The Nannies (10 page)

21

Behind Lydia and Kiley, a rock band on a raised stage launched into the theme song from
The Ten.

“Imagine the end of life as we know it.
I can give you shelter from the swarm.
If you’re afraid, try not to show it
Tomorrow there will be a brighter dawn.”

“Catchy,” Lydia said, checking out the band. “The lead singer is yummy, don’t you think?”

Kiley didn’t answer. She was watching the big screen at the end of the pier again, which was still showing scenes from the film. At that moment, a hot guy in an equally hot Ferrari was trying to outrun the oncoming hailstorm.

“Holy shit,” Kiley exclaimed. “I know him.”

“Of course you do, he’s in all the magazines. He’s a Calvin Klein model.”

“No, I mean I
know
him know him. His name is Tom.” Kiley quickly told Lydia the story of how she’d met the guy at the Hotel Bel-Air after her auditory up-close-and-personal with his sex life. “Then I saw his billboard on Sunset Boulevard. And now, he’s in this movie.”

“Sweet. I’d
definitely
have sex with him,” Lydia declared.

“You have sex on the brain.”

“True. But I’d rather have it on various other body parts. Have you had sex yet?”

Kiley was taken aback. “I . . . uh . . . had a boyfriend last year and we sort of—”

“You mean you don’t know if you did or you didn’t?” Lydia pressed. “Is that possible?”

“I think we did,” Kiley admitted. “But I prefer to think that we didn’t, because, well, it sucked. He was so nervous that I got nervous and then . . . I don’t know.”

“Okay, then you didn’t,” Lydia opined. “You should hook up with Tom. He’s pretty near a perfect male specimen. And you already heard how he had that girl hooting and hollering.”

Kiley put a hand over her face. “Talk about embarrassing.”

Lydia nudged her hip playfully into Kiley’s. “Come on, it got you all hot and bothered. You know it.”

“Well, maybe I’m not ready for hot and bothered,” Kiley retorted.

“And maybe you are.”

Kiley scrunched up her face. “But how do you know? Seriously, how do you know?”

Lydia blew a strand of hair off her face. “I say go for it and live long enough to write a torrid memoir.”

Kiley laughed. “That’s one way of looking at it.”

“And you know what suite he’s in,” Lydia added. “You could just go knock on his door.”

The band quit playing; a female executive from Cosmos Films with world-class hair and an extremely short skirt started to introduce the stars of
The Ten.
As she named each one, and asked the audience to hold its applause for the end, they dutifully trotted out on stage.

“Allegra Royalton! Tom Chappelle! Tara Reid! Kirsten Dunst! And Mr. George Clooney!”

Kiley grasped Lydia’s arm and pointed. “There he is. That’s him!”

Lydia nodded. “Dang, girl, you have good taste. I can’t believe you ditched him when he wanted to show you the pool.”

Kiley made a face. “I know, I’m an idiot. I just got freaked out. I mean, after all that moaning and groaning and ‘oh, baby’ing.”

“You could have asked to join in. I bet he would have said yes.”

Kiley hid her shock as best she could. “Trust me. Nice girls in La Crosse don’t ask to, er, join in.”

“Well, the good thing is, you can change,” Lydia mused. “Anyway, once you win
Platinum Nanny,
you won’t live in La Crosse anymore.”

“What makes you so sure I’ll win?”

“I’m a positive thinker. You got your mother to let you come out tonight, didn’t you?”

Kiley looked sheepish. “Only because she fell asleep at eight.”

Up onstage, the studio executive finished her spiel about how wonderful the cast was, how wonderful the crew was, and how wonderful the film is. Kiley gazed at Tom in disbelief that she actually knew him. Well, sort of. He’d offered to show her the indoor pool, anyway.

Lydia nudged Kiley’s arm. “Let’s talk to him.”

“I can’t do that!”

“Of course you can. But you’d better hurry. They’re all leaving the stage.”

Kiley felt Lydia yank her forward as her heart began to pound double-time.
Okay,
she told herself.
You can do this. Act natural.
Casual. Cool. Oh, hi, Tom. Suite next door, remember? This is your
first film role? Can I jump your bones?

But by the time they reached the stage, Tom was stepping into an extralong stretch limo behind Tara Reid. The doors closed, and the limo took off for parts unknown.

22

“As you can see, Platinum’s home is very . . . platinum.”

