by Karen Quinn
“Do you want some music?” he asked.
“Sure,” Renata said. Steven turned the radio to a station that played really bad grown-up music. There was no accounting for taste, that’s what Grandma used to say. Still, Renata liked Steven. He brought Toll House cookies that his wife baked especially for her. He drove her to school every day. Soon, Renata and her nanny would have their own driver, Christy explained. But for now, she could be with Steven. Christy’s maid had put Renata’s hair up for the funeral last week. Her masseuse gave Renata a massage because of all the toxins in her system after Grandma’s death. Everyone at Christy and Michael’s was being real nice. Secretly Renata was grateful for their kindness, but she acted quiet about it so there would be no misunderstanding that she was happy about any of this.
Raising Renata
Renata set her vanity mirror up on the dresser and talked earnestly into it. “I’m not sure about that Christy Hayes,” she said. “First she acts like nothing scares her. But then, did you see the way she was when she had to pose with that snake? She completely freaked out. I think her being afraid of performing with a boa constrictor around her neck will ruin her chances. I really don’t think Christy Hayes is cut out to be America’s next…top…model.”
Renata heard a knock at the door and she stopped talking. “Come in,” she said, turning away from the mirror-camera.
Eve poked her head through the doorway. “Christy’s waiting for you in the library with your new nanny. Better get going.”
“Sure,” Renata said, irritated that her segment of America’s Next Top Model was interrupted for this. She tramped through the apartment, determined that everyone in her path should know her feelings about getting a nanny.
She peeked into Michael’s library looking for Christy and this nanny person. The library was the only room in the whole apartment that she liked, because it was full of books and folk art—none of that hard glass or marble stuff. Queen Latifah was standing next to the computer desk deep in conversation with Christy. Renata was speechless. Would Christy hire someone that famous just to take care of her? Maybe Christy did want her. Then she realized that a star as big as Queen Latifah wouldn’t want to be a nanny, not even part time. It must be Queen Latifah’s sister.
“That’s all right. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be here Friday like Eve asked,” the nanny was saying. “I had sad business in Montgomery. I been nursing my sister through breast cancer for the last year. She died two weeks ago, and there was odds and ends to take care of, more than I thought.”
“Queen Latifah?” Renata asked, shocked.
Both women turned and saw Renata standing in the doorway.
“Who?” the nanny asked.
“Your sister. Queen Latifah?” Renata said.
“No, Ambrosia Freedom. Two weeks shy of fifty-seven years old, and the Lord saw fit to take her, mmm-mmm-mmm. By the way, I’m Nectar Freedom. What’s your name?”
“I’m Renata Ruiz.” Renata walked in and shook Nectar’s hand. “Sorry you lost your sister.”
Nectar looked deeply into the little girl’s eyes. “Thank you, dumplin’. And I want you to know how terrible I feel that you lost your grandma. Eve told me all about it, mmm-mmm-mmm, you poor child.” The way Nectar said it, it sounded like “you po chall.”
Renata soaked in the sympathy. She felt like crawling in between Nectar’s humongous bosoms, curling up into a little ball, and crying herself dry. “Thank you,” she mumbled. “Have you ever been a nanny before?”
“I have. I took care of J. R. Collins for ten years and then Marissa Ethridge till she was thirteen.”
“The singer?”
“No, the child.”
“I’m self-independent,” Renata said. “I don’t need a nanny.”
“Well, that makes my job easier,” Nectar said. “I can catch up on my reading while you’re taking care of yourself.”
Renata turned to Christy. “Do you have any questions?”
“I think you’re doing a fine job on your own,” Christy said, smiling.
“How old are you?” Renata asked Nectar.
“That’s not a legal question to ask me, dumplin’. But I’ll tell you anyway ’cause I like you. I’m fifty-nine years young.”
Renata giggled; then she became solemn. “My grandma was fifty-nine when she passed.”
“And that’s too young to go. Course, ‘he that cuts off twenty years of life cuts off so many years of fearing death.’ That’s a direct quote from Mr. William Shakespeare,” Nectar said.
“Is that who you used to work for?” Renata asked.
“No, no,” Nectar said, smiling. “Shakespeare was a famous writer from about four hundred years ago.”
