I smile at the sound of his voice. “I can hear you three.” Sitting up in bed, I let out a long stretch. “Is it too late for breakfast? I was really hungry for brain cereal!”
Gus and Jack shriek and run back to the main house with Mary stomping behind them. “Cindy doesn’t eat brains!” she tells them.
After I brush my teeth and spray some dry shampoo in my roots, I pop open my trunk to choose a pair of shoes. I don’t have many rules, but the first and most important among them is: shoes first.
I settle on my black Comme des Garçons Converse high-tops from the PLAY series with a red heart with eyes creeping up the side, and grab a yellow-checkered sundress from my carry-on that I managed to snag at a little plus-size resale shop in Brooklyn.
My first day as a nanny isn’t really a first day since it’s Saturday and Erica made me promise to sleep in. (Apparently, I’m a woman of my word.)
What I don’t expect when I walk toward the kitchen is to find Anna and Drew frantically planning an epic shopping trip while they guzzle pressed juice. Erica is sitting at the formal dining room table with two laptops and three phones. Beside her is Beck, who looks like she definitely did not sleep since I last saw her.
“Whoa, did I just walk into mission control?”
“Good morning! Good afternoon!” says Erica.
“We brought you a green juice,” says Anna, not looking up from her iPad as she and Drew map out their plan of attack.
“Oooh, thank you,” I say, though I think I might need something a little more substantial than pressed juice.
I find the triplets with their noses pressed to screens while they play games and watch videos on YouTube of other kids playing with toys—something I’m not sure I can actually wrap my head around. “Okay, who wants some grilled cheese?”
The three of them turn to me, practically drooling.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I head into the kitchen, making sure to crack open my green juice, and start an assembly line of bread, cheese, and mayo. (Mayo is better on grilled cheese than butter. Prove me wrong. I dare you.) Soon, the smell of the sizzling cheese creates an audience, and just like that I’m making eight sandwiches instead of four.
When Beck’s sandwich is almost ready, she settles onto a barstool opposite me on the other side of the island. “Erica tells me you’re designing shoes now?”
I flip a grilled cheese over and try not to scoff. “I wouldn’t say actively. Right this moment, I’m making grilled cheese.” I glance up to Erica on the other side of the vast open-concept living/dining room, who has a phone wedged into the crook of her shoulder, a pencil between her teeth, and her fingers hovering above her keyboard.
“And doing a mighty fine job,” Beck tells me.
“Glad to hear it.” I sigh. “But yeah, I went to school for design. Shoes. And clothes. And handbags. And anything I could fill the pages of my sketch pad with. But shoes were my first love.”
“You’re a real find, Cindy.” Beck leans across the island, and her voice drops a few octaves. “You should know I wasn’t kidding about you joining the show.”
I shake my head and tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “I’m not cut out for reality television. Besides, you heard Erica.”
“Leave Erica to me,” she says.
“You sure that’s safe?” I ask with a raised brow.
She shrugs. “Who better to convince the master than her apprentice?”
I slide Erica’s grilled cheese onto a plate and run it over to her.
“Think about it,” Beck says when I return. “Most of the girls that go on this show don’t show up for love. They’re there for exposure. Their big break. There’s nothing wrong with that. You think the suitor’s intentions are always pure? This could be huge for you as a designer. Audiences would love you.”
“Erica seems to think differently,” I say under my breath. Besides, I don’t really have much to offer as a designer at the moment.
Beck leans in even closer. “Erica is scared,” she says as though she knows exactly what I’m talking about. “She’s iconic. I idolize her. But when you’re an idol, you don’t have to take risks. It’s time for America to see women of all shapes and sizes go after their dreams.”
“I wouldn’t say my dream is some random dude who’s looking to up his status with a starring role on a dating show with over twenty other women….”
“Can you even fathom what it’s like to go to bed one night totally normal and wake up the next morning with your name on the tip of the entire world’s tongue? You want the world to see your work? What better way than once a week on primetime television?”
That’s enough to make me pause. I’ve spent the last four years in and out of internships, just praying that someone’s assistant would take me seriously or that I’d get two seconds of face time with a brand director who could give me at least an ounce of feedback. And last year felt even more desperate as I secretly hoped that every person I met would be the one to spark that creative flame for me again.
