by Melody Mayer
Second, the colonel was fair about Kiley's time. In fact, he'd informed her that once the kids were “down” (which reminded Kiley way too much of what they did to lame horses back in Wisconsin) for the night, her time and her guesthouse were her own. She was permitted guests up to a curfew of zero-two-hundred hours—2:00 a.m.
So she'd called Lydia and Esme, given them a brief recap on how it was that she was once again the nanny to Platinum's kids, and invited them over, giving them the evening's security code for the gate at the bottom of the hill so that they wouldn't have to awaken anyone at Platinum's mansion. Lydia had babbled something about not needing a ride, she now had a car. Kiley had found that peculiar, since she wasn't aware that her friend had a driver's license. Esme arrived first, in faded Levi's ripped at the knees and a vintage Santana T-shirt. Her hair was tied back in a long braid; she wore no makeup. Kiley got her a Coke, and before Esme could say much about her conversation with Junior and Jonathan at La Verdad, Lydia was at the door. She arrived in a new burnt orange cashmere sweater trimmed in what Kiley thought was sable.
“Not hardly. No animals were harmed in the making of this ensemble.” Lydia laughed. She explained that the sweater had been sent to Anya as an early birthday present from relatives in St. Petersburg. A girl who could skin a monkey knew a lot about fur; Lydia could tell it was a very high-quality fake. But she convinced Anya that her relatives had, in fact, sent her real Russian sable, knowing that the moms were extremely antifur Lydia suggested that rather than fire off an indignant letter to her well-meaning relatives, Anya simply donate the sweater to Goodwill. And now, Lydia explained blithely, her friends could just call her Good Will.
It was just so typically Lydia.
Kiley brought the packages of Doritos and chips into the living room, put them on the coffee table, and curled up on the couch, legs tucked underneath her. She wanted to hear about Esme's trip to Jamaica. She'd heard that the ocean there was so crystalline that you could see fish swim thirty feet away.
But the ocean wasn't what Esme talked about. Instead, she told them about the Silverstein brats, the delicious prawns and ackee on the beach, and losing the twins at a sugarcane-cutting festival.
“This girl Tarshea, she saved my ass,” Esme concluded. “Seriously, if it wasn't for her, I wouldn't even have a job anymore. She wants to come to America. I think we should try to help her get a nanny job.”
“Oh, really?” Lydia asked, perking right up. “I hear Evelyn Bowers is looking.”
“We can't place her with someone crazy,” Esme warned.
“Well, that lets out everyone in this town,” Kiley cracked.
“Okay here's what we'll do,” Lydia began, tapping a thoughtful finger against her chin. “I'll stand in the breezeway at the club with a tall glass of iced tea, and when someone comes to poach me, I'll explain that I'm merely a proxy.”
“Let me offer a more practical idea,” Esme said dryly. “I'll keep bugging Steven and Diane. They'll finally say if you want her to come so much, find her a job yourself. Then we get hold of Tarshea and have her send information about herself, pictures and child-care references. Then go to the breezeway.”
Lydia nodded. “Now see, we make a hellified team.”
A half hour later, Kiley had Esme and Lydia almost crying with laughter, regaling them with stories about her adventures in nannydom and her return to the land of Platinum. Lydia was most interested in the Paulsons' home-gym orgy. All Kiley would say was that she'd never be able to look at Animal Planet in quite the same way.
“Speaking of Animal Planet…” Lydia padded across the heavy carpet atop the hardwood floors and flopped onto one of the two beanbag chairs by the small fireplace. She let the rest of her sentence hang in the air.
Kiley got the gist immediately. “You and Billy?”
“Um … no,” Lydia admitted.
Esme and Kiley exchanged looks. “Someone else?” Esme ventured.
“Remember Luis from the country club?” Lydia asked.
Esme's brows knit together. “The golf pro from Costa Rica who was flirting with you? That guy?”
“That guy.” Speaking matter-of-factly, Lydia recounted the story of her driving lesson, the drinks, the dancing, the champagne, the car, skinny-dipping … and everything else.
For a long moment, they were all silent.
“So … is that what you wanted?” Kiley finally asked.