A.M. led the five remaining contestants into the rock star’s living room, and Kiley willed her mind to focus. She wasn’t about to blow it just because she hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before. Just because in her fevered dreams she and Tom had done everything she had ever imagined . . .

Stop that right now,
she commanded herself.
You’re acting like
some starstruck groupie. It’s not as if you and he have this big thing
happening. You have nothing happening. You will never have anything
happening. So concentrate on what’s important before you get kicked
back to La Crosse on your well-padded ass.

“Très gauche,”
Veronique sniffed as she eyed the opulence that was Platinum’s home. Since the cameras were rolling, Kiley assumed that Veronique thought superciliousness was going to get her somewhere.

In Kiley’s humble opinion, Platinum’s mansion was a marvel. The living room itself contained sufficient square footage to house the Bowl-o-Rama where her father’s league played, including all forty lanes. Everything was done in shades of white. From the marble table and velvet couches to the fresh floral arrangements that decorated the mantel, everything was blindingly, endlessly white. Kiley didn’t know that this many shades of white actually existed.

“She must have some clean kids. Or else they aren’t allowed in here,” Tamika muttered. She was limping slightly because of her injured ankle. Kiley chucked her chin at Tamika’s body mike, reminding her that anything they said could show up on air. Tamika shrugged. “Screw that shit. If Platinum wants a wuss, I’m not her girl.”

Kiley admired Tamika’s attitude. Privately, she’d been wondering the same thing.

“Hey, where’s your mom?” Steinberg asked Kiley as A.M. led them into what she called the Meditation Room. Capital
M
, capital
R
.

“No clue,” Kiley replied. When they’d arrived, her mother had been whisked away to another part of the house.

The Meditation Room was what A.M. described as “Platinum’s sacred space.” A five-foot stone Buddha sat on an altar against one wall. Pungent incense burned at his feet. On the wall behind the Buddha was a giant cross inlaid with jewels, an equally big golden star of David, and a silver crescent moon. Other than the half dozen bamboo mats on the floor, the rest of the room itself was barren.

The tour continued. The kitchen was as white as the living room. There was a home recording studio lined with platinum albums, and a home theater that featured posters from the movies in which Platinum had appeared. The group was then ushered through the family room. Finally, A.M. took them to the nursery.

“As in children, not plants,” A.M. explained. She chuckled at her own inventiveness.

Kiley was relieved to discover that there actually was a place for children; an entire wing, actually. But the toys in the playroom were too orderly, the DVDs all neatly arranged. There wasn’t a GameCube or an Xbox in sight. Did any kids actually live here?

Suddenly, bright lights snapped on, and Platinum herself made a surprise entrance. She was over five foot eight in her stocking feet, which meant nearly six feet tall in the white three-inch heels that currently adorned her feet. Her long, white blond hair hung as straight as polished mirrors down both sides of her narrow face. Her unlined skin shone as if she was twenty, though Kiley knew she was forty-two by some accounts, forty-five by others. She wore white jeans and a white silk shirt. In her arms was her dog—a white Pomeranian.

Platinum handed the dog to A.M., then swept her arms wide to the quintet of nanny hopefuls. “Welcome, welcome, welcome!” She seemed to have a slight British accent, though Kiley knew from her research that Platinum was from Michigan. “It’s so wonderful to finally—”

“Hold up, Platinum, little lighting problem!” the director called out. “We’ll need to shoot that entrance again.”

“Dammit,” Platinum snapped. “Give me Lil’ Shit!” Platinum grabbed the dog from A.M., then stomped out of the room.

Okay, this was very weird. Platinum had a British accent when the camera was on, but sounded like an American truck driver when it was off. Well, maybe it wasn’t all that surprising. Kiley had read a
Rolling Stone
interview where Platinum claimed that twenty-three personalities lived in her brain, and that she’d had sex with more than a hundred guys on a single concert tour. The interview had been accompanied by a photo of Platinum in ripped jeans and a T-shirt that read SCREW YOU. OH WAIT, I ALREADY DID.

“Okay, good to go,” the director called. “Four, three, two, and . . .”

Platinum entered again, Lil’ Shit in her arms. “Welcome, welcome, welcome!” She was British again. “It’s so great to finally meet all five of you in person, and to know that soon one of you will be taking care of my terrific children. Now, let me show you to your accommodations.”

“That’s a take!” Bronwyn called. The cameras stopped rolling.

