“No one in the business works harder than that man,” Paula said. “They all say he’s a mindless party animal, but I will kindly beg to differ.”
That may be well and good, but I didn’t see a minute in there for him to be a father. Not that it was any of my business. Naturally.
I changed the subject. “If he needs to schedule a school tour or interview for her, do I go to you?”
“Yes,” Paula said, back to baseline. “It’s for everyone. By my heart, it’s not to create any distance between you and him. But he’s awfully busy so we worked out a system. I’m your go-to for schedule changes and requests. You can speak to him anytime. Open-door policy is what he said, but just please ask me first all right?”
Blakely and I nodded. We’d seen this before. If I was being honest with myself, the farther I was from Brad Sinclair, the better.
Paula moved to the next sheet in the folder. “We have a lovely two-bedroom pool house on the property with a really nice kitchen. You’ll each have a room. Now, if you look on page three, I worked out a schedule I sure hope you like.” She pulled the last sheet out of the left side of her folder and Blakely and I did the same. “I set it up like my daddy’s. He was a fireman. Forty-eight hours on, forty-eight hours off. During shift hours you’re on call from ten at night to six in the morning. If you need to switch between yourselves, I say . . . let’s keep it friendly. Just switch it. Except . . .” She drew out the last “e” and pursed her lips. “You ladies are going to be living with us so let’s not have anything be uncomfortable. We’re all girls here. Right?” She flipped her wrist at Blakely.
“I pride myself on my girlishness,” Blakely said in a very not-girlish way.
Paula jumped right in. “Blueberry Trudeau’s birthday party fell on your shift. That has to be switched. Don’t you think?”
“I understand,” Blakely said flatly. Crap. This wouldn’t be the last time Nicole’s and Blueberry’s fathers crossed paths. Hopefully, Brad would keep a two-nanny rotation after I left so she could dodge stuff like this.
“That sure is a load off. Now, Miss DuMont, you can cover it, right?”
“Sure can.” I tried to match her sunny enthusiasm and came up short.
Paula leaned down and retrieved a short, neatly folded pile of new clothes in plastic bags. She slid them to me.
“What’s this?” I asked, flipping through the pile of clothes. White polo. Khaki pants.
Paula rolled her eyes and waved away more concern than I actually had. “All the nannies at the party have to wear this. It’s Marsha Trudeau. She’s got some sort of ‘problem’ so we just go along to get along. Well! Do you want to see the pool house?”
“Down to the socks?” Blakely exclaimed. “I mean, sheesh. I guess I can’t blame her. Sorry, Cara. I’ll make it up to you. Think big. A cruise. A condo in the hills.”
“I’ve worn worse. Ute Maven made all the nannies wear those mechanic pantsuits with a zipper up the front. She delivered the whole getup right down to the underpants.”
“This goes down to the bra, actually,” Paula said, standing up. “I hope I got you the right size.” She looked at her watch. “Brad will be back around two. He usually has friends over in the evenings. If you could make sure we’re bombshell-free by seven, that would be just great.”
With a big smile and a snap of a stack of folders, Paula ended the meeting.
CHAPTER 9
CARA
I liked beautiful men as much as the next girl, but I was around them all the time so their effect wore off. I thought Brad would be no different.
I kept having pool table dreams about him, and it was disconcerting. I sunk the nine on the break every time. I was naked every time. After that, they changed.
Sometimes they incorporated a gesture or word from the last time I’d seen him. Sometimes not. It was a couple of days into the job before Dream Brad penetrated me. He got me on my back on the table and stood over me. Like half of America, I’d seen him naked before. In Technicolor. In the dream I had every detail of his chest with its dash of hair across it, the drum-tight abs, the blue eyes eating me alive. I throbbed. He spread my legs and thrust into me.
I woke mid-orgasm.
He always made me wetter than I’d ever been, and, most disconcerting, I’d stopped pushing him out of my waking fantasies. I didn’t have the mental control in the morning, and I figured if I just let it be, he’d wear out his welcome in my head.
It didn’t work out that way.
CHAPTER 10
CARA
I felt solidly settled in after six days at Brad Sinclair’s. I shouldn’t have gotten settled in at all because it wasn’t a permanent job, but I couldn’t help it.
I blamed Nicole. She had an exceptionally slow large intestine and was afraid of the sound of toilets flushing. This gave us plenty of time together in bathrooms, and I did what I always did.
I got attached. Just a little. Nothing I couldn’t handle.
She crossed her ankles when she settled in for a good number two, which could last upward of eleven minutes. Her sneakers lit up when she swung them and they hit the side of the bowl.
“Done yet?” I asked on day seven, not that I was counting.
“Two more.” She held up two fingers and hummed a tune about Thumbkin. I joined her, standing by the window. Two stories below, in a little alcove with a wooden picnic table, Brad sat across from Paula. She wore a pastel pink suit jacket, but I couldn’t tell much else about her from my angle. She had a movie script in her hands.
Anyone in Hollywood could see a script a mile away. Stack of three-hole paper fastened with brass brads or a brightly colored agency cover. Courier font. The text was arranged toward the middle of the page where dialog was formatted. Action stretched across the margins and long chunks of it were unheard of. Movie scripts didn’t look like TV scripts. They were fatter and the paper was all white instead of color coded for last-minute revisions.
So. Movie script, folded to the middle. Paula’s voice lifted to the window. It had no inflection or accent whatsoever. She sounded like a machine.
Brad had his elbows on the table. Even from two stories up I could see his right leg bouncing. His entire body thrust forward in laser-like attention.
Then he said something. I was too far away to discern his words. Possibly a repetition of what the blonde said, but also completely robotically.
Not in years of working for producers and actors had I seen this method, and I thought I’d seen everything.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Nicole said from the bowl. I crouched down in front of her.
“Yes.”
She motioned me to come very close, so I leaned forward. She cupped her hands over my ear and whispered.
“I like my daddy.”
“Really? Well, that’s good. I like him too.”
I didn’t mean any more than that, but hearing myself say it in my own ears made me think a little harder about it.
Did I like him?