Nanny Needed

by Georgina Cross

  I smile. Oh, my fiancé. The romantic. One of maybe only ten left in the city and somehow I managed to snag him.

  Aunt Clara always told me not to settle. Don’t fall for a guy unless he makes you a priority. And I’ve found that with Jonathan, I know I have. He’s my everything, and I’m his everything too. We have each other’s backs. How I wish Aunt Clara could have met him and seen how happy I am.

  She’d been in love once too. She never told me much about it, only that it was a love she’d found while living in New York. I could tell from the flicker in her eyes how deep it was.

  She never said much but I imagine Aunt Clara’s relationship ended because of me. After my parents died, she was the only family I had left and I changed everything for her. She left New York, she left him, and she moved to Virginia to care for me. She told me all the time how I ended up being the greatest love of her life instead.

  Now here I am, living in the big city where she had always wanted to return and planning a wedding. I’m sharing my life with someone who wants the best for me. But by the way he’s looking at me now, the way he’s running the different scenarios in his head, I can tell Jonathan is worried about the pitfalls I might be overlooking.

  If I lose my job at Hearth and work days as a nanny while he spends nights and weekends at the restaurant, we’ll have little time together. We’ll be like ships passing in the night and he doesn’t want that.

  I offer some hope. “Maybe I’ll make enough from the nannying job that I can start paying off everything, or at least put a dent in it. I can go back to school, finally get a salary, do what I really want to do. You can go back to school too. Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t you want that for me?”

  “Of course.” He turns serious. “Of course, I want that for you. For us.” He takes another long look at the flyer. “So, Upper West Side, huh?” He mulls it over. “It does sound fancy.”

  I nod, picturing for the seven hundredth time what I think the apartment will look like: a doorman, Venetian marble, silk drapes with tassel trim. A glamorous family stepping out on the town with me following and children in tow, obedient and dressed to the hilt.

  “You think anyone else in this building is going after the job?”

  I blink, visions of the picture-perfect family coming to a halt.

  “The flyer,” Jonathan says. “How many were there?”

  I stare at the copy in my hands. “This was the last one.” I feel a tight squeeze in my gut.

  I don’t know why, but I don’t tell him the copy I’m holding is not the last flyer but the only flyer left in our lobby. I’ve been waiting for him to wake up to tell him about it. Last night I was coming down the stairs as someone was pinning it to the bulletin board. I saw only the back of his head before he turned and walked out the door.

  I’d tried looking up the job on my phone, hunting for more information than the brief description on the ad. But I couldn’t find anything posted, not on Craigslist or any other job placement boards. From what I could tell, there was no public listing anywhere.

  And that’s when it dawned on me: this family is so discreet they sent a courier to walk the streets of the East Village instead of looking for a nanny online. It’s their way of controlling how many people see it, reducing the number of respondents.

  Making sure whoever does apply for the job can handle Special conditions apply.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jonathan is in the shower when I call the number on the listing. A man answers, which surprises me at first—I’d been expecting the mother—and my eyes freeze on the wall. How old-fashioned of me.

  Right off the bat, the man explains the nanny job is for his younger sister. Oh good, only one kid. That’s a good start. He says he’s the older brother, and a much older brother if I had to guess.

  “I’m the stepson representing my stepmother. My father remarried and they had a little girl.”

  I appreciate the clarification and I think it’s sweet he’s taking such an active role in his younger sister’s care. How many older brothers would do that sort of thing?

  He introduces himself as Stephen Bird and sounds genuinely interested to learn how I moved to New York from Virginia Beach and am now looking for a new job. Of course, I don’t breathe a word about waiting tables at Hearth. I want him to think I have all the time in the world to dedicate to his little sister.

  After a few minutes, he asks that I attend the first round of interviews the next morning even though it’s a Sunday, and I’m thrilled. He’s giving me a chance, a real foot in the door, and not once does he ask if I have any nannying experience.