“Is it okay if I go to my room? I’m tired.”
“Sure,” Christy said. Renata said good-bye and ran to her bedroom.
Christy shook her head as she watched Renata disappear. “She spends way too much time alone.”
“Doesn’t she have friends?” Nectar asked.
“Not around here. Not yet, anyway,” Christy said. She looked into Nectar’s friendly eyes and imagined how painful the last year of caring for her dying sister must have been. She sensed that Nectar somehow needed them as much as they needed her. “Did Eve tell you the circumstances of our getting Renata? Did she mention that my husband and I travel a lot for business?”
“Eve told me everything.”
“You’ll be working plenty of overtime, I’d guess. Of course, you’ll have Eve’s full support for anything you need. And there’s a maid, a chef, a driver. And I’m looking for a psychiatrist so Renata’ll have someone to talk to. This has got to be hard for her.”
“Even with all that help, I believe I can do as much for Renata as I can for you.”
“I know you can,” Christy said, giving Nectar a hug. Nectar reminded her of Maria—warm and loving, but formidable at the same time. “Now, I must get to the office. I haven’t been there in weeks, and I’m dying to get back in the saddle.”
“‘To business that we love we rise betime and go to it with delight,’” Nectar quoted.
“Shakespeare?” Christy asked.
“Yes, Antony and Cleopatra. I just love that William Shakespeare,” Nectar said, chuckling. “He had such a way with words.”
“Maybe you can teach Renata to love him, too.”
“It’d be my pleasure.”
“Eve’ll be here in a few minutes to show you the drill. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“Don’t you worry about Nectar Freedom, darlin’. You just scoot. Go to work. And don’t give Renata a second thought.”
Don’t give Renata a second thought. Those were the most beautiful words Christy had heard in a long time. But five seconds after the wave of relief came the pang of guilt about feeling relieved.
DEAR DIARY,
I JUST MET MY NANNY, NECTER, WHO SEEMS OK IF I HAVE TO BE BABYSAT. CHRISTY’S ANSWER TO ANY PROBLEM (SUCH AS ME) IS TO GET ANOTHER SERVANT. WHY DOES SHE NEED SO MANY, DEAR DIARY? NO ONE’S EVER HOME TO MESS ANYTHING UP. THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN CHRISTY’S BUILDING ARE MEAN. THERE ARE NO KIDS. NOBODY SMILES. THE ONLY GOOD PERSON SO FAR IS MRS. DAMILL. SHE’S OLD AND SHE SITS IN THE LOBBY EVERY DAY WEARING GLOVES AND A CHURCH HAT LIKE SHE’S WAITING FOR COMPANY. BUT NO ONE COMES SO I SIT WITH HER AND WE TALK ABOUT TV SHOWS AND OUR DEEPEST FEELINGS. I TOLD HER ABOUT GRANDMA. SHE TOLD ME ABOUT BIRDY. HE WAS THE LOVE OF HER LIFE AND THEY MET WHEN SHE WAS 88 BUT HE DIED THE NEXT YEAR. CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW TRAJIC THAT IS?
MR. DRUMMOND IS NEVER AROUND. WHEN HE DOES COME HOME, HE GOES TO HIS LIBRARY OR BEDROOM WHERE KIDS (SUCH AS ME) ARE NOT ALLOWED. HE AND CHRISTY EAT DINNER BY THEMSELVES EVERY NIGHT. I EAT IN THE KITCHEN WITH YOK WAH. I WISH MR. DRUMMOND WOULD SAY HI JUST ONCE. HOW DOES HE EXPECT TO BE A GOOD FATHER IF HE NEVER TALKS TO ME?
YOUR LONELY FRIEND,
RENATA RUIZ
She Works Hard for the Money
When Christy arrived at Baby G’s tenth-floor offices, her first ur
ge was to kiss the ground, but instead she planted a big smacker right on the receptionist’s forehead. It had been almost three weeks since she’d set foot in the place. First, she had gone to Madrid to work through a retailing deal with Déjà Blue, the new chain that was sweeping the youth market all over Europe. That was followed by the aborted trip to Davos. Then, Maria’s death and all it had entailed. At this moment, in the safety of her office, among people who had worked for her from the beginning, Christy felt she was home. Here, she knew what she was doing. She was in control. Her apartment was no longer the safe haven it used to be.
