … Jamie Whitfield.’

I should never have picked up the receiver.

‘Oh thank God you’re there.’

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me, Christina.’ Christina Patten. One of the great airheads of our time and the class mom at Gracie’s nursery school class. ‘Christina, I’m in the mid—’

‘Sorry, Jamie, I just have one really really important question. I mean, on the scale of things, I guess it’s not crucial, but it’s just one of those things you have to get right.’

Balancing the receiver between my ear and shoulder, I reached awkwardly into the fridge behind my desk and pulled out two small Evian bottles and handed one to Peter. I’d missed what Christina was saying, but I figured the world would still turn.

‘… I mean, you’re a professional producer, right? So you should know. I’m sure you’re soooo great at organizing. That’s why I’m calling you on this.’

‘Christina, I really hate to rush you, but it’s just not the most convenient …’

‘Here’s the thing. Do you think I should bring the medium-sized dessert paper plates for Grandparents’ Day, or do you think I should bring the larger lunch-size plates?’

Surely she had to be kidding.

‘I mean, do you think the grandparents will be putting fruit salad and mini muffins on their plates? Or do you think it will be fruit salad and mini muffins and a half-bagel? Because if you really think it’s a half-bagel too, then I want to get the big ones. But if not, I don’t want the plate to look empty even though they have kind of filled it with a mini muffin and some fruit.’

‘Christina. It’s not the Normandy invasion. I know you’re really trying to pick the best thing, but just trust your instincts and …’

‘A big plate with just a mini muffin and fruit salad? It wouldn’t work, and I think it would look really sad. That’s what my instincts are telling me.’

‘I agree. That would be sad, Christina. I think they’ll eat a bagel and mini muffin too. Go for the big plates. That’s my expert advice.’

‘Are you sure? Because …’

‘Positive. And I really really have to go now!’

Click.

I looked at Peter. ‘I’m sorry, just domestic nonsense.’ Not the smartest thing I could say at an interview with an overqualified guy to fix the problems in my domestic life.

The digital clock on my desk blinked to the next minute. He was so still in his chair.

He leaned in closer. The leather on the chair squeaked. ‘And what, exactly, do you have in mind?’

I’d been vague on purpose. I’d learned from Goodman that it’s best to use the phone to lure someone into a face-to-face meeting first. Then you hit him or her with what you really want in person. I didn’t want to lose this guy because I’d given him some half-baked manny overview on the phone.

OK, Jamie. Get yourself together. I took a deep breath. ‘Well, it’s like this. I have a kid, actually three kids, like I told you. Dylan is nine, Gracie is five and the baby, Michael, is two. And, well, Dylan’s the one I mentioned to you already.’

‘I remember.’

‘He’s a little out of sorts these days. His father is gone all the time, and though I work three days here, sometimes I have special projects that bleed into the rest of the week. And sometimes I have to travel. And my son needs a male figure to kind of peel him off the floor. That’s the one thing I’m sure of. Little boys worship older guys who pay attention to them.’

‘I know.’

‘And so, he knows a little chess, he loves to read and draw, but the sports thing is not working and …’

‘So you want me to work on the chess with him? You gave me an awfully high figure on the phone. That’s a lot of money for just chess.’

‘It’s really like, come in the afternoon, mostly at pick-up time, which is 3 p.m.

And work with him.’

‘Work with him how?’

‘Well. He’s nine. Not, like, work.’

‘OK, then you mean homework.’

‘Yes. Definitely. But also much more than that. I mean, he needs someone to play with him.’ In my head I was thinking, just make him better, please just get him liking himself again. Suddenly I felt my eyes begin to sting and quickly picked up his résumé to hide my face.

‘I mean, you have a master’s in computer science, and you’ve taught skiing. You worked in this textbook company. That’s a family business?’

At this point in the interview, I learned the following: he was twenty-nine years old, turning thirty in December. He grew up in the suburbs of Denver, studied four years at Boulder before joining the workforce, mostly for his dad in his educational printing operation. He’d gotten his master’s degree in computer science at nights.

When I asked for more details about his Homework Helper idea, I began to see how creative the idea really was. He was so impassioned by it that I honestly got lost halfway through, but I didn’t let on. He’d moved to New York because he’d made headway testing Homework Helper in the New York City public school system. And, like many Internet start-ups discover after the initial excitement, there were some major kinks in the program. He had a few more tenuous months in the red ahead of him. Plus he had graduate school loans to pay off.

I had started to understand why this guy didn’t have a more traditional career in place – he was entrepreneurial, a bit of a risk-taker. What did the long wavy hair signify? Was this a mountain dude ski bum who’d enjoyed the slopes a bit too much after college or was he just someone who didn’t ruthlessly climb career ladders? I couldn’t peg him, though I hung on his every word. As he spoke, I studied his prominent cheekbones and large blue eyes. He looked like someone who would take command of any situation, though there wasn’t a bureaucratic bone in his body. I felt he was responsible and trustworthy right away, if a little bit of a screw-up on the career front.

