Free The Nannies by Melody Mayer Page A

. . you get right to the point, huh?”
    Lydia shrugged. “Where I come from, people don’t beat around the bush, they live in it. What are you doing later?”
    Scott gave her a lazy grin. “You mean what are
we
doing later? How about if I get your digits?”
    Digits. That had to mean her phone number, Lydia figured. She borrowed a black marker from the woman on the next chaise longue, who was editing a script. