Love, Park Avenue Style

I press down the backspace button and watch as my fifth attempt at a topic sentence deletes itself letter by letter. Jean Piaget... what to say, what to say?

I slouch back, rolling my neck on the top of the chair, and stare out at the gray clouds drifting slowly above the roofs of the brown-stones across the street. George bats at my dangling hand. "Piaget," I say out loud, waiting for inspiration to hit as I dart my hand at him playfully. The phone rings and I let the machine pick it up. Either it'll be Mrs. X calling to check if I have any lifeblood she hasn't sucked yet or my mother calling to weigh in on the situation.

"Hi, this is Charlene and Nan. Leave a message."

"Hey, working girl. I just want-" My favorite voice fills the room and I reach across my desk to grab the phone.

"Hi, yourself."

"Hey! What are you doing home at one forty-three on a Tuesday?"

"What are you doing, calling me all the way from Haa-vaad, at one forty-three on a Tuesday?" I push back my chair and trace a wide circle on the hardwood floor with my socks.

"I asked you first."

"Well, turns out Jean Georges lost the Xes' reservations for Valentine's Day so she immediately sent me home with a typed-up list of four-star restaurants to harass." I look over at my backpack, where the document remains folded away.

"Why didn't she just call them herself?"

"I have long since ceased to ask why."

"So, where did you make them?"

"Nowhere! Valentine's Day is tomorrow. I suppose she's in denial that these places only take reservations thirty days in advance and that she already made me spend January fourteenth-a Sunday, thank you very much-calling them. And even then all I could get her was a ten P.M; and I had to swear to the reservationist on my firstborn that I'd have them out by eleven. Yup, no go. They'll be lucky to get a booth at Burger King." I picture Mr. X absentmindedly dunking his fries in ketchup as he reads the business section.

"So have you found the panties?"

"No. You're going to be really sad when we no longer need to talk about panties, aren't you?" He laughs.

"Actually," I continue, "yesterday we had a false alarm in which yours truly dove headfirst onto Snoopy's magician cape in a blind panic."

"They may not be black, you know. You should really try to think outside the box-they could be pastel or tiger print or see-through-"

"See! You enjoy this conversation way too much," I admonish.

"So then what are you doing if you're not making reservations or hunting panties?"

"Trying to write a paper on Jean Piaget."

"Ah, yes, Jean."

"What, you haven't heard of him? And they call that pile of bricks an Ivy League."

"Not an Ivy League, dahling, the Ivy League-" he says, affecting a Thurston Howell III lockjaw.

"Right. Well, he's the grandfather of child psychology, so to speak. I'm writing on his theory of egocentrism-how children see the physical world exclusively from their own, limited perspective."

"Sounds like your boss."

"Yes, and interestingly, she can't wash her hair by herself, either. There's probably some sort of study here. Ugh! I'm just in total procrastination mode. Being given the luxury of a whole free afternoon makes me feel like I have time to dawdle. Anyway, enough about me, to what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?"

The phone beeps loudly, interrupting him.

"-about this internship. This guy came to speak today and it was pretty amazing. He-"

BEEP.

"-war crimes in Croatia. So there's a tribunal at The Hague to

prosecute war criminals-"

BEEP. No machine to protect me now.

"I'm sorry! Hold on one sec?" I press the flash button and hold my breath.

"Nanny! I'm so glad I caught you." Mrs. X's voice brings me back from my midday rendezvous. "I'm thinking Petrossian because it's really mostly caviar and I think most people expect a full meal for this occasion. But that's fine for us! Have you already called them? You should call them next. Can you? Call them right now?"

"Sure. I'm holding with Le Cirque on the other line so-"

"Oh! Fabulous! Okay. Well, see if they even have something by the kitchen, we'll take that."

"Great. I'll let you know."

"Wait! Nanny! Well, don't say the kitchen thing right away, see if they have something better and then, you know, if there isn't anything better, then ask about the kitchen."

"Oh, okay, sure, I'll keep at it. I'll let you know as soon as I find something."

"All right. You know you can reach me on my cell, too." I sense she is getting ready, once again, to give me her number.

"Okay, great. I've got your numbers right here. Bye." I click back over. "Sorry, where were we? Something about criminals?" I move to my bed and lift George onto my stomach.

"Yeah, so I think I'm going to apply for this internship at The Hague for the summer. After this class on the conflict in Croatia it would be amazing to get closer to it, you know? To be able to do something. I mean, it's totally competitive, but I think I might give it a shot." Swoon.