Then I told him everything I could think of about Dylan, about the basketball meltdown, about how he’d pulled back from some of his friendships at school, and my fear that things would get worse.

‘And what about his father, if you don’t mind me asking? Are they close?’

‘Sure they are.’

‘Does his father play chess with him? What do they do together?’

Phillip hadn’t sat down on the floor with Dylan since he was three years old. ‘Well, on weekends, we all have lunch together, or my husband might take him to a movie. Phillip very much wants him to become a life-long reader, so they lie on the couch and read about airplane engineering or something. You know, Phillip’s a lawyer, he’s gone most of the week. He sees the kids for breakfast and just before bedtime, maybe once or twice a week.’

‘Do they go to the park on weekends or anything?’

Phillip hated playgrounds. And he wasn’t one to stroll around the park and enjoy the nature. ‘Uh, sure, they’ve been to the park together. I mean, it’s not like a regular thing they do.’

‘So you live, like, a block from the park and you have a nine-year-old boy and it isn’t a regular thing?’ He smiled. ‘I mean, I’m not criticizing here, I’m just not getting …’

‘No, Dylan goes to the park with his friends all the time – or, well, he used to.’

‘OK, but not with …’

‘No. Not with his father. Like ever.’ I wondered if he’d ever come into contact with a Grid lawyer before. I tried to imagine the loop going on in his head at that moment – something about spoiled kids and how much parents like me and Phillip were messing them up.

I needed a break. ‘And where are you living, Peter, if that isn’t too personal?’

‘I share a loft with two guys in Brooklyn, Red Hook actually. You know it?’

‘I, I know Brooklyn, yes.’

He grinned. ‘I can’t really see you in Red Hook.’

I had to grin back. His irreverence charmed me. For the first time during the interview I felt myself relax. ‘Well, actually, I have a lot of friends who live in Brooklyn.’

He didn’t look convinced. The burgeoning working-class Red Hook and the toney, yuppie Brooklyn Heights – where I really do know some people (vaguely) – are continents apart.

‘So what do your roommates do?’

‘One wrote a novel that got great reviews, but he had to bartend because even good books don’t make any money. So he got a job working for a hot literary agent at InkWell Management. The other is the teacher in the public school system. The one I was subbing for. He’s consulting on my program.’

‘So each of them have pretty set career paths.’

‘I guess so. But you’re offering more than they make.’

‘So is the salary more important than a set career path?’

‘I’m on a set career path. Listen, are you trying to convince me not to take this job?’

I put my tough reporter hat on. ‘OK, let’s talk turkey.’ I took a sip of water. ‘You’re living in this year’s hip new Brooklyn neighbourhood, even I know that. You’re personable, smart and well educated, and of course I’m not trying to scare you off. But I need to know how you feel about working in someone’s home when your friends are becoming teachers and agents? Would that be …’

‘Be what?’

‘You’re almost thirty. Do you mind taking a job like this?’ I crossed my fingers under the desk. ‘In a household with kids?’ I hated saying that out loud, reminding him he was a guy with a graduate degree on an interview to become a Park Avenue nanny. But I also didn’t want him ditching us after a week when he realized what he’d agreed to. ‘I mean, not that it isn’t, you know, substantive; some consider it a calling to work with kids … have you ever even heard of the term “manny”?’

‘No. But now that you say it, I get it right away.’ He laughed. ‘Now I’m remembering. Britney Spears has one.’

‘Well. I mean, for her, that’s a bodyguard guy. I think the word “manny” sounds kind of …’

‘What?’ I was thinking demeaning, but I didn’t say it.

He leaned in closer. The leather on the chair squeaked. ‘I think the word “manny” is hilarious.’

‘So you don’t mind it?’

‘First of all, I’m never going to be a suit.’

‘But you have worked in offices.’

‘Not happily.’

‘Like at the Denver Educational Alliance? You didn’t list a reference from there.’

‘I’d been there for fourteen months doing a study. You’re not going to get a reference.’

‘You mind telling me why?’

‘Happy to. They do great work, but the founder’s a passive aggressive guy who likes to make his colleagues miserable, and, frankly, I told him so.’

‘You told him he was passive aggressive?’ What will he think of me? A lame Park Avenue mother trying to have it all.

‘Not in those words. Well, maybe I used that term, but I was very clear and respectful when I said it. Listen, someone had to say it. My boss was a complete jerk. And one day we were in a meeting, and, as usual he was completely undermining a colleague, a woman whose work was top-notch and I just couldn’t take it. Anyway, I said all the things I knew everyone else was thinking.’

‘That’s, I guess, impressive.’

‘You know what? I didn’t tell you that to impress you. Just to show you I don’t like the BS that goes with the structure of an office. This is why I like kids. Because kids tell you what they mean. First time out. And if you just listen, they have an innate sense of fairness that I totally respond to.’

‘I get that.’

‘I also like working independently. Honestly, your job sounds good. I can’t do a full-time gig right now, and the job would let me work on the computer project whenever I’m not needed during the day, with Dylan in school. I assume I would go home after he’s asleep, right?’

