‘Hi, this is Alexis at The Parents' League. I'm just calling
to follow up on the uniform guidelines we sent over . . .’
The blonde woman volunteering behind the reception
desk holds up a bejewelled finger, signalling me to wait
while she continues on the phone, ‘Yes, well, this year
we'd really like to see all your girls in longer skirts, at least
twenty inches. We're still getting complaints from the
mothers at the boys' schools in the vicinity . . . Great.
Good to hear it. Bye.’ With a grand gesture she crosses
the word 'Spence' off her list of three items.
She returns her attention to me. ‘I'm sorry to keep you
waiting. With the school year starting we're just crazed.
She draws a big circle around the second item on her list,
Paper Towels. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I'm here to put up an ad for a nanny, but the bulletin
board seems to have moved,’ I say, slightly confused as
I've been advertising here since I was thirteen.
‘We had to take it down while the foyer was being
painted and never got round to moving it back. Here, let
me show you.’ She leads me past her desk to the central
room, where mothers perch at Knoll desks fielding
inquiries about the Private Schools. Before me sits the full
range of Upper East Side diversity - half of the women
are dressed in Chanel suits and Manolo Blahniks, half are
in six hundred dollar barn jackets, looking as if they
might be asked to pitch an Aqua Scutum tent at any
moment.
Alexis gestures to the bulletin board, which has displaced a Mary Cassatt propped against the wall. ‘It's all a
bit disorganised at the moment,’ she says as another
woman looks up from the floral arrangement she's rear-
ranging nearby ‘But don't worry Tons of lovely girls
come here to look for employment, so you shouldn't have
any trouble finding someone.’ She raises her hand to her
pearls. ‘Don't you have a son at Buckley ? You look so
familiar. I'm Alexis - ’
‘Hi,’ I say ‘I'm Nan. Actually, I took care of the
Gleason girls. I think they lived next door to you.’
She arches an eyebrow to give me a once over. ‘Oh ...
Oh, Nanny, that's right,’ she says, before retreating back
to her desk.
I tune out the officious, creamy chatter of the women
behind me to read the postings put up by other nannies
also in search of employment.
‘Babysitter need children
Very like kids
Vacuums ‘
’I look your kids
Many years work
You call me’
The bulletin board is already so overcrowded with
flyers that, with a twinge of guilt, I end up tacking my ad
over someone else's pink paper festooned with crayon
flowers, but spend a few minutes ensuring that I'm only
covering daisies and none of her pertinent information.
I wish I could tell these women that the secret to
nanny advertising isn't the decoration, it's the punctuation - it's all in the exclamation mark. While my ad is a
minimalist 3x5 card, without so much as a smiley face on it, I liberally sprinkle my advertisement with exclamations, ending each of my desirable traits with the promise
of a beaming smile and unflagging positivity.
Nanny at the Ready!!!
Chapin School alumna
available weekdays part-time!!!
Excellent references!!!
Child Development Major at NYU!!!
The only thing I don't have is an umbrella that makes
me fly.
I do one last quick check for spelling, zip up my backpack, bid Alexis adieu and jog down the marble steps out
into the sweltering heat.
As I walk down Park Avenue the August sun is still low
enough in the sky that the stroller parade is in full throttle. I pass many hot little people, looking resignedly
uncomfortable in their sticky seats. They are too hot even
to hold onto any of their usual travelling companions -
blankies and bears are tucked into back stroller pockets. I
chuckle to myself at the child who waves away the offer
of a juice box with a flick of the hand and a toss of the
head that says, ‘I couldn't possibly be bothered with juice right now.’
Waiting at a red light, I look up at the large glass windows that are the eyes of Park Avenue. From a population-density point of view, this is the Midwest of
Manhattan. Towering above me are rooms - rooms and
rooms and rooms. And they are empty. There are powder
rooms and dressing rooms and piano rooms and guest
rooms and, somewhere above me, but I won't say where,
a rabbit named Arthur has sixteen square feet all to himself.