“At the time,” Lydia admitted. “But I was drunk, so …”
Esme made a face. “Drunken sex with a guy you don't know. So sophomore year.”
“I didn't go to high school,” Lydia pointed out. “Besides, I'm not the first, and I won't be the last. I'm not counting it.”
Esme raised an eyebrow. “Because?”
“Because I don't remember it. The first time I really, really have sex, I will definitely remember.”
“Did you remember to use birth control?” Esme shot back.
“Umm … not me.”
“Him?”
“Don't know.”
Esme shook her head. “Grow up, Lydia. Tomorrow, Planned Parenthood. Morning-after pill and STD tests. I'm taking you. No arguments.”
“Joy,” Lydia pronounced, but nodded gratefully.
Kiley chewed a sliver of ice from the bottom of her glass of Coke. “You saw Billy tonight. That must have been fun. What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.” Lydia pushed the choppy bangs from her forehead.
“Nothing?” Kiley echoed.
“Y'all, I was going to,” Lydia insisted. “But then … it started to seem like a real bad idea.”
“I thought you were Miss ‘I Blurt Everything,’ I don't care what people think.”
Lydia gave her a cool look. “I'm becoming Americanized.”
“Meaning you're learning how to lie,” Esme surmised.
Lydia sat up, looking ruffled. “Girlfriend, what about you and Junior and Jonathan? People who live in mud huts shouldn't fire blow darts. Or however that saying goes.”
Esme stood up and stretched her arms over her head. “You're right. I'm not really on your case, Lydia. I'm on mine.” As quickly as she could, she filled her friends in on the three-way meeting at La Verdad that evening with Junior and Jonathan.
“But it's what you wanted,” Kiley reminded her.
“Yes, it is,” Esme agreed. “But…” She caught her lower lip with her teeth. “Sometimes I think I don't know what I want. The look on Junior's face … it nearly killed me.”
“That is exactly why I have turned over a new leaf,” Lydia maintained. “Dishonesty is the best policy.” When Kiley and Esme laughed, Lydia came back over to the couches and nudged Kiley with her foot. “Your turn. Did you and Tom finally do it?”
“No,” Kiley admitted. She stood up and paced the room, trying to find the right words. “I like Tom so much.”
“So does the entire female half of the free world,” Lydia quipped. “Plus all the gay men in West Hollywood, according to X. Come to think of it, I'd bet those Calvin Klein billboards have tempted many a straight man too.”
Kiley stopped by the doorframe leading to the kitchen, leaned against it, and sighed. “Well, maybe that's the problem. Maybe I'm just not—not confident enough to deal with that.” She told them about the gorgeous model they'd run into at Cafe Med, and how Tom had introduced her to the model as his “friend Kiley.”
Lydia waved a dismissive hand. “That's what has you upset? Guys hate to say ‘girlfriend.’ Then, after they get married, they hate to wear a wedding ring. Anthropologists have found that those two phenomena cross cultural boundaries.”
“It was in a magazine,” Kiley and Esme intoned at almost the same time.
“Now, see, y'all just assume that I don't know anything firsthand,” Lydia chided them. “I remember my mom telling me a long time ago that my father was one of the few married men she knew who actually wanted to wear a wedding band. And when the Amas are what we'd call engaged, the girl and the guy
pierce their lips with matching sticks.” Her voice dropped conspiratorily “Many a young Ama guy does not keep that stick in place when his lady friend isn't around, I'm here to tell you.”
“Well, maybe I don't want to be with the kind of guy who can't say ‘girlfriend’ about me,” Kiley said.
“Tell you what,” Lydia began brightly, “I think we've proved that I'm not nearly so picky about commitment. How about I have sex with Tom and then let you know if it's worth your while?”
Kiley laughed so hard her stomach hurt. Even Esme looked less tense than she had when she'd arrived. Kiley thought for the zillionth time what a huge difference having two close friends made in her life. She didn't know how she would have gotten through the insanity of the past few weeks if it hadn't been for—
Back in the bedroom, her cell phone rang. She wondered who it could be. Not the colonel—he would have used the hotline between the main house and the guesthouse that Platinum had installed. Lydia and Esme were here with her. It was too late in Wisconsin for it to be her mom. That meant it was either her best friend from home, Nina, or Tom.