‘Yes. Carolina lives in, so she’s fine to cover if we’re out or something.’

‘And the other kids?’

‘Sometimes I might need you to pitch in. It’s hard in a family with three kids just to focus on one child at a time.’

‘Makes sense, but I’m not totally experienced with little kids.’

‘The regular nanny will be there all the time. I’m going to need you in the mornings sometimes too, just for drop-off mostly if I am travelling or whatever.’

‘If I’m available, sure. Depends on how the software’s going. How often do you think that might be?’

‘Like a few times a week.’

‘That’s fine. If I can.’ I was getting the impression this guy wasn’t meant for the service industry.

‘And you’re sure this position is something for you …?’

‘Scout’s honour.’ He put two fingers in the air. ‘Listen, if all goes according to plan, my project should hit in about eighteen to twenty-four months. And when that bang happens, Dylan’s going to be off and running like new.’

I laughed. ‘Sounds like a plan. So you like New York?’

‘I do. But also, my backers are here. All the technology funds are here …’ He looked down. ‘And … and there’s a little situation at home I don’t need to be around.’

‘A situation? Something I should know about?’

‘Nah. No big deal.’ He looked up with a slightly crooked smile. ‘Sorry. It’s personal.’

Charles had done a thorough background check including his criminal record and there was nothing. Besides, I didn’t want to pry. At least, not then.

‘But I do have one problem,’ Peter said.

‘This is an interview. You’re not allowed to have a problem yet.’

He smiled. ‘You told me Dylan’s dad is gone all the time. You can buy someone’s time and attention, but it is not the same as a dad. And for what the job pays, I don’t want to disappoint you – or him – from day one. Dylan’ll figure out right away I’m pinch-hitting for his father. How do you think he’ll feel about that?’

I knew Dylan would do just that. But I also felt that Dylan would have such fun with this cool guy that he wouldn’t focus on it.

The door banged open. A bright canary-yellow flash whooshed through. Abby, breathless, clad in a brand-new suit looking like a car rental agent.

‘You’re never going to believe this. There’s another fucking Theresa Boudreaux tape!’

Wow. Maybe I had a shot at career redemption. ‘I knew this wasn’t over. I just knew it! Are you sure? How do you know?’

‘Charles.’

Charles appeared and leaned against the doorway. He eyed Peter, then me, reticent to talk business in front of yet another manny candidate.

Peter already had his hands on the armrests, ready to stand.

‘Peter, sorry. I’ve got a little situation here. There’s a chair right outside my office.’

He gave a little wave to Abby and Charles, then closed the door behind him.

Charles piped in, ‘That guy is a major piece of ass.’

‘Please. This is a professional environment.’

‘And it’s really professional to interview your mannies here.’

I ignored that. ‘So what do you hear?’

‘I hear these tapes blow the other ones out of the water.’ Charles clasped his hands together. ‘Plus whatever tapes she gave the Seebright people were crap anyway. You couldn’t really hear a thing and I hear these new tapes are the real deal.’

‘Doesn’t make sense. If you’re going to talk, just talk.’

‘Maybe she liked the publicity but held back. Maybe she had some kind of scruples that are now gone.’

‘Oh, c’mon. Scruples nothing.’

‘The point is that the story is snowballing. Maybe she wants to ride a bigger wave? Get a book deal, sell her life story to the movies!’

Charles sat on the edge of my couch. ‘You’re gonna come out on top of this one and blow by ABS’s doors. It’s your time to shine, baby!’

Erik and Goodman had barely spoken to me since Theresa went to the rival network, even if she hadn’t broken any new news.

‘Our affiliate in Jackson, Mississippi, is trying to get the new tapes; the local newspaper reporters are all over it,’ Charles continued. ‘No one’s got anything yet. The station manager called Goodman to see if he could use his big network muscle with Theresa Boudreaux. I guess they knew we were close to getting the interview, even though we didn’t. Or I guess you didn’t.’

‘Thanks for reminding me. What do you think is on these tapes? What could be on that woman’s mind …?’

Abby screamed at me, ‘Would you please just call Leon Rosenberg and stop asking dumb questions we don’t know the answer to?’

I dialled, remembering I had hung up on him during our last conversation. His impossible secretary answered once again.

‘It’s Jamie Whitfield from the NBS Evening News. I need to talk to Leon.’

‘Hello, Ms Whitfield. I will have to …’

‘Please don’t tell me you’re going to “see” if he’s in, Sunny. I know he’s in. That’s why I’m calling him. There’s a breaking story with Ms Boudreaux.’

‘We are aware there is a breaking story, but unfortunately about twenty reporters have called before you this morning. So I think it’s only fair …’

I tried to be polite while saying, ‘Would you please tell Leon Rosenberg I will personally throttle him if he doesn’t pick up this phone?’

‘No need to get overexcited once again, Ms Whitfield. I will put your name on his call sheet in the order …’

‘That’s just not going to do.’ I stood up and talked into the phone as coldly as I could. ‘Our anchorman Joe Goodman and a team of NBS lawyers are standing right in front of me and will destroy your entire law firm with a story we have on the shelf about your unethical practices. I will personally see to it that we mention you by name, Sunny Wilson.’

