little in common with the other women, so when, a few months ago she heard of a fantastic Brazilian babysitter who was looking for a job, she almost sank to her knees in gratitude.
No more waiting outside the classroom for Emma! No more feeling like an old woman who doesn’t fit in. No more forcing a smile on her face as the other mothers chatter about shared group playdates, to which Charlie hasn’t been invited. Not that she would have necessarily wanted to go, but how awkward she feels, standing there, leaning against the wall, knowing that she isn’t wanted.
Her life, these past six months, has been glorious. She still takes Emma to school every day, but drops her off in the car park, and the teachers, waiting with sign-in sheets, escort her into the building. Now she can get away with a friendly wave and smile at the young mothers, all waiting in line in their SUVs to drop their children, while Amanda is at home, cleaning up the breakfast mess.
And now Amanda is the one who waits outside the classroom door, Amanda is the one who takes Emma to her classes, to the museum, to playdates, bringing her home every day at around three. Amanda is the one who will collect Paige from school on days she has activities, who will sit and chat to other nannies while Paige hits softball.
And then it is Charlie’s turn, and Amanda goes off to study, for she is at school in the mornings.
But there have been a few hiccups with Amanda. Nothing serious, but one of the other mothers phoned her the other day to say that Amanda was always late, and that Emma was often the last one in the class to be picked up, and her little face was so sad.
It was sod’s law that it was this mother who should be the one to be there when Amanda was late. She was one of the über mothers—a different breed to the wealthy women in town. She didn’t have a nanny, claiming she would never bestow the care of her children to another; however, it was her financial situation that prevented her from having any childcare. She was from the Bronx, and although she had pulled herself up by her bootstraps, she could never get as high as she thought was her due. She couldn’t have kept up with the chattering classes even if she wanted to (which she desperately did): she simply didn’t have the means.
She was a gossipy, unpleasant busybody of a mother who stuck her nose into everyone’s business, who judged all the other mothers as being inferior to her, and the fact that it was this woman who rang Charlie was irritating as hell.
Charlie knew that Amanda wasn’t always as punctual as Charlie would have liked, and she sat her down and sternly told her it was unacceptable. That was at the point when Amanda actually listened to her instead of arguing back, and as far as Charlie knows, it didn’t happen again.
Then there is the issue of the locked doors. Amanda has a busier social life than Charlie has ever had, and as a consequence is always the last one in the house.
“You must lock the back door,” Charlie has said, repeatedly, only to come down most mornings and find the door unlocked.
So it is mostly little things that bother her: climbing into the car to find there is no gas. Nothing. Barely enough to get to the gas station, and Amanda was the last one to drive it, not thinking of filling the tank for the next person.
Leaving the car window open so the rain soaks the seats, or leaving the sun roof open to do the same.
Helping herself to a healthy wedge of fruit pie that was sitting, perfect, in the fridge, waiting to be served at a dinner party that night.
But there are more pros than cons, Charlie has to concede. If only she’d remember to put up the goddamned car window.
“Hey!” Tracy looks up from the desk at the front of the yoga center, hesitates for just a split second before running over to give Kit the requisite hug.
“How was the date? ”
“It was good.” Kit is cautious, waiting to see if Tracy volunteers that she was
No more waiting outside the classroom for Emma! No more feeling like an old woman who doesn’t fit in. No more forcing a smile on her face as the other mothers chatter about shared group playdates, to which Charlie hasn’t been invited. Not that she would have necessarily wanted to go, but how awkward she feels, standing there, leaning against the wall, knowing that she isn’t wanted.
Her life, these past six months, has been glorious. She still takes Emma to school every day, but drops her off in the car park, and the teachers, waiting with sign-in sheets, escort her into the building. Now she can get away with a friendly wave and smile at the young mothers, all waiting in line in their SUVs to drop their children, while Amanda is at home, cleaning up the breakfast mess.
And now Amanda is the one who waits outside the classroom door, Amanda is the one who takes Emma to her classes, to the museum, to playdates, bringing her home every day at around three. Amanda is the one who will collect Paige from school on days she has activities, who will sit and chat to other nannies while Paige hits softball.
And then it is Charlie’s turn, and Amanda goes off to study, for she is at school in the mornings.
But there have been a few hiccups with Amanda. Nothing serious, but one of the other mothers phoned her the other day to say that Amanda was always late, and that Emma was often the last one in the class to be picked up, and her little face was so sad.
It was sod’s law that it was this mother who should be the one to be there when Amanda was late. She was one of the über mothers—a different breed to the wealthy women in town. She didn’t have a nanny, claiming she would never bestow the care of her children to another; however, it was her financial situation that prevented her from having any childcare. She was from the Bronx, and although she had pulled herself up by her bootstraps, she could never get as high as she thought was her due. She couldn’t have kept up with the chattering classes even if she wanted to (which she desperately did): she simply didn’t have the means.
She was a gossipy, unpleasant busybody of a mother who stuck her nose into everyone’s business, who judged all the other mothers as being inferior to her, and the fact that it was this woman who rang Charlie was irritating as hell.
Charlie knew that Amanda wasn’t always as punctual as Charlie would have liked, and she sat her down and sternly told her it was unacceptable. That was at the point when Amanda actually listened to her instead of arguing back, and as far as Charlie knows, it didn’t happen again.
Then there is the issue of the locked doors. Amanda has a busier social life than Charlie has ever had, and as a consequence is always the last one in the house.
“You must lock the back door,” Charlie has said, repeatedly, only to come down most mornings and find the door unlocked.
So it is mostly little things that bother her: climbing into the car to find there is no gas. Nothing. Barely enough to get to the gas station, and Amanda was the last one to drive it, not thinking of filling the tank for the next person.
Leaving the car window open so the rain soaks the seats, or leaving the sun roof open to do the same.
Helping herself to a healthy wedge of fruit pie that was sitting, perfect, in the fridge, waiting to be served at a dinner party that night.
But there are more pros than cons, Charlie has to concede. If only she’d remember to put up the goddamned car window.
“Hey!” Tracy looks up from the desk at the front of the yoga center, hesitates for just a split second before running over to give Kit the requisite hug.
“How was the date? ”
“It was good.” Kit is cautious, waiting to see if Tracy volunteers that she was
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