"I'm swooning."

"Good." There is a warm silence between us. "Anyway, as soon as I got out of class, I had to call and tell you about it."

"Now that's the part I like."

"It sucks that you have to work Valentine's. I really want to hang out with you."

"Yeah, well, I'm not the one going to Cancun for spring break."

"Come on, how was I supposed to know I was going to meet you?"

"Don't even try to use not being psychic as a defense."

Despite the many phone calls, talking is about as far as we've gotten since the museum. First he had exams, then I had Grayer's flu-not exactly sexy. Two weekends ago he came down for the night, but Charlene's flight was canceled and I ended up making a romantic dinner for four. I thought of going up there, but he has three roommates and I refuse to have my first night with him be (a) punctuated by the sounds of Marilyn Manson blaring through the wall at three A.M. and (b) followed by a morning of watching them make coffee, using their underwear as a filter. Killing me.

BEEP.

"Shit. Sorry! Hold on one more time." I click over. "Hello??" I say, bracing myself.

"So? Is it by the kitchen?" She is slightly breathless.

"What? No, um, I'm still on hold with them."

"Petrossian?"

"No, Le Cirque. I'll call you just as soon as I get through."

"All right. But remember, don't start with the kitchen question. And I was thinking that you should try '21', it's unromantic. Maybe they'll still have something. So '21' next, okay? Well, Petrossian would be next and then '21'. Yes, '21' is my third choice."

"Great! I should get back to Le Cirque."

"Yes, yes. Call me the minute you know."

"Bye!" Deep breath. Click over. "Yes, hanging out. That would work for me."

"Good to know. Hey, I've got to run to my next class. Listen, I'll definitely be home in April for a few days, we'll figure something out. Good luck with Jean."

"Hey!" I catch him before he hangs up. "I think The Hague is really great."

"Well, I think you're really great. I'll call you later. Bye."

"Bye!" I hang up and George stretches from where he has been curled up by my head and jumps off the bed onto the floor.

The phone rings again. I stare at the machine.

"... Charlene and Nan. Please leave a message."

"This is your mother. You may not recognize me as it is not two in the morning and you do not have a suffocating child on your lap, but I assure you that I am one and the same. Listen, bud, today, tomorrow, next week, we will have this conversation. In the meantime I leave you with two little words of wisdom regarding this job of yours. 'Not okay.' I love you. Over and out." Right, this job of mine. What to do about this reservation thing?

"Grandma?"

"Darling!"

"I need to get a table for two for Valentine's dinner anywhere that they don't have paper place mats. What can you do for me?"

"Going right for the jackpot today, are we? Can't we start with something smaller, like an afternoon wearing the crown jewels?"

"I know, it's for Grayer's mom. It's a long story, but she's going to hunt me until I get her a seat somewhere."

"That earmuffs woman? She doesn't deserve the crumbs off your plate."

"I know, but can you please just wave your magic wand for me?"

"Hmm, call Maurice at Lutece and tell him I'll send him the recipe for the cheesecake next week."

"You rock, Grandma."

"No, darling, I swing. Love you."

"Love you, too." One more call and it's back to les petites ego-centrics.

The city is on Valentine's overdrive as I walk over to Elizabeth Arden to meet my grandmother. Since the last Christmas decoration came down in January every store has had a Valentine's theme in the window; even the hardware store has a red toilet-seat cover on display. In Februaries past I would wait with exasperation on line behind men and women buying oysters/champagne/condoms, when I only wanted to pay for my grapefruit/beer/Kleenex and get on with my life. This year, I've got nothing but patience.

This is the very first Valentine's Day on which I have not been single. However, in observance of the traditional survival agenda for the one-day-when-being-single-is-just-not-okay, Sarah and I mailed each other Tiger Beat pinups and I am accompanying Grandma to our annual pampering.

"Darling, Saint Valentine's Rule Number One," she imparts as we sip our lemon water and admire our lacquered toes. "It's more important to show yourself a little love than to have a man who gives you something in the wrong size and color."

"Thanks for the pedicure, Gram."

"Anytime, darling. I'm going to go back upstairs for my seaweed wrap. Let's just hope they don't forget me like last time. Really, they should put a little buzzer in your hand. Imagine being found, covered in seaweed and wrapped in a tarp by some poor janitor. Rule Number Two: Never take the last appointment of the day."

I thank her profusely, bundle up, bid her farewell, and go to pick up my hot date from nursery school. He comes running out at noon, holding a large, crooked paper heart that leaves a trail of glitter behind him.

"Whatcha got there, buddy?"

"It's a Valentine. I made it. You can hold it." I take the heart and pass him the juice box I've been keeping warm in my pocket as he settles in the stroller.

I look down at the heart, assuming it's for Mrs. X. "Mrs. Butters spelled for me. I told her what to say and she spelled for me. Read it, Nanny, read it."

I almost can't speak. "I LOVE NANNY FROM GRAYER ADDISON X."

"Yup. That's what I said."

"It's beautiful, Grover. Thank you," I say, starting to get teary behind the stroller.

"You can hold it," he offers as he grips the juice box.

"You know what? I'm going to put it safely in the stroller pocket so it doesn't get hurt. We've got a special afternoon ahead of us."

Despite the fact that it's one of the coldest days of the year, I'm under strict instruction not to bring him home until after French class. So I've made an executive decision to ignore all the usual guidelines and take him to California Pizza Kitchen for lunch and then down Third Avenue to the new Muppet movie. I was worried he might be scared of the dark, but he sings and claps all the way through.

"That was so funny, Nanny. So funny," he says, as I buckle him back into his stroller and we sing the theme song all the way to French class.

After I drop him off with Mme. Maxime to faire les Valentines I run across Madison to Barneys to pick up a little something for H. H.

"Can I help you?" the notoriously bitchy blonde behind the Kiehl's counter half asks, half spits. She has never been forgiven for once accusing Sarah of shoplifting the toner she was trying to return.

"No, thanks, just browsing." I set my sights on another salesperson, a tall Eurasian man in an expensive-looking black shirt. "Hi, I'm looking for a Valentine's present for my boyfriend." I love saying it. Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend. Yeah, I have the cutest boyfriend. My boyfriend doesn't like wool socks. Oh, my boyfriend works at The Hague, too!

"Okay, well, what kind of products does he prefer?" Right, I'm back.

"Oh, I don't know. Um, he smells nice. He shaves. Maybe some shave stuff?"

He shows me every conceivable product an aspiring model pulling in extra cash at Barneys might ever want to use.

"Um, really? Lip liner?" I ask. "Because he plays lacrosse .. ."

He shakes his head at my shortsightedness and pulls out more esoteric pastes and lotions.

"I don't want to imply that there's anything wrong with him, you know, give him something that fixes anything. He doesn't need fixing." I finally settle on a stainless steel razor and watch him wrap it in red tissue paper and tie a red bow around the black box. Parfait.

I greet Grayer outside his classroom with his coat held out. "Bonsoir, Monsieur X. Comment ca va?"

"Ca va tres bien, Nanny. Merci beaucoup. Et vous?" he asks, waving his magic fingers at me.

"Oui, oui, tres bien."

Maxime leans her head out of the classroom to the row of cubbies where I'm bundling Grayer. "Grayer is really coming along with his verbs." She smiles down at him from atop her Charles Jourdan pumps. "But if you could take some time with him to practice the noun list each week, that would be fantastique. If either you or your husband-"

"Oh, I'm not his mother."

"Ah, mon Dieu! Je m'excuse."

"Non, non, pas de problem," I say.

"Alors, see you next week, Grayer."

I try to push him home quickly because a frigid wind is whipping down Park.

"As soon as we get upstairs," I say, crouching in the elevator to loosen his scarf, "I'm going to put some Vaseline on your cheeks, okay? You're getting a little chapped."

"Okay. What are we going to do tonight, Nanny? Let's fly! Yeah, I think we should fly as soon as we get upstairs." Lately I've been balancing him on my feet and "flying" him in his room.

"After bath, G, that's flying time." I push the stroller over the threshold. "What do you want for dinner?"

I'm hanging up our coats when Mrs. X walks into the front hall in a floor-length red evening gown and Velcro curlers, already in the heat of preparation for her Valentine dinner date with Mr. X.

"Hi, guys. Did you have a good day?"

"Happy Valentine's Day, Mommy!" Grayer shouts in greeting.

"Happy Valentine's Day. Oops, be careful of Mommy's dress."

Spatula.

"Wow, you look beautiful," I say, pulling off my boots.

"You think so?" She looks down in consternation at her midriff. "I still have a little time-Mr. X's flight from Chicago doesn't land for another half hour. Could you come help me for a m............