No response. Five seconds later: ‘Hello, Jamie.’ Rosenberg picked up. ‘No need to traumatize my secretary every time you call. She is doing exactly what I told her to do. You really doing a story on us?’

‘No.’ I had to laugh. ‘Of course not.’

‘Jesus, you scared even me this time.’

‘Sorry, Leon. And I really want to apologize for hanging up on you the last time we talked. That was very rude and uncalled for. How can I make it up to you? You know, everyone at NBS thinks you do a phenomenal job. And we know how hard you work to protect your clients.’

‘Cut the shit, Jamie. I know I owe you one. I always play fair, especially with the pretty ones like you.’

What a pig.

‘Of course it doesn’t hurt you’re Joe Goodman’s producer.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘OK. What have you got for me?’

No answer. Was he playing games? Did he have anything? Were there really more tapes?

‘And don’t forget the handsome shot I put of you in that Brioni suit walking your client out of her waffle house. The other networks just had the shot of her alone. But not NBS. NBS not only had twelve seconds of you in that suit but also mentioned you by name.’ I mimicked Goodman’s deep voice. ‘“Boudreaux shown here with her high-powered attorney Leon Rosenberg leaving her café in Pearl, Mississippi.” Goodman didn’t think we needed that in. I thought you might be pleased to see it. Of course I did think that would seal the deal for the interview with her.’

‘I get it. I already got it. I owe you.’

‘That’s convenient. I feel the same way.’

‘Why don’t you just get on your knees and start puckering up.’

I made a loud kissing noise. Charles put his finger down his throat in solidarity. Pause. No answer. ‘I’m still waiting, Leon.’

‘Are we alone on this line?’

‘I promise. Let me just put you on hold one sec.’

I looked at Abby and Charles and scrunched my eyes closed and crossed my fingers on both hands and then my legs. Charles turned around and picked up the extra receiver and pushed mute while keeping the phone on hold. Abby was so jittery she could have stuck to the ceiling like Spider-Man.

I motioned 3-2-1 with Charles so that he could surreptitiously hear the conversation. It wasn’t the first time I needed him to listen on a call – we’d done this a hundred times. Leon finally spoke in a low voice. ‘There are more tapes.’

‘More tapes? Between Theresa Boudreaux and Huey Hartley?’

‘Hmm-mmm.’

I gave the thumbs-up sign to Abby. Charles’s eyebrows danced up and down like Groucho Marx’s.

Leon continued. ‘And no one’s heard them but me.’

Abby passed me one of her index cards. ASK HIM TO CONFIRM HOW GOOD THEY ARE.

‘How good?’

‘Makes the ones that aired on Seebright’s show sound like the Teletubbies having a tea party.’

Another card. ASK HIM EXACTLY WHAT IS ON THE TAPES.

‘I need details, Leon. This is a serious news organization. I can’t go to Goodman with innuendo.’

‘OK. But you’re not a serious news organization if you care so much about Theresa Boudreaux. Get over yourself, cutie-pie.’

‘I’m waiting, Leon.’

Still nothing.

‘Leon?’

He answered, ‘How about the fact that Congressman Hartley likes to go in the back door?’

‘The back door of the waffle house?’ I asked. Charles shook his head and put one hand over his forehead and then lay down on the sofa.

Abby kept mouthing, ‘What? What?’

‘Maybe I didn’t give you the original tapes because you are so very dumb, like all those pretty girls. Maybe you should do the weather instead of producing? Ever think of that?’

‘The back door of her house?’ I didn’t get what he was referring to. Charles sat up and started waving his arms in the air, shaking his head wildly NO!

Leon answered slowly. ‘No. Doggie style. From behind. Literally behind, if you get my meaning here.’

‘Doggie style,’ I repeated, in a surprisingly businesslike manner. I had to pace around in little circles to help myself take this in.

Abby bulged her eyes open, the tension and electricity visible in the clenched veins in her neck.

‘Leon, give me a few seconds.’ I looked at Charles. He nodded his head and motioned for me to remain calm. On one of my trips to visit with Theresa, I had gone to a prayer breakfast attended by Huey Hartley. I remembered how he always spoke like a preacher delivering an outdoor sermon in a thunderstorm. Fornicators will no longer be put on a pedestal by the elites of this country. God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve! While the liberal media focuses on securing the rights of homosexuals to marry, while they make their assault on families, unborn children, the Ten Commandments and even Christmas nativity scenes, I, and you, the good people of Mississippi, are going to change the conversation of this great nation of ours!

I recovered my equilibrium. ‘Mr Married former minister. Former owner of the PBTG Christian television network. Current red state US House of Representatives Congressman Huey Hartley with four children says on a tape to his waitress girlfriend that he prefers the doggie-style position?’

I looked up at Abby, who was no longer in her chair. I assumed she was now prostrate on the floor. I leaned over the front of my desk. I had assumed correctly.