Platinum shoved Lil’ Shit at A.M. again. “Have someone take him out so he can take a dump.” She looked around. “Who took my freaking glass of wine?”

“Um, I don’t think you brought it in with you, Platinum,” Bronwyn murmured. “We talked about that before.”

“Screw you.” Platinum turned out.

A.M. turned to the remaining contestants, the dog still in her arms. “Okay!” she said brightly, as if everything was going swimmingly. “Time for you guys to see where you’ll be living. Jayce, take this animal outside. Girls, follow Bronwyn.”

A few minutes later, Kiley and the other contestants stood with Bronwyn in Platinum’s guesthouse. It looked like a fairy-tale cottage: blue clapboard shutters, rocking chairs on the front porch, and flowers blooming in the red window boxes. Inside was a cozy living room with a couch facing a fireplace and scatter rugs on the burnished hardwood floors. Both bedrooms held twin beds covered in floral quilts. There was one bathroom and a small kitchen.

“Nice?” Bronwyn asked. All five contestants dutifully expressed their enthusiasm for the cameras.

“Little problem, though. There are only beds for four. But someone else will be eliminated before tonight—and then there’s Mom.”

She looked pointedly at Kiley, who waited for her to elaborate. Nothing. Did that mean they’d keep her mother at the hotel? Or did that mean they’d be going home, so it wouldn’t matter?

“Ladies,” Bronwyn intoned. “It’s time for you to meet the most important people on this show. Platinum’s children.”

A.M. stepped back. Platinum entered, holding the hands of a boy and a girl. “These are my younger ones. This is Siddhartha.” Platinum lifted the boy’s hand. He had the face of an angel— pale blond hair and huge blue eyes. “He likes to be called Sid. He’s nine.”

“So?” Sid asked belligerently, as if someone was challenging him.

“Anything you’d like to tell them, then, Sid?” Platinum asked, sounding vaguely as if she was channeling Princess Diana.

“Yeah.” He dug into his back pocket and extracted a plastic box that held a card deck. “No one can beat me at Yu-Gi-Oh. No one.”

“Do you have Blue Eyes White Dragon?” Cindy asked.

Sid’s face lit up. “Three of ’em. If I use Polymerization, I can get Blue Eyes Ultimate Dragon. That’s unstoppable.”

“I’ve got an Egyptian God card. We’ll have to play sometime,” Cindy offered.

Score a big fat bonus point for Cindy,
thought Kiley, who had vaguely heard of Yu-Gi-Oh. Didn’t it have something to do with Japanese anime?

“And this is Serenity.” Platinum looked down at the girl. “She’s about to turn eight.”

Serenity was a cherubic miniature of her mom, save for her golden hair, which was a rat’s nest of snarls. Though her clothes looked brand new, her skin was extremely dirty.

“Anything you’d like to say, sweetie?” Platinum asked her daughter.

“Yes. Don’t call me Seri. It’s Serenity. Four syllables, Se-ren-i-ty. I hate green food. And I’m allergic to water.”

“No you’re not, dear,” Platinum said through a smile.

“Yes I am,
Mother.
” The little girl extracted her hand and folded her arms.

“We’ve been dealing with a bathing issue,” Platinum explained.

“Yeah. She won’t take one,” Sid interjected. “That’s why she’s dirty. And she stinks.”

“At least I don’t wet my bed like someone in this room,” Serenity shot back.

“So, you suck.”

“So, you suck harder, bee-otch!”

“Don’t worry,” A.M. assured Platinum. “We’ll edit all this out.”

Kiley tried not to look as shocked as she felt. In her house, if she’d ever spoken like that, she’d have gotten her mouth washed out with soap. Literally.

“It’s cool. I mean, fine,” Platinum corrected herself, and patted both children on their heads. “It’s important that the children feel free to express their emotions.”

Uh-huh. Kiley worked hard to keep her face in neutral.

A handsome teen boy shuffled into the cottage. His dark hair was fashionably punk. He wore a black T-shirt, baggy jeans, and black sunglasses. He looked like a junior rock God.

Platinum gestured toward him. “And this is my oldest child, Bruce.”

“ ’Zup?” he asked no one in particular.

“Bruce is fourteen,” Platinum said.

“Call me the Boss,” Bruce put in. “I’m outta here. Peace out.” Without a further word, he loped out of the cottage.