“Excuse me,” she told her friends.
Nina she could deal with. Tom, she wasn't quite sure what she'd say, or how she would say it. Maybe she was just way too Wisconsin to deal with a supermodel. But God, he was so hot. And nice and sweet and … “Hello?”
“Kiley? Hi, it's Jorge.”
Jorge. Esme's friend, whom she'd stayed with after the arrest. It took Kiley a moment to process this, so sure had she been that Tom or Nina would be on the other end of the phone call.
“Jorge! Hi.”
A beat of silence.
“I know it's late. If this is a bad time—”
“No, no, it's fine.” She sat on the edge of her bed's flowered quilt. “How are you?”
“Fine. I thought I'd see how your new nanny job is going.”
Kiley nearly laughed out loud. Which nanny job was he talking about? Evelyn? The Paulsons? “Actually, I'm back at Platinum's,” she told him, explaining the situation.
“That's great. Better for the kids, that's for sure. Your mom must be happy.”
“She is.” Kiley bit at a hangnail. She was going to tell him that Esme and Lydia were here with her and that she had to go, but something in his voice led her to think that he'd called for a specific reason.
“So listen,” Jorge continued. “Tomorrow night the Latin Kings are performing at the Hideaway—it's a club in Panorama City, out in the Valley. Another group canceled at the last minute and we got called to fill in. It'll be our first gig outside of the Echo.”
“Good for you. You must be excited.”
“And nervous,” he admitted. “Anyway, I thought maybe you'd like to come. You never did get to hear us perform at La Verdad. It would be nice to see a friendly face.”
Why, why, why were boys so vague? What did this invitation mean? Was he inviting a lot of people, or was this more personal? How could she find out without sounding like an idiot?
“Would you like me to pass the word around?” she asked. “Like to Esme, Billy, Tom … the friends I was with at La Verdad that night?”
“Not really.”
Kiley waited for more, but Jorge was silent. Maddening. She needed clarity, dammit.
“Okay, Jorge, this may sound incredibly dumb and I apologize and …”
Just say it, Kiley.
“Are you inviting me as … a friend?”
“For starters,” he said. “After that… maybe more. In other words, I am asking you out.”
Clarity. At long last, actual clarity. That was so great. That was so—
Jorge had just asked her out. What should she do? Should she say no because she already had a boyfriend? Should she rush into the living room and clear it with Esme? After all, he and Esme were best friends, and she'd suspected that Jorge had a serious crush on Esme. Should she tell Jorge she'd call him back, then phone Tom and wake him up to say, “Yo, you have competition now, so just what the hell do we mean to each other? Please put it in writing and have it notarized.”
No. That would be stupid. Maybe she was asking too much of Tom, too soon. Maybe it was just his overwhelming good looks and attractiveness to other girls—men—everyone!—that made her want clear parameters from him.
Then, in that moment on the phone with Jorge, it was as if the clouds parted and she finally saw something important about herself. She had a bad habit: she wanted guys to define relationships for her, when the truth was that she needed to define them for herself. As much as she liked Tom, as much as she was attracted to him, if he wasn't ready for her, she definitely wasn't ready to be tied down to him.
“Kiley, are you still there?” Jorge's voice pulled her out of her musings.
She answered, firmly and clearly: “Yes. And I would love to go out with you.”
Raised in Bel Air, Melody Mayer is the oldest daughter of a fourth-generation Hollywood family and has outlasted countless nannies.
Published by Delacorte Press
an imprint of Random House Children's Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2006 by Cherie Bennett and Jeff Gottesfeld
All rights reserved.
DELACORTE PRESS and colophon are registered trademarks
of Random House, Inc.
www.randomhouse.com/teens
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,
visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Mayer, Melody.
Have to have it: a nannies novel / by Melody Mayer.— 1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: Kylie, Esme, and Lydia continue their friendship as they work
in Hollywood as nannies and try to make some decisions about the boys
in their lives.
eISBN: 978-0-307-49698-0
[1. Nannies—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction.
4. Beverly Hills (Calif.)—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.M4619Hav 2006
[Fic]—dc22
2005036531
v3.0