‘Jamie. Not just doggie style. Hold on to your hat while I illustrate what we have here a bit more graphically for the mentally impaired folks like yourself. The poor son-of-a-bitch literally says on tape that he likes it up the behind. Preferably up Theresa’s sweet Southern little behind. He talks about the next time she’ll take it up the behind. He talks about how much he loved it the last time she took it up the behind.’

‘Leon, you can’t be serious.’

‘Yep.’

‘You’re screwing with me, right? Literally he says, “up her behind”?’

Abby moaned orgasmically from the floor.

‘Yep.’

I scratched my head. ‘Hartley is the leader of the movement to get the anti-sodomy laws on the ballot for the 2008 presidential …’

‘You got that right.’

‘And he’s a sodomizer?’

Leon chuckled. ‘Yep. I’m with you.’

‘And he’s such a family man, always with his blonde wife in the fifties bouffant and his four kids …’

‘Yep.’

‘What a sanctimonious blow-hard. Remember when he was on that show on his network, with all the proselytizing about family this and that?’

‘Yep.’

‘Some family man.’

‘Yep.’

‘And Boudreaux is ready to discuss all this? I mean the nasty sex?’

‘Yep.’

I shook my head. ‘OK, Leon.’ I had to laugh. ‘I take your point about my serious news network. I tried, but I can’t keep a straight face and tell you you’re mistaken.’

Leon laughed. ‘And it goes on and on and on. It’s the real thing. She’s ready to sing on the record. About this. In detail. And it’s all Goodman’s.’

I put the receiver down, fell to my knees and closed my eyes in silent prayer because I, Jamie Whitfield, had just landed a story that was going to bring in serious super-bowl ratings. And maybe it was going to be the most salacious crap ever broadcast on a mainstream network, but, boy, was it beautiful.

About five minutes after Charles and Abby left, there was a knock on my door.

Peter.

He put his head in. ‘Are you, uh, done with whatever you needed to do?’

‘I am so sorry!’ I ran around my desk and shepherded him back into my office. ‘I am so appalled by my bad manners. I just got totally preoccupied with the most unbelievable story.’

He seemed to get I was kind of out of my mind at that moment. ‘Sounds like a good one, whatever it is.’

‘I don’t know if good is exactly the right word. More like I said: literally unbelievable. If you heard it, you’d maybe excuse my rudeness.’

‘OK. So I’m very interested in this job.’

Omigod. ‘You are?’




CHAPTER SEVEN The Manny Makes his Debut (#ulink_af3f3c04-588f-5396-8295-1a8840a34d65)


I sat on the edge of Dylan’s bed, brushing the hair off his forehead. ‘I have some good news for you.’ He looked up at me.

‘What is it?’

‘Guess.’

‘You won the lotto?’

‘No.’

‘You’re going to quit your job?’

‘Dylan!’

‘Well?’

‘Dylan. I’m with you a lot.’

‘Are not.’

‘Sweetheart, you know I need to work, but it’s just a few days a week. We have dinner together all the …’

‘No, we don’t. You’re always working.’

‘Well, I am working a lot right now.’

‘So fine. Just admit it.’

‘OK. I admit I am working a lot on my piece. And I told you it was the biggest piece I’d ever done. And I want to do it well. And I want to be proud of my work.’

He rolled his eyes and turned away from me towards the wall.

‘Dylan. I love you and being your mom is the most important thing in my life.’

He pulled the covers over his head.

‘You know what? I’m not going to get into a debate about this. I know how difficult it is to have a mommy that works hard. I know you would prefer that I were here more. But I promise it will get better in just a few weeks’ time. But I have news. Something that’s going to make you happy.’ Intrigued, he now lay on his back, edging closer to me.

I turned out the light and lay down next to him with my elbow propping up my head. I caressed his forehead with my fingers, our bedtime ritual, and pulled his hair back.

‘A cell phone? My own cell phone? You said I had to wait till I was …’

‘It’s nothing like that. It’s not a thing. It’s a person.’ I massaged his eyebrows, outlining them down with my thumb and index finger. He closed his eyes, all dreamy, letting his anger go.

‘Tell me,’ he whispered.

‘You’re going to make a new friend, someone who is going to be so much fun for you.’

He sat up, appalled. ‘Oh maaaan! You said I didn’t have to see Dr Bernstein any more! I don’t want to see another feelings doctor. It’s so stupid.’

‘It’s nothing like that, Dylan.’

‘Someone at school?’

‘Nope, not …’

‘At sports? At the …’

‘Dylan, lie down.’ I pushed his shoulders down to get him to lie on his back once again. ‘You’re never going to guess, so just let me explain.’

‘OK.’

‘His name is Peter Bailey. You’re going to have your own friend in the house all the time. I mean, from after school on till bedtime. He’ll be here after school tomorrow.’

‘Like my own boy babysitter?’

‘Better than that. He’s about twenty-nine. He’s from Colorado. He’s an awesome skier, or snowboarder, I guess. He loves chess, works on chess computer games or other games making homework fun for middle school kids. And he’s super cool. I mean, really cool. He has long hair.’