“Bruce is leaving this afternoon for David Crosby’s rock and roll camp, so you won’t be seeing him for a while,” Platinum explained. “All the more time for you to concentrate on my little ones.”

Kiley studied the two younger kids as A.M. and Platinum conferred. No one knew who their fathers were. She’d read that Sid’s dad was Ian Cummins, who’d been lead guitarist of the British punk band Brighton in the eighties. He had overdosed in 1999 at the Chelsea Hotel in New York, in the same room where Sid Vicious permanently checked out. Serenity was reputedly the offspring of Platinum’s then-haircutter. As for Bruce—well, one supermarket tabloid had done an in-depth investigative piece on why Platinum’s eldest child shared the same name as an American rock-and-roll icon. But there was absolutely no evidence that the icon had ever met Platinum, and the tabloid eventually retracted its story.

A.M. was ready again. “Time for our next elimination, which will also be your first nanny assignment with Platinum’s kids.” She held up a top hat. “There are five assignments on slips of paper in this hat. Each of you will pick one. You’ll have two hours to accomplish your task. Understood?”

Cindy got her assignment first. She had to arrange an outing for the younger kids that would enhance their creativity. “Piece of cake,” she declared.

Tamika was next. She had to work with the chef to create a gluten-free weeklong meal plan, and then cook a gluten-free dish.

Steinberg. Write an original song for Sid and have him perform it.

Veronique. Meditate for twenty minutes with Sid in the Meditation Room. Which would be eighteen minutes longer than he’d ever lasted before.

Kiley pulled the last slip of paper from the hat:

Get Serenity to take a bath.

Serenity scowled at Kiley and turned to her mother. “Mom, can we go now? This is boring. Come on, Sid.”

She grabbed her brother. He yanked away and gave her the finger, but followed her out of the guesthouse.

“My kids rock,” Platinum said with a fond smile.

Your kids are brats,
Kiley thought behind her well-maintained pleasant smile.
How the hell will I get your bratty, stinky daughter to
take a bath?

“But contestants,” A.M. continued, “there’s more! One of you is going to be working for one of the biggest rock stars in history. That means it’s expected that you know her.”

“Yes,” Platinum agreed, back to her well-bred voice. “That is important because—” She stopped midsentence. “Screw this.” The British accent was gone. She blocked the cameras’ bright light with her arm. “Turn that shit off for a minute.” The cameramen obeyed, as Platinum turned to A.M. “Listen, screw changing my image or whatever. I sound like an asshole. I’m just going to be myself.”

“But we agreed—”

“Well, now we disagree. They want fake, let ’em get Madonna.” She looked around. “Who has my goddamn dog?”

“Jayce took him out to poop,” a flunky reported.

“Oh, cool,” Platinum said. “Then have Mrs. Cleveland grill him a steak. Okay, let’s roll ’em, jerk-offs.”

The cameras went back on; the crew moved closer to the circle of contestants. Production assistants passed out small white boards and erasable markers as Platinum and A.M. took seats on a pair of stools.

“Before you can go off on your missions,” A.M. told them, “we’re going to see what you know about your famous employer.”

“And I’m, like, staring at you,” Platinum put in, wiggling her fingers at them. “I can see into your brains. So don’t screw this up.” Her eyes raked over the contestants, lingering on Kiley.

“Here’s how it will work,” A.M. continued. “I’ll pose a question. You write the answer on your board. When you get five answers correct, you can start your mission. If you don’t get five right, you never start. Got it?”

They got it. Kiley noticed that Veronique was not looking confident. Neither were Tamika and Steinberg. Well, Kiley had done her homework back in La Crosse. Bring it on.

It turned out that Cindy had done her homework too. She nailed the first three questions, about Platinum’s birthplace (Flint, Michigan), her childhood as a military brat (Where was Platinum living at the age of thirteen? Answer: Wiesbaden, Germany), and her brief stint at the American Institute of Dramatic Arts in New York (where she’d had a torrid affair that resulted in a senior dean’s dismissal).

“What was the name of Platinum’s first album?” A.M. asked.

All five girls scribbled furiously. When they flipped over their slates, four of them had written
Double Platinum.
Kiley had written
Crispy Baby Burns.

A.M. made some marks on her clipboard. “All correct but Kiley Mc—”

“Hold on,” Platinum stopped A.M. “Kiley’s right. The others are wrong.”