Free The Nannies by Melody Mayer

saw
that
guy
again.

12
    While it was fun for Lydia to loll at her aunt’s pool, the surroundings lacked a certain something in the male scenery department. That’s why she decided that the Brentwood Hills Country Club was definitely a step up. The very exclusive, very expensive club was tucked into the hills between Brentwood and Pacific Palisades. The moms had a family membership, which meant that now Lydia was a member, too. Later on, Anya had told her, Lydia would be escorting the children to the club’s “Nanny and Me” activities. But for now, Lydia was a free woman.
    After a sumptuous breakfast of bagels, Norwegian lox, and scrambled eggs from Nate ’n’ Al’s restaurant in Beverly Hills— Lydia had tired of pastrami cheeseburgers—it was easy to summon the moms’ driver and ask for a lift to the country club.
    The driver was aggressively skinny, with short, spiky dirty blond hair and great cheekbones. His name, he told her, was X. Then he took one look at the chain-fringe-pocketed Frost French jeans Lydia had purloined from the moms, and said she could not possibly wear those jeans with those sneakers, because the proportions were all off. That he was so obviously gay, and so obviously knew what he was talking about, sent Lydia back to the moms’ closet for some Marc Jacobs pumps that X declared to be classic leg-lengtheners.
    Lydia decided that having a driver on call—especially a driver with such excellent fashion sense—was far better than a driver’s license of her own. She’d never have to deal with traffic, and she’d always arrive in a style to which she was quickly becoming reaccustomed.
    The country club pool was a busy place: moms chatting, industry people talking about scripts, teens doing a designer variation on an Ama fertility dance. At a nearby patio, waiters served upscale hot-weather fare; lobster bisque, grilled pigeon salad, and caramelized onion tart with anchovies were the specialties. A waiter explained to Lydia that if it wasn’t on the menu, she could get it anyway. Just ask.
    Plus, there was the stargazing. By eleven o’clock in the morning she’d recognized Scarlett Johansson (not nearly as pretty in person) and Jessica Simpson (who looked even better).
    She’d just caught sight of Mena Suvari when a buff lifeguard strolled past Lydia’s chaise. She’d approached him earlier when he was on a break, to ask if he might get her a cocktail, since she’d left her ID in Peru. He’d laughed and said he’d be fired if he got a drink for a minor. But if she wanted Sprite . . . The spin he put on “Sprite” was clear: he might not be able to bring her a Flagman appletini, but the Sprite could be fortified and no one would be the wiser.
    At the moment, Lydia was sipping her second well-fortified Sprite. She called to him as he walked past her. “You seem to get a lot of breaks.”
    “New shift,” he said, cocking his head toward the lean young woman in a red Speedo who was ascending the lifeguard stand. “Besides, being social is part of my job. What’s your name again?”
    “Lydia. Lydia Chandler.”
    He shook her hand. “Nice to meet you again, Lydia Chandler. I’m Scott Lyman—wait, I already told you that before. You’re new, right?”
    “Got here yesterday.”
    “From?” He pointed a playful finger at her. “Someplace in the South, right? I recognize the accent.”
    Lydia almost laughed aloud. “You could say that.”
    “Welcome to L.A., Lydia from the South. You found a great place to spend the day. But I know better places to spend the night.” Then he winked.
    Even a girl who’d gone through puberty catty-corner to a dung heap—that would be her—would find that line-and-wink combo cheesy. But Scott’s sinewy swimmer’s muscles were far too promising to let a little thing like IQ or personality get in the way.
    Lydia leaned on one elbow. “You want to have sex with me, right?”
    Scott practically choked on his own spit. “Well, yeah, I mean .