I cut across 72nd Street, passing under the shade of
the blue awnings of the Polo mansion, and turn into
Central Park. Pausing in front of the playground, where
a few tenacious children are trying their best despite the
heat, I reach in my backpack for a small bottle of water -
just as something crashes into my legs. I look down and
steady the offending object, an old-fashioned wooden
hoop.
‘Hey, that's mine!’ A small boy of about four or so
careens down the hill from where I see he's been posing
for a portrait with his parents. His sailor hat topples off
into the patchy grass as he runs.
‘That's my hoop,’ he announces.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask. He looks perplexed. ‘It could be
a wagon wheel.’ I hold it sideways. ‘Or a halo?’ I hold it
above his blonde head. ‘Or a really large pizza?’ I hold it
out to him, gesturing that he can take it. He's smiling
broadly at me as he grasps it in his hands.
‘You, silly!’ He drags it back up the hill, passing his
mother as she strolls down to retrieve the hat.
‘I'm sorry,’ she says, brushing dust off the striped
brim as she approaches me. ‘I hope he didn't bother
you.’ She holds her hand out to block the sun from her
pale blue eyes.
‘No, not at all.’
‘Oh, your skirt - ’ she glances down.
‘No big deal,’ I laugh, dusting off the mark the hoop
left on the fabric. ‘I work with kids, so I'm used to being banged up.’
‘Oh, you do?’ She angles her body so her back is to
her husband and a blonde woman who stands off to the
side of the photographer holding a juice box for the boy.
His nanny, I presume. ‘Around here?’
‘Actually the family moved to London over the summer, so - ’
‘We're ready!’ the father calls impatiently.
‘Coming!’ she calls back brightly. She turns to me, tilting her delicately featured face away from him. She lowers her voice, ‘Well, we're actually looking for someone
who might want to help us out part-time.’
‘Really? Part-time would be great, because I have a full
coarse load this
semester - ’
‘What's the best way to reach you?’
I rummage through my backpack for a pen and a scrap
of notebook on which I can scribble down my information. ‘Here you go.’ I pass her the paper and she discreetly slips it in the pocket of her shift, before adjusting
the headband in her chestnut hair.
‘Wonderful.’ She smiles graciously. ‘Well, it was a
pleasure to meet you. I'll be in touch.’ She takes a few
steps back up the hill and then turns around. ‘Oh, how
silly of me - I'm Mrs. X.’
I smile at her as she goes back to take her place in the
contrived tableau. The sun filters though the leaves, creating dappled sunshine on the three figures. Her husband, in a white seersucker suit, stands squarely in the
middle, his hand on the boys head, as she slides in beside
them, smiling.
The blonde woman steps forward with a comb and the
little boy waves to me, causing her to turn and follow his
gaze. As she shields her eyes to get a better look at me I
turn and continue on my way across the Park.
My Grandmother greets me in her entryway in a linen
Mao Tse Tung outfit and pearls. ‘Darling! Come in. I was
just finishing my tai-chi.’ She gives me a kiss on both
cheeks and a solid hug for good measure, ‘Honey, you're
damp. Would you like to shower?’ There is nothing better than being offered Grandma's buffet of amenities.
‘Maybe just a cold washcloth?’
‘I know just what you need.’ She takes my hand,
weaving her fingers through mine, and leads me to her
guest powder room. I've always adored how the small
lights of the antique crystal chandelier illume the rich,
peach chintz. But my favourite part is the framed French
paper dolls. When I was little I would set up a salon under
the sink, for which Grandma would provide real tea and
topics for the discussions I would lead with all of my
lovely French guests.
She places my hands under the faucet and runs cool
water over my wrists. ‘Pressure points for distributing
fire,’ she says as she sits down on the toilet seat, crossing
her legs. She's right; I begin to cool down immediately.