  “Eleven a.m.,” he says. “The doorman will show you the elevator to the top floor.”

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, I kiss Jonathan for good luck and he squeezes my hand twice—it’s what we do. Whenever we leave for the day, he gives me one squeeze for love and one squeeze to say he’ll be thinking about me. It’s something he started at the end of our first date and I remember thinking how sincerely I knew he wanted to see me again, my heart warming at the touch of his fingertips.

  From our building, I step onto the sidewalk and breathe in New York City, all one thousand smells of it. I love everything about this place—the rush. The energy. The sights and smells. Tommy’s, the pizza place that sells slices of cheese and mushroom heaven twenty-four hours a day. The Jewish bakery with its warming loaves of mandel bread and babka. The coin-operated laundromat with its mountain fresh detergent mixed with the acrid exhale of someone’s Parliament cigarette. The flower stall overflowing with pots of hyacinth and wisteria blooms.

  On the corner, the bagel place where I ran in and out earlier for breakfast. Jonathan stayed home to make coffee while I fetched us egg sandwiches and a sesame bagel with avocado.

  Almost two years living in the East Village and I still haven’t been able to get over the noise: delivery vans, cabs, and Ubers filling the street, their horns blaring over the dings of bicyclists as they whiz past wearing their blazers and skinny jeans, shoulder bags strapped across their chests, earbuds plugged in.

  The subway is jam-packed too, with the never-ending clicking of turnstiles and beeping of card machines. A rush of wind smacks my face, the L train speeding along the track with a monstrous roar as it approaches the station.

  All around me, heads seem bent in prayer, but really, it’s people staring at their phones. Sunday shift workers mixed with tourists mixed with families and bright-eyed college students on their way to study. And me, traveling to a part of Manhattan I rarely visit, have never had reason to.

  Several stops later, including a transfer to the 1 train, I emerge from the station, the quiet of the neighborhood settling upon me immediately. It’s so unlike the East Village, with its gritty sounds and excitement of motion. Here on the Upper West Side, it’s as if time itself has slowed down. The hushed crisscross of streets forms its own tranquillity away from the bustle permeating the rest of New York. I suppose money really can buy you sanctuary.

  I count to ten before a car goes by. Another ten before someone else passes me on the street, an older gentleman smoking a pipe with a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. He’s in no rush.

  Trees shade the sidewalk. A woman steps from her apartment, in a row of classic brownstones, and locks a door that’s been painted a deep maroon while a Maltipoo at her feet gently pulls on its leash and sniffs the air.

  I take a breath too, finding I’m enjoying the quiet and calm. This neighborhood feels separate. Privileged. A place where people don’t have to be bothered if they don’t want to.

  The architecture changes noticeably as I round the block, quaint brownstones giving way to heavy stone façades and arched windows. I reach the address on West Seventy-eighth, and just as I imagined, a doorman is standing post beneath a green awning with his hands in pristine white gloves
at his sides, his navy uniform–clad body swaying as he rocks on the heels of highly polished black shoes.

  I tug at the scarf around my neck, fluffing my dirty-blond hair around my ears, and slow my steps in front of the building.

  I look up toward the twelfth floor. The penthouse. The Birds’ apartment.

  The first wave of nerves hits my belly.

  “Can I help you?” the doorman asks.

  He’s enormous: at least six foot four, more than two hundred pounds, with shoulders and a chest better suited to a linebacker. He could be a bouncer or champion bodybuilder instead of standing guard, probably bored, on this quiet street.

  I cough to find my voice. “I have an appointment with the Birds.”

  He reaches for the door. “Apartment Twelve A, at the top.”

  I should be smart and pick his brain while I have the chance. After all, he must know the family. He can provide a few details. What’s the mom like? The dad—is he a pervert like Jonathan warned? Is the kid a total pain in the ass? Do they run through nannies and throw them out like garbage?

  But I don’t say a word. Instead, I take a deep breath as he holds open the door, waiting for me to enter.

  Come on, Sarah. Get a grip.

  Moving forward, I feel the warm air of the building enveloping me. The door clicks shut and I’m in. Through the glass, I think I hear him say, “Good luck.”

  I nearly spin on my heels to ask him what’s up, but then stop. Because when my eyes take in the lobby, my heart skips a beat. Floor-to-ceiling white marble with paintings in gilded frames on the walls, French and Dutch impressionism—originals, by the looks of them. Burgundy carpet leads to a vintage gold-colored elevator.

  Against one wall, on a table of polished mahogany and walnut, sits a bowl of gardenias floating in fresh water, the scent filling the space until I’m positive if I stood here long enough, I’d get a headache. But I don’t wait around.

  Because if the lobby looks like this, I can’t wait to see the apartment.

  The elevator doors open slowly and I step inside, glancing back once more at the magnificent chandelier shimmering beautiful points of light. The elevator is surprisingly fast, and when the doors reopen, I peek out cautiously. The hallway is quiet. There’s no one there, and I settle down, giving myself time to take in the exquisite ivory silk wallpaper, the antique pewter sconces lighting the corridor toward the one and only door at the end of the hall. The apartment address appears on the front in a large golden sign: 12A.

  I knock on the door.

  A woman opens it and I find I’m disappointed by how normal she looks—she’s not in a maid’s uniform holding an ostrich-feather duster. There’s no sign of a butler with a white tie and matching white gloves.

  An ostrich-feather duster—seriously? What’s wrong with me?

  Instead, she wears a light crew-neck sweater in robin’s egg blue and gray slacks, her hair tucked behind her ears in a no-nonsense manner, a few streaks of silver sprouting among the black at her crown. She’s plump, a softness to her belly where her sweater is pulled past her hips, and I’m guessing she’s in her fifties based on the small lines etched at the corners of her eyes.

  She welcomes me with a warm smile. “Are you here for the interview?”

  I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ma’am—there’s that small-town Southern upbringing for you.

  “Your name?”

  “Sarah Larsen.”

  “I’m Pauline,” she says. “Right this way.” We step from the foyer to a hallway blanketed in Persian rugs. “I’m the housekeeper and have been working for the Birds for more than twenty years,” she says, her eyes shining, undoubtedly proud of her impressive tenure.

  And she should be. I can’t imagine working at any one place for such a long time. I often wonder how much longer I’ll last at Hearth.

  “Very nice to meet you,” I tell her.

  We arrive at a room she calls the parlor and she instructs me to sit and wait.

  I look around for any photos or personal effects that would clue me in a little more about the family. But I see none. While the room is elegantly furnished, gold and mauve striped wallpaper and a set of oval-backed armchairs, there are no personal details. I still don’t know much about the Birds. I tried looking them up last night, wondering: Are they celebrities? Swedish royalty? Heirs to some giant fortune? From what Stephen Bird told me, his father has remarried and he has the one younger child. Is she an infant? Five? Ten? Is the mother a pop singer or is the father a diplomat? How active is Stephen Bird going to be in the care of his sister?

  But to my disappointment, I couldn’t find much to go on. Every Collette Bird listed was clearly not the right one. There’s a woman living in the U.K., and a freelance graphic designer based in Singapore, but no Collette Bird living in New York City. This Collette Bird, the one hiring a nanny, doesn’t have much of a digital footprint, something I thought was difficult to pull off these days. Either she doesn’t know how to tweet, has been living under a rock, or is hell-bent on protecting her privacy.