As she walked through the sea of desks in the communal workspace, employees looked up and smiled. A few came over to greet Christy and welcome her back. She felt like hugging every last one of them. They fed her soul. Christy walked into her office, which would more appropriately be called a suite, though it was hardly elegant. To her surprise, there was Katherine, sitting at her desk and surrounded by the agency team. “Am I interrupting something?” Christy asked.
Katherine jumped. “Oh God! She’s ba-ack.” Katherine ran over and gave Christy a big hug. “We didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Hey, what can I say? I escaped. What are you guys meeting about?”
“One second. Let me introduce you to Skip Heller. He’ll be writing that article about you for Wall Street Week. He was shadowing me today to get oriented.”
Skip walked over to Christy and shook her hand. His grasp was firm, but his palm was so clammy that Christy unconsciously wiped her hand off on her skirt. Dressed in jeans, Skip was a short, compact guy who obviously spent his off hours in the gym. He wore a Yankees cap to cover his thinning hair. He had on Nike running shoes, which irritated Christy to no end. Would he follow the president of Pepsi around while sipping a can of Coke? She thought not.
“Great to meet you,” he said. “Didn’t expect to have the pleasure so soon. You don’t mind if I sit in?”
“No, of course not.” Christy walked over to Katherine and the agency people. “Looks like I’m just in time. What’s going on?”
“We’re reviewing the new campaign,” Katherine said.
“We’re doing a new campaign? Since when?”
“Why don’t you tell her, Jack?” Jack Malone was Ogilvy’s SVP on the account. He showed up only for high-level discussions and major presentations when someone with his keen strategic mind and $500-per-hour billing rate was warranted. Christy was surprised to see him meeting with Katherine, who focused mostly on operations and finance, not marketing. She wondered why Spencer White, her VP of advertising, wasn’t there.
“Here, here, sit,” Katherine said, gesturing to Christy’s chair and taking a seat on the other side of the desk. “We think it’s time to retire the old campaign. It’s been thirteen years since you ran in the Olympics, and our younger audience doesn’t know who you are.”
Christy felt the bottom of her stomach fall out. Before she had time to think, she spoke. “Everyone knows who I am. I’m like Frank Perdue. He’s chicken, I’m sports. I’m the brand. I’m Baby G.”
“Yes, but they retired Frank Perdue,” Katherine said. “And then he died, poor soul.” She gave Christy a pleading look. “At least take a look at this. Consider it.”
Jack continued. “Christy, you’ve always encouraged us to be straight with you. So we aren’t going to sugarcoat what we learned. The new research shows that consumers do identify you with the brand, but most don’t connect your athletic and business achievements. And for those who do, you’re not relevant anymore.”
“Not as an athlete, anyway,” Katherine interjected.
“She’s right,” Jack said. “Eight focus groups can’t be wrong. They see you as so thirteen years ago, if you don’t mind my saying, nothing personal of course. So, we’re recommending a new approach. Let’s lock up the seven American athletes most likely to bring home gold next summer. We can get them now for a song. But after they win, we won’t be able to touch them. We’ll hire a photographer to photograph the athletes’ perfect bodies, their faces in shadow—someone like Annie Leibovitz. The tag line will read “Body by Baby G.” Everyone’ll want to know who inhabits each mind-blowing bod. Only at the end of the campaign will we reveal. If the advertising moves the meter as we expect, we’ll choose seven more athletes to represent us as the year progresses. The photographs will be breathtaking; kids everywhere will hang them on their walls. Dieters will post them on their refrigerators for motivation. They’ll decorate every gym in America. Consumers will associate perfect physiques with everything Baby G sells.”
“The focus groups loved it, especially the women, and they’re eighty-three percent of our market,” Katherine added.
“I know what our female market share is,” Christy said.
“I think it’s worth a test,” Katherine added. “If it doesn’t deliver, we’ll consider it a short-term campaign and go back to our old imagery.” The agency people nodded their heads in perfect choreographed agreement.
“You guys have certainly been busy while I was away. I’m impressed,” Christy said evenly. “When did you field the new research, Jack?”
“It’s been several months. You were on your honeymoon, I think.”
“I told you about it,” Katherine said.
“I don’t remember,” Christy replied.
“You must have been distracted by Michael. Anyway, do you like it?” Katherine asked.
“What’ll it cost?”
“About two million all in. We have to secure the athletes and the photographer. Media expenses will be the same as they otherwise would have been.”
“And you’re certain this will deliver more than two million in contribution?”
“We’ll set up comparative test markets and measure,” Jack explained. “You can decide whether to roll it out permanently based on quantitative results.”
“What does Spencer think of the campaign? He is the VP of advertising,” Christy asked.
“I decided not to involve him yet. This was such an important decision that I wanted your input first.”
“You guys have thought of everything. Let me consider it.”
You Gotta Have Friends
Katherine returned after walking the agency team out. She sat across from Christy. Skip Heller, the reporter, quietly made himself at home on the couch, trying to blend in with the upholstery. “Gee, Katherine, I wish you’d given me some warning about this. I had no idea you wanted to be so involved in marketing.”
“I was planning to tell you as soon as you came in. No one expected you today.”
“Well, my nanny started, so I was able to get away.”
“Really? Where’d you find her?”
“Eve put an ad in the Irish Echo.”
“You should have used an agency. They screen for you,” Katherine said.
“Well, Nectar seems terrific. I’m happy with her.”
“Yes, but what do you really know about her? You’d better get a nanny-cam. That’s what I use.”
“Alex is a teenager. Wouldn’t she tell you if her nanny was mistreating her?”
“Christy, Christy, Christy,” Katherine said, shaking her head. “My naïve friend. Nannies steal all the time. In fact, I’m going to give you my nanny-cam. Blondell’s been with me for five years so I don’t need it anymore. I’ll drop it off at your house this weekend and teach you how to use it.”
“I don’t think so, Katherine. What if she catches me taping her? I’m just not comfortable—”
“The camera’s hidden in a clock radio. She’ll never know. Every new mother does this, Christy.” Katherine looked over at Skip Heller, who was taking notes. “She’s a new mother; she needs my guidance, as you can see.”
“Okay, okay, fine, whatever,” Christy said, changing the subject. “So tell me again why you’re so involved in the marketing campaign?”
“The agency brought this to us proactively. I babysat the project while you were away. You have no idea how happy I a
m to give it back.” She did seem relieved that Christy had returned.
“I’m not sure how I feel about stepping down as spokesperson,” Christy said, knowing exactly how she felt about it. But how could she say so in front of Skip?
“I’m not sure how I feel about it, either. But the numbers will tell us if it’s time to retire the old campaign. You gotta check your ego at the door on this one.” Katherine flashed her most sympathetic girlfriend smile.
“I guess.” At least Katherine understood how hard this was. Christy hadn’t realized how much it meant to her to be a well-known face. She knew that wasn’t enough of a reason to ignore a good idea.
“Let’s talk about something more important. How do you like being a mother?” Katherine asked.
“Oh my God. It’s such a challenge. What do I know about being a mother, especially an Upper East Side mom? They’re like from another planet. You know where I could really use your help?”
“Where?”
“We have to get Renata into a private school. Steven is driving her an hour each way to her old school in Queens. I’d feel better if she was in the neighborhood. Plus, she needs to make friends in Manhattan. What was that girls’ school Alex is going to?”
“Colby.”
“Would it be hard to get Renata in?”
“You mean now? You want to transfer her now?”
“If possible.”
“What grade is she in?”
“Fifth.”
“No way. It’s impossible to get a kid in midyear, unless someone moved and there just happens to be an extra space. And Colby is the most in-demand girls’ school in the city. I’ll call the head of admissions, but don’t get your hopes up. Does the kid have good grades?”
“Renata. Her name’s Renata. She has straight A’s. That won’t be an issue.”
Katherine’s eyes widened, and her mouth formed a wise and knowing O. “Are there issues?”
“Only insofar as her grandmother just died, she’s adjusting to a new family, Michael has mixed feelings about her, and her prepubescent hormones are starting to rage.”