It was three o’clock. A small group of brown-skinned nannies in white uniforms gathered to await their charges. The young French and Swedish au pairs, whose like journeyed to New York every year to improve their English and see the world, stood in another group awaiting the children in their care. By far the biggest crowd was the size-two stay-at-home Mommies (size zero if they were European), ready to greet their daughters as they emerged from the mansion they called school. The Mommies all wore different versions of the same outfit—expensive khaki pants, Chanel ballet slippers, French striped T-shirts, white cardigans, and modest pearls. Christy realized instantly that her outfit was outside the dress code.
The uniformed darlings flooded out the front door, anxious to get to their after-school ballet, tennis, piano, and horse-riding lessons. The Mommies hugged their daughters and asked about the day. Girls gave the Mommies handmade pictures or spelling tests marked “excellent.” The Mommies told the girls how proud they were and turned toward home, where nannies waited behind co-op doors, ready to give their young charges a healthy snack before lessons.
Christy stood in the neutral zone equidistant between the Mommies and the nannies, waiting for Renata to emerge. Out of nowhere, an exquisite blonde wearing a tweed orange-and-cream-check Escada suit with periwinkle python-print boots came running up to Christy. She was as striking as a runway model. “Am I too late? Are they out?” She spoke with an English accent.
Christy smiled, delighted that someone was talking to her. “A few are. But my daughter hasn’t…uhm.”
“Whew. I thought I was late.” She pointed to her jaw. “Root canal.”
“Ouch,” Christy said. “I’m Christy Hayes.”
“Andrea Hyatt. Happy to meet you,” she gushed. “You look terribly familiar to me. Do I know you? Are you one of my kind?”
Christy figured she had seen her picture on billboards, but she didn’t want to talk about that. “Your kind? What do you mean?”
“A working girl,” Andrea whispered.
Christy looked down at her power suit. “Yes, I do. I mean I was. No more. It’s a long story. I guess you work, too.”
“Used to until I married Heinz Wendt. Not anymore.”
“The financier?”
“Yes. He insisted I quit. Wanted my full attention like a good trophy wife,” she laughed. “But I’m a working girl at heart.”
“So how come you don’t dress like them?” Christy motioned with her head toward the Mommies.
“Normally I do. I have a special wardrobe just for pickup. But I had breakfast with old friends at J. P. Morgan before the dentist. You can’t go to Wall Street wearing the Mummy outfit.”
“I guess I’ll have to buy some of those,” Christy said.
“You must. Otherwise, people will talk. They’ll say you look like a Dalton mum.”
“And that’s bad?” Christy asked.
“Not bad if your child goes to Dalton. But if you’re a Colby mum, it’s social suicide. Tell you what.” Andrea dug around in her purse and pulled out a diamond-encrusted compact. She handed Christy an engraved personal card with her contact information. “Call me. I’ll take you shopping for everything you’ll need to fit in. We’ll have fun.”
“Thanks. I’ve had a terrible day. Your kindness means so—” Christy unexpectedly burst into tears.
Andrea put her arm around Christy and led her away from the crowd. “Whatever you do, love, don’t ever let them see you cry. They’ll start gossiping about what you’re upset about and next thing you know, everyone’ll be saying you’re sleeping with another mum’s husband.”
Christy looked behind her and noticed Brownie standing across the courtyard with one of her girls. Remembering that Wall Street Week had today accused her of sleeping with Colby’s number-one Mummy’s husband, she pulled herself together. “You’re right.”
The front door opened and a river of identically navy-clad little girls spilled out, at least a hundred of them. They talked on cell phones, gossiped in tight cliques, and hit each other with their book bags. Christy scanned the sea of bobbing heads in search of the one that belonged to her.
“Christy Hayes. Do my eyes deceive me?” Renata cautiously approached. She looked stunned. “Did Nectar die?”
“No, of course not. I just wanted to pick you up.”
“But why?”
“Do I need a reason to pick up my little girl?”
“No,” Renata ventured. “Wait. Is that a trick question?”
“I see my daughter,” Andrea said. She put her thumb to her ear and her pinkie to her lips and mouthed the words “call me” as she ran to catch her little girl, who was cart-wheeling across the courtyard.
“So, how was school today?” Christy asked.
“Fine,” Renata said.
“Just fine?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you learn anything interesting?”
“No,” Renata said as she climbed into the backseat. “Let me clue you in, Christy. Ask me something like ‘what was the most unexpected thing you learned today’ so I can’t give you a yes or no answer. That’s what the other mothers do.”
“Ah, okay. What was the most unexpected thing you learned today?”
“Dunno,” Renata said.
Christy couldn’t help but laugh and was pretending to strangle the kid when Andrea ran up to the car and knocked on the window. “Christy, there’s something you need to know.”
“What?”
“If you’re going to have your driver bring you to school, have him park around the corner. I don’t care, but everyone else thinks it’s gauche to have a chauffeur.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, no, really. Trust me. It’s kind of a rule.”
“Don’t most of these families have drivers?”
“Of course. But they’re discreet about it. When you go around the corner, you’ll see all their limos and town cars lined up. But never in front. Never.”
“Wow. Thanks for warning me. Can I ask why?”
“Haven’t a clue,” Andrea said. “It’s one of the many mysteries of Colby. Ta-ta, darling.”
DEAR DIARY,
DON’T FAINT BUT CHRISTY STOPPED WORKING. SHE’S STAYING HOME TO BE MY MOTHER FULL TIME. SAY IT’S NOT SO!!! NOW SHE WALKS ME TO SCHOOL AND PICKS ME UP. SHE WEARS THAT SAME WEERD OUTFIT ALL THE OTHER MOMS WEAR. SHE SIGNED
