I stop in my tracks, praying that he wasn’t abrupt or chilly with them. “Oh?” I say. “Did he know why . . . you were there?”
“Probably,” she says. “But we didn’t discuss it . . . I didn’t want to put him in an awkward situation . . . So we just chitchatted. Talked about Longmere. And Romy made him the most generous offer to write Ruby a letter of recommendation. Told Nick she would be honored to do it. With a letter from a board member, you’re a virtual shoo-in.”
“Wow. That’s really nice,” I say.
“And I swear I didn’t raise the subject with her—it was all her idea. Isn’t she the best!”
“Yes,” I say, feeling sickened by my two-facedness. “The best.”
***
Four errands in the rain later, I return home to a disheartening domestic scene. Dirty dishes and peanut butter and jelly remnants are strewn all over the kitchen, and our family room is an explosion of dolls, puzzle pieces, and miscellaneous plastic parts. Ruby and Frank sit comatose, inches in front of the television, watching cartoons, and not the wholesome variety, but the kind rampant with lasershooting and sexism—men saving the day and helpless women with hourglass figures. There is a smear of grape jelly across Frank’s cheek, dangerously close to the arm of a taupe chair I knew I should have ordered in a darker shade, and Ruby is sporting a terry-cloth beach cover-up, despite the forty-degree, rainy day.
Meanwhile, our usual babysitter, Carolyn, a twenty-four-year-old Jessica Simpson look-alike, double Ds and all, is reclined on the couch, filing her nails and laughing into her iPhone. As I listen to her brainstorm nightclub venues for a friend’s birthday party, I marvel at her seeming inability to actually work during her measly ten hours a week in our home (as opposed to socialize, groom, snack, and obsessively e-mail and tweet) and feel a familiar brand of fury rising in my chest—an emotion I experience all too often since becoming a mother. It occurs to me to take my usual path of least resistance, nonchalantly head upstairs, pretending nothing is wrong, before speed-dialing Cate or Rachel with my standard Carolyn complaints.
But after my conversation with Nick last night, and the one with April earlier, I am in no mood to disguise my true feelings. Instead, I walk briskly past Carolyn and begin chucking toys into a wicker basket in the corner of the room. Clearly startled by my arrival, Carolyn hurries off her call, stows her nail file in the back pocket of her tight, skinny jeans, and straightens her posture. She does not, however, apologize for the mess or pitch in with my pointed cleanup effort, let alone sit up straight.
“Hi, Tessa,” she says cheerfully. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I say, wishing I had enforced a little formality when she started working for us four months ago—maybe if I were “Mrs. Russo” she’d take her job a little more seriously. I grab the remote control from the coffee table and snap off the television to a chorus of protests.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I tell the kids with my sternest voice—which of course, only makes me feel worse. It’s not their fault that their babysitter is such a slouch.
Wide-eyed and still staring at the now-black television screen, Frank thrusts his thumb into his mouth, and Ruby sniffs and says, “It was almost over.”
“I don’t care. You’re not supposed to be watching television,” I say, more for Carolyn’s benefit.
“Carolyn said we could,” Ruby retorts, an answer I couldn’t have scripted better.
I turn and give Carolyn a raised-brow look as she flashes me an innocent, aw-shucks smile.
“They were being so good. And they ate every last green bean on their plates. I just thought I’d give them a special treat,” she says, playing good cop in a way that enrages me further.
“Right, right. . . But next time, let’s stick with Disney or Nickelodeon,” I say, smiling brightly, knowing that I am enforcing a double standard. That when I’m on the phone, I’ll let them watch most anything if it means a little peace. Then again, I am not financing Carolyn’s club-hopping and extravagant shopping sprees at French Lessons so that she can be me.
“All right. Sure,” Carolyn says, as I think back to the day we interviewed her—or more accurately, I interviewed her while Nick sat distracted in the corner, pretending to be engaged in the process.