  But I did manage to find one link—just one. A website for a local children’s hospital where she’s listed as having been a board member for the last ten years, belonging to the Women’s Committee of 100 known to have a half-million-dollar entrance fee. In the same article, she’s named as the fundraising chair. And then, eureka, a picture. A single headshot where she is standing in front of the highly recognizable Corinthian columns of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Wearing a ball gown, her blond hair pulled into a chignon, she’s stunning—the epitome of what I envision New York City socialites to be. Sophistication and class. Beauty and grace. The power and peace of mind that comes with knowing you have gobs of money at your fingertips and all the luxury that comes with it: designer gowns, treasure troves of jewelry, upswept hairdos, vacations, and fancy dinners. Her lips form a kilowatt smile.

  Somehow, I was able to discern all of that from one single picture—she is radiating that much confidence. And while she doesn’t appear to be a celebrity or singer, she seems to be heavily involved in philanthropy.

  As for her husband, I discovered only a few details: his name is Alex Bird and he’s a commercial property investor with his own firm and offices near Lincoln Center. I find more articles, but they’re sparse, mostly ribbon cuttings and contract wins, photos taken with the mayor and city commissioner, several galas where he’s wearing a tuxedo.

  But nowhere can I find personal information about the family. No mention of the daughter, not even a picture. Though I do find a small amount of information about the stepson, Stephen. He has a single paragraph on his father’s firm’s website, where he’s listed as a staff member with a degree from Cornell. But no picture of him either, only the briefest mention he’s Mr. Bird’s son. No Facebook or Twitter account for any of them.

  What’s up with these people?

  I wonder about the age difference between Stephen and his sister. How strange it must be to have your father remarry so many years later and then have a sibling so much younger than yourself. Stephen would be more like an uncle than a brother to the girl. But they must be close if he’s the one taking nanny candidate calls.

  Finally the housekeeper comes back, beaming a huge smile in my direction, and calls my name.

  But as I stand, I notice something strange in the corner. A pedestal table with something shoved in the back. It’s covered in a blue cloth—a handkerchief?—but the cloth has slipped to one side, revealing a picture frame. A picture of a little girl. The photo is black and white but I can tell the girl has light-colored hair with a simple headband at her crown, her bangs cut neatly above her eyebrows. She’s small, a toddler, maybe only two or three years old. It must be the daughter I’m here to nanny. But why cover the picture frame?

  Maybe it’s an accident. Another candidate placed their han
dkerchief on the table to get it out of the way and forgot. Or maybe it’s the family’s way of protecting the identity of the little girl.

  Discretion is of the utmost importance, the ad emphasized.

  I lock eyes with the housekeeper. If she noticed me checking out the photo, she doesn’t let it register, only reaches out her hand and beckons me to follow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Collette Bird doesn’t see me at first. She’s seated and speaking softly to someone behind her chair. It must be her daughter, hiding. I can’t hear what the little girl is saying, but she’s certainly small and doing her best to stay out of sight.

  I can’t make out what her mother is saying to her either, so I try catching a glimpse of the girl instead. But the chair is one of those ornate, oversize settees where the upholstery stretches to the floor, and the way Mrs. Bird is sitting, she blocks most of the view.

  I peer again at the bottom of the chair, excited about the chance to meet her daughter. I’m good with children—at least, I think I am. All she needs to do is come out and see me. We can play a game right here in front of her mom. I can tell her how pretty her dress is or I can ask to see her dolls.

  But Collette Bird doesn’t introduce me. In fact, she doesn’t even look up. Nothing about her indicates she’s noticed I’ve entered the room, she is that engrossed with speaking to her child. Collette takes her time speaking in a singsong voice and reaches down to hold the little girl’s hand.

  I break away my gaze and quickly check out the room. It’s exquisite, a fireplace taking up one end, an enormous grate stretched across its opening, the walls on either side extending to ten-foot ceilings with oversize windows looking out to Roosevelt Park and what can only be the prestigious exterior of the American Museum of Natural History—my God, they’re practically neighbors. The floor is wide-plank oak herringbone; antiques dot the mantel and line up along the glass table. Priceless works of art flank the door. On the opposite wall, a large European tapestry depicts ladies in waiting amid apple trees. The entire room is modeled after an art gallery.