CASSIDY is six months old, and he's already beginning to crawl. (Yes, Cassidy's a boy--thank God I'm not going to be around during those difficult, name-teasing preteen years.) His toilet trainer comes twice a week. Cassidy is proficient in BSL (baby sign language). I myself cannot speak BSL and therefore did not
68
understand that Cassidy wanted a bottle rather than a cuddle, which resulted in major vomit. Vomit is gross in all languages.
Seriously, they're all adorable, and their mom is surprisingly down-to-earth considering she lives in a thirty-thousand-square-foot house. We'll see how long it lasts.
personal notes
Taking care of kids isn't my entire life. I'm also here at the beach with my two best friends in the whole world, and between the three of us, we have a lot of fun and get into a lot of trouble. (Not necessarily in that order.)
E. is a designer diva, probably the best-dressed gal on the Atlantic coast. She's blond, gorgeous, funny, and will lend you the Pucci shift off her back--a girl after my own heart. She's opening her own store in the Hamptons this summer and has asked me to model at the opening! Me? Model? Bet you really wish I had a webcam now, huh?
J. is a South American sexpot, as well as one of the sweetest, nicest girls I've ever met. She's been unlucky in love in the past, and I've noticed she's been a bit subdued since we arrived. Every time I turn around, she's googling "Pete Rockwood, Indianapolis" on the computer. I asked her what the deal was, but she wouldn't tell me. No worries--J. will spill when she's ready. She's not one to keep secrets from friends. Unless, of course, it's about how one's
69
boyfriend fooled around with one's other best friend a couple of years ago. But that's an old story and all is forgiven between the three of us. Seriously. Said ex-boyfriend is old news. Ancient history. Totally. Anyway, moving on . . .
My boyfriend D. and I have been together for almost a year. We were supposed to spend the summer in Europe together, but alas, as they say--"the best-laid plans of mice and men ..." or "Life happens when you're busy making plans." Anyway, who knew that passports can expire? Last I saw him he was hightailing it to gate 24 in terminal 3 at JFK. He has sent a number of apologetic e-mails and texts but has yet to call. Should I give him the cold shoulder when he does ring? Or fake happiness? Which is more likely to prompt gifts of handmade Belgian chocolates?
Till next time,
HamptonsAuPair1
70
JACQUI MEETS THE BOYS FROM OZ
JACQUI GLIDED DOWN MAIN STREET, ENJOYING THE
warm sunshine and colorful shop windows and almost forgetting the troop of children trailing her. A sweeping boulevard lined with weeping willow trees, rustic shingled cottages, and hand-painted signs as far as the eye could see, Main Street could have been in any quaint New England town. Filled as it was with dog-walking, child-toting parents, it was impossible to believe that this was one of the most fashionable places on earth. But on closer inspection, those tiny cottages actually housed storefronts for flashy designer labels and expensive apothecary stores, the dogs were hypoallergenic purebreds, and the children's play clothes were made from imported French cotton.
All three Finnemore boys were happily licking generous ice cream cones as they marched behind Jacqui in an orderly fashion. Logan and Jackson were quietly discussing the merits of last night's Hannity & Colmes debate, while Wyatt was devouring as much ice cream as possible while making sure not to spill any on
71
his stubby little chin. She smiled, feeling a bit like Julie Andrews's Maria in The Sound of Music, the well-loved nanny with her rosy-cheeked, happy troop. Of course, Maria never wore sexy white Stella McCartney jumpers like the one she had on. But then again, Maria was a nun.
Jacqui stopped to look at a Calypso display in one of the cottage windows, admiring a handwoven leather belt. Without her having to tell them to, the boys immediately stopped behind her, waiting patiently.
Just as she had predicted, the kids were an easy bunch to manage. Their first week had been hassle- and trouble-free, with nary a tantrum or a toy thrown. In fact, the little boys were so serious Jacqui hoped to shake them up a bit. Violet was so studious she hardly ever went outside. Even the baby never cried. Well behaved was one thing, but these kids were so calm they were practically Stepford. Jacqui, trying to squeeze some fun into the kids' challenging schedule, had brought them to the ice cream counter as a treat, and they'd looked almost bewildered when she told them they could get anything they wanted.
Jacqui leaned in toward the show window, shading her eyes with her hand to block the reflection off the well-polished glass. The store had some beautiful things, and she immediately missed being able to buy what she wanted without worrying how much it cost. Payday was a few weeks off, and Jacqui knew exactly how she wanted to spend it: in their short jaunt, she'd made a mental note of the floaty sundresses at Tracy Feith, the
72
newest thong sandals at Scoop, and a wallet-busting crocodile bag from Georgina.
Jacqui sighed. Those were things she wanted, all right, but she knew she wouldn't buy them. Suzy was paying her handsomely, and Jacqui intended to save every penny of it just to be safe. She'd had the rug pulled out from her once already this summer, and she wanted to have backup plans for her backup plans.
"I'm dripping," Wyatt whined, startling Jacqui from her reverie. "I tried to stop it from melting, but I couldn't."
"Oh no, sweetie." Jacqui bent down to help dab the front of his shirt, which was covered with sticky ice cream residue.
They had run out of napkins a few blocks back, so Jacqui rifled in her handbag for suitable alternatives. She came across the invite to Eliza's store opening that night--Eliza probably wouldn't be too happy to find out her invite was being used to wipe a five-year-old's face, but what she didn't know couldn't hurt her. Jacqui squatted down and began to gently wipe off Wyatt's face with the soft paper, crouching so low that the short-shorts on her jumper rode even farther up her thighs, and bending so far forward that she was dangerously close to revealing to the world that she was not wearing a bra underneath her eyelet top. She was almost done cleaning him when she heard the distinctive click of a camera shutter.
Jacqui jumped at the sound, teetering on her wooden Chloe wedges. Meu Deus! Was it the paparazzi again? But what would they want with her? She'd been keeping a low profile ever since Eliza's impromptu beach fashion show last summer. The camera