The Nanny Diaries

I wish I could tell the women tacking up their flyers at the Parents League that the secret isn't the decoration, it's the punctuation. My own three-by-five card is minimalist, but I sprinkle it with exclamation marks, promising unflagging positivity. *Nanny at the Ready! Child Development Major at NYU!* The only thing I don't have is an umbrella that makes me fly. I don't have to wait long. A chance encounter in Central Park, where a small boy in a sailor suit named Grayer crashes his wooden hoop into my legs, leads to a discreet exchange with his mother. “I'm Mrs. X,” she says, slipping my number into her pocket before rejoining her husband for their contrived family portrait.

The job begins with a briefing over croissants, where I learn I am to keep Grayer away from refined flour and that my predecessor, Caitlin, is mysteriously “cutting her hours.” Grayer greets me with a simple, “Go away.” In our first week, he locks me out of the apartment, screaming through the door that his mother said I never have to come back. I learn to be Glinda the Good Witch, a whirlwind of light and clarity, only showing the Wicked Witch of the West when he crosses a line. He slowly warms, letting me call him “Grover” and allowing me into his world, a place where he never goes anywhere without his father's dirty, worn business card pinned to his belt loop.

My duties quickly expand beyond childcare. I am a personal shopper, party planner, and errand runner, tasked with missions for things like “LAVENDER WATER” in all caps, as if her life depends on it. I am gifted a cell phone, less a perk than a leash for last-minute demands about the wrong shade of toile hand towels for a guest bathroom. When Mrs. X needs me to hunt down a reservation for Valentine's Day, I am on the phone with my own new interest - a boy from the eleventh floor I call Harvard Hottie - when she clicks in. “Don't say the kitchen thing right away,” she instructs, coaching me on how to beg for a table. “See if they have something better and then, you know, if there isn't anything better, then ask about the kitchen.”

The family's dysfunction comes into sharp focus at the company Halloween party. Mr. X, a man I've only glimpsed behind the *Wall Street Journal*, finally materializes. Grayer and I are stuffed into matching Teletubby costumes, while Mrs. X, after a frantic attempt to dress as a lioness, opts for a Jil Sander pantsuit. The party is a surreal affair of bankers in black and nannies in enormous, sweltering costumes. It's there I overhear the truth: Caitlin didn't quit; Mrs. X fired her for requesting a week off. Later, searching for a bathroom, Grayer and I push open his father's office door. “Well, hello there, Grayer,” a woman's voice says. Mr. X flips on a lamp, revealing the redhead from the Chicago office, Lisa Chenowith, dressed in fishnets, a leotard, and a bowler hat. “She's not wearing any pants,” Grayer observes quietly.

Soon after, while the Xes are away, I arrive to fill the humidifiers and find Ms. Chicago in their apartment, hosting a romantic dinner for Mr. X. “You run home and tell your boss that you found me here,” she says, her eyes flashing, “and all you'll be doing is saving me the trouble of leaving behind a pair of panties.” Weeks later, an envelope arrives at my apartment containing not only a wad of cash but a black lace thong, with a note asking me to stock the fridge with foie gras and oysters for Mr. X's return.

The world of the Xes continues to unravel. Grayer gets a terrible case of the croup, and with his parents unreachable, I spend a night in a steamy bathroom with him on my lap, his wheezing cries of “I want my mommmmmm” echoing my own exhaustion. When the school rejection letters arrive, Mrs. X hires a “Long-term Development Consultant” who questions whether I'm “leveraging my assets to escalate Grayer's performance.” The family meeting to break the news to Grayer ends in a vicious fight, with Mr. X storming out and Grayer sobbing against the front door, begging his father not to leave.

I learn from Harvard Hottie that the current Mrs. X was once the mistress who broke up Mr. X's first marriage. The pattern becomes sickeningly clear as Ms. Chicago's phone calls become more frequent, more desperate. I discover a Nannycam hidden in Grayer's teddy bear. The tension culminates in a two-week trip to a ramshackle rental in Nantucket. The house is constantly filled with the children of their friends, all left in my care. Mr. X spends his time on the phone or flirting with a new divorcée at a barbecue. Ms. Chicago calls his cell, which he's given to me, and I find myself trying to talk sense into a crying woman I barely know. “There is nothing good here,” I tell her, looking out at the joyless party.

The final night, after Grayer has fallen and cried for me instead of his mother, Mrs. X makes a stunning announcement to her husband across the living room. “I'm pregnant,” she says, her voice like steel. It's a checkmate. Then she turns to me. “Frankly, Nanny, I just don't feel that your heart's in it anymore.” She fires me on the spot, refusing to let me wake Grayer to say good-bye. “Better not to wake him,” she hisses, grabbing my arm as I reach for his forehead.

Mr. X drives me to the ferry in silence, leaving me at the deserted dock with a check for a fraction of what I'm owed and a puppy they'd bought for Grayer that he didn't want. But I can't leave it like that. I let myself back into their silent, dark apartment. I find the Nannycam bear, record a message, and leave the tape on the glass table in the foyer. “Grayer loves you,” I tell the tiny lens. “He just wants you there. Wanting him. And time is running out.” I leave their keys and walk out for the last time, the puppy tucked under my arm. As the sun rises over Central Park, I walk to the reservoir. I name the puppy Grace, and with a final, liberating motion, I hurl their cell phone into the water.