My son had shifted into neutral. I thought he’d be ecstatic about the kinds of things he and Peter could do together – and relieved this wasn’t another Dr Bernstein. Of course, in retrospect, that was just my own hyped-up fairy-tale version of how Peter would glide into our lives.

I added, admittedly with forced enthusiasm, ‘What matters is he’s fun! He’s going to pick you up, take you to sports, anywhere you want! Even the batting cages at Chelsea Piers.’ Still nothing.

‘Honey. You’re not excited about batting cages? How come?’

He kept his eyes closed and shrugged his shoulders. This was heartbreaking. I thought this would bring joy to my little Eeyore; instead, it just made him sad. I had waited for this moment to tell him because I wanted him to go to sleep happy. His lip quivered.

I tried one more time. ‘You only get to go to the cages for birthday parties. I’m telling you this guy is going to take you there just on a regular weekday!’

He sat up. Then he turned on the light and looked at me with those squinty eyes. ‘Is this all because Dad’s never home?’

Kids are always smarter than you think.

‘Whoa.’ Peter Bailey handed me his coat the next afternoon and I searched for a hanger. ‘This closet is bigger than my bedroom.’ He peeked around the corner to the living room.

‘It still seems big to me, too. We just moved in a few months ago. But you’ll see, we run a very relaxed household.’

I had told him to dress casually, so he showed up for duty wearing two-toned Patagonia snowboard pants with pockets and zippers up the flaps on the sides. A worn-out flannel shirt covered up a T-shirt with a Burton logo on his chest. He had brown suede Pumas on his feet.

He took off his baseball cap and I gasped.

‘Oh, this.’ He pointed to a scab the size of a tangerine on his forehead. ‘That’s why I wore the cap. I slipped off the skateboard last week. Stupid. And I know it’s ugly. Sorry.’

I shook my head. ‘No worry. Dylan will think it’s cool.’

Peter was a bigger guy than I remembered. Two minutes in, it was already strange having a full-grown man with a deep voice in my house in the middle of the day. And I hired him to be my nanny help? And with a graduate degree? He was so much taller than me. How could I boss him around? Stand on my tippy toes and order him to clean up those toys right now!? I felt panicky.

‘Peter, I’m just really excited about you being here.’

‘You don’t look it.’

‘Really. It’s going to be great. Just great!’

The early-afternoon light streamed through the yellow silk curtains in the living room and reflected off the piles of books on the coffee table and the two large Tupperware boxes on top of them. I motioned for Peter to sit in the small antique armchair while I sat next to him on the sofa.

‘So! Can I get you a drink?’

Would he ask for a guy drink, like a Corona?

‘Sure.’

I jumped up like a jack rabbit.

‘Ginger ale. If you don’t have that, Coke is fine.’

I got some ice out of the ice machine and started to put it in a crystal highball glass. Wait a minute, was I sending off the wrong signals? He wasn’t a guest; he was an employee.

Meanwhile, Peter was considering the Tupperware boxes. One had a sticker labelled CHILDREN’S MEDICINE, and the other HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY MEDICINE. Next to the table was a cardboard box labelled: HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY SUPPLIES – boxes I had put together that ghastly fall of 9/11. There was also a folder with two stapled copies of important phone numbers and addresses plus the daily schedules, all colour-coded by child and by academic, sports or cultural activity. My mother was a librarian at the local Cretin High School, so I grew up in a household where the Dewey Decimal system was used to organize the garage. It was all her fault I was a little compulsive at times.

I could hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece while Peter sat, an attentive, polite look on his face. ‘Why don’t I explain to you how things work here …’

‘What things?’

‘Well, you know, the house, for instance. How it, it runs.’

‘You mean, like a little company?’

‘No. These are just schedules.’

‘Is there an employee handbook?’

‘Very funny. No, but we do have employees. Yvette the nanny and Carolina the housekeeper. They’re both wonderful women but it’s going to take a few days for them to get used to you.’

‘No, it’s not. Where are they?’ He stood up.

‘Wait! Let’s just, go over a few items … I mean, if that’s OK. I mean, are you OK? Are you OK being here?’

‘Yes. It’s been, like, seven minutes. Doing just fine so far.’ He smiled. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

Was I that transparent? I shuffled my papers nervously, still feeling like I didn’t know how to talk to this grown man without talking down to him. I didn’t want to sound patronizing. And then I thought how sexist it was that I could more easily boss around the women in my house (or try to), but not a man.

‘Dylan goes to St Henry’s School on 88th and Park. On Mondays, he has sports on Randall’s Island. It’s called the Adventurers. They pick the kids up on a bus, and then bring them home, but sometimes the moms drive so they can watch the games. You could drive him. Do you know how?’

‘Hmmm, driving …’

‘You don’t?’

‘Maybe you could teach me?’

‘Me?’

‘I’m just joking. I can drive.’

‘You can? OK, good.’ I had to start acting normal. This was ridiculous. ‘OK, I deserved that … I think I just meant, have you, like, driven a Suburban? One of those huge ones with three rows, in the city?’

‘How many guys who are thirty years old and who come from the Rockies do you think can’t drive an SUV?’

‘Not many. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry, it’s cool. It’s just, I’ve handled like thirty kids on my own so, you know, this is going to be just fine.’

‘It is?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That is sooo great.’ I sounded like I was praising a three-year-old. I could feel my face flush. ‘And on Fridays, he has cello, but not until five. At a great music school on 95th Street. Did you have any idea it’s been proven that kids who took music as young children do 40 per cent better in medical school.’

‘Huh?’

‘Yes. Something about integrating all the notes in their heads. The address is in the folder. On Wednesday, it’s woodworking – which really gives him a jump-start on geometrics and is great for sharpening fine motor skills and really focusing on seeing a project through from beginning to end. Then on Tuesdays and Thursdays, from three thirty to five thirty, or even six, that’s completely fine with me, you two …’

‘Whoa.’ He looked concerned.

‘Whoa? Excuse me?’

‘Yeah. Whoa. Let’s not even revisit that geometrics idea. But you’ve got, like, every day totally planned out?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Well. I work. We live in New York, that’s just the way things are.’ He gave me a disapproving look which I took as overstepping some bounds. But I forged ahead, needing to show him who was in charge after all. ‘So, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, you just do what you want. You could just take him somewhere. Like there’s a Mars place in Times Square with video …’

‘I have lots of places in mind.’

‘You do? Like what?’ I spoke as if I didn’t trust him, as if he was going to take my son to a crack house.

‘I’d like to take him to the park at first, maybe shoot some hoops …’

‘He’s really freaked out about the basketball.’

‘I know. I know.’

‘Well, then you’ll have to tread lightly on the basketball …’

‘And you’re going to have to trust me. I told you, I’m not good at strict hierarchy.’

Oh, Jesus. Not only was this guy not going to be a star in the service industry, but also he couldn’t follow direction? ‘We’re talking about my son here.’

‘And I’m going to do whatever you want. Just try to trust me a little. Remember, I’m good with kids and I drive.’ He smiled.

My mobile phone rang for the second time from deep inside my bag. I had ignored another call, but I had been waiting a week for this one. On the caller ID it signalled Leon Rosenberg’s law firm.

‘Peter, just give me a second.’

I flipped open my cell. ‘Yes, Leon?’

‘I’ve now triple-checked with her,’ he was yelling into the phone. I pictured him leaning back in his leather chair chomping on his omnipresent cigar. Like a mafia don, he would be flicking some cigar ash off one of his hideous suits with a bold white stripe and too much sheen. At this point the networks were in an all-Theresa-all-the-time, full-on media feeding frenzy. The talk shows dissected the ramifications for Hartley’s political future, the prime-time magazine shows did profiles of her background – though they weren’t able to get anywhere near her – and the syndicated entertainment news shows just tried to blow as much steam into the story as they could. However, none of them advanced the story at all because the two principal players weren’t talking. ‘Most importantly, she knows you know what’s on the tapes and she’s going to confirm that while your cameras are rolling. Meaning the whole ass thing.’

Goodman and I had been negotiating the exact parameters of the interview with Leon Rosenberg: where it would be held, how much of the telephone tapes we could use, and, most importantly, that she understood she would need to verbally detail the sex – which Leon had just confirmed. Goodman would be so psyched. I punched my fist in the air.

‘And on the other details,’ said Leon, ‘Theresa’s ready this week to go ahead …’

At this moment, Peter opened the HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY MEDICINE Tupperware box and pulled out three huge plastic bags: a lifetime’s supply of potassium iodide, Cipro and Tamiflu. He began reading the laminated card I had put inside for Yvette and Carolina about what to do in case of a dirty bomb explosion, anthrax attack or avian flu outbreak.

‘That’s great, Leon.’

‘Although she was hoping for a big-city extravaganza, she understands you will pay only for the hotel room and eighty-five dollars per diem for the two days she is in the city. But she needs to look good. She wants a spa day, facial, pedicure, manicure and other stuff.’

I pulled the other Tupperware box away from Peter and put it on the floor next to my feet. It was filled with EpiPens for peanut allergies and asthma inhalers and Benadryl – all for play date guests, not my kids. It seemed like half my kids’ friends had life-threatening nut allergies, and some of their moms were totally blasé about it. Sometimes they even forgot to remind us about it. I could see Peter thinking I was completely neurotic. Not that I wasn’t.

‘Leon, again please make clear to her this is not some syndicated entertainment show or a British tabloid. This is a top news division of a major network. We will pay for hair and make-up, period. We can’t pay cash for interviews or appear as if we’re delivering favours, like facials, to interview subjects. We have news policy standards to uphold.’

Leon guffawed and slammed something down hard on his desk. ‘Get off your high horse for a second and listen to yourself, sweetheart.’ He laughed again. ‘Oooooo weeeee. All high and mighty like Walter fucking Cronkite and you and I know the only thing you’re interested in is the ass-fuck thing.’

I winked at Peter to let him know this call was going to take a few moments. He stood up and leaned against the windowsill looking down on Park Avenue, then headed towards the other end of my living room, which opened up with pocket doors into Phillip’s study. Reaching into one of the bookcases on either side of the doorway, he pulled out How to Raise Children in an Affluent Environment, a book Phillip had read while I was pregnant with Dylan. I was horrified, but he was all the way across the room, so I couldn’t grab it from him.

‘All right, Leon. We’re talking about a guy who used to run a Christian television network, a guy with four children who’s been married for thirty years to a June Cleaver lookalike, a guy who’s in bed with Focus on the Family, the Christian Coalition, and even the Promise Keepers. So there’s a little bit of hypocrisy here that is the main thing. But you are right, the, uh, exact sexual manifestations of this hypocrisy are quite interesting to us. Especially with the irony involving the anti-sodomy laws. That is kind of delicious. I won’t deny that. But, remember, we cared a lot about this story before we had that little item.’

‘That’s a twenty-five-million-dollar item, baby.’

‘It is. And let’s just leave it at that.’

‘OK, sweetheart, while you’re leaving it at that, one more thing.’ I breathed deeply and deliberately into the phone while awaiting his umpteenth request. I mouthed, ‘So sorry!’ to Peter. He shook his head and mouthed, ‘Don’t worry.’ He closed the book and walked over to the large box next to the coffee table.

‘And Goodman understands that he is to mention her lawyer …’

Peter was now riffling through the HOUSEHOLD EMERGENCY SUPPLIES box. Out came a Department of Homeland Security pamphlet, which he glanced at and threw back in the box. Next, he pulled out an Israeli gas mask, took it out of its protective plastic bag and started reading the instructions.

‘Yes, Leon, we will mention you by name and have the rolling video of you that you like, not the one on the windy day where your hair looks like Don King’s …’

Peter put on the gas mask. Then he pulled out a full-body, orange bio-terror fall-out suit, checked the label, held it up against his shoulders and anchored it down with his chin pushed into his neck.

The front door slammed. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon. I knew Carolina was in the kitchen, Yvette was still in the park with both younger children, and Dylan was in school. No one usually came through the door unannounced. I stretched my head around to the front hall while Leon began explaining exactly which video of himself he wanted us to use.

Phillip’s overcoat flew across the foyer. Shit. Just after lunch and Phillip is home? I knew he wasn’t travelling and he had never once come home like this in the middle of the day without calling. He walked into the living room with a man I’d never seen before only to find Peter with a gas mask on and the orange suit.

‘Jamie, what in God’s name is …?’

Peter pulled the gas mask off. His turn to have Don King hair. He politely put his hand out to Phillip.

‘No, no!’ I screamed at him.

Peter stopped dead in his tracks and gave me a ‘What the hell, lady? I’m just introducing myself here!’ look.

From my cell phone: ‘You don’t have that shot, baby? The one I mean?’

‘No. I mean not you, Leon. I do, Leon. I know exactly what you mean. I was just …’ I waved my hand for Peter to come sit down right here, now, young man! I pointed to his chair. ‘You want your hair flat like in the shot where you’re wearing the trench coat and yellow silk scarf and matching silk socks – not like the one where it looks like a huge Frisbee. I remember. Is that all?’

Phillip shook his head and walked down the hall with his guest. Then the doors of his study closed behind him.

‘All right, Leon. Thanks for the confirmation on Theresa. Goodbye.’

I hung up the phone and breathed out deeply.

‘I’m sorry,’ Peter said. ‘I was just trying to be courteous …’

‘No. I’m the one who has to apologize. It’s just this big story again, and I wanted to introduce you to my husband in calmer circumstances.’

‘I see.’

‘So sorry to interrupt again, Peter.’ I stood up. ‘I just need to check on him. Excuse me just for a second.’ I tiptoed across the living room and put my ear against the sliding doors.

‘Damnit, Allan. I left the papers here to keep them out of the office. Obviously.’

‘So where are they now? If you kept them here, they better be here.’

Allan who? I knocked on the door and heard a lamp smash on the floor. The pocket doors slid open a notch and my normally composed husband put his face through the minimal crack he had opened.

‘Yes?’

‘Phillip, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon on a work day. You give me no warning that you’re coming home. Why are you here? Who are you with?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘I heard you talking to someone named Allan.’

‘Oh, him.’

‘Yes, him. Allan.’ Still no acknowledgement from my husband. ‘Why are you being so weird, Phillip? This is our home.’

‘Why are you being so weird? What is the deal with the guy trying on the orange suit?’

‘I’ll explain later. Why are you home?’

‘Some papers I need to find. In my study.’

‘And this Allan guy is helping you find them?’

‘Yes. He’s helping me find them. Yes. Are we done now? I’m sorry, honey, but I’m really stressed out. Would it be possible to be left alone from here on in? Actually two Diet Cokes would be great. With limes. On the sides of the glass. Don’t drench them in the Diet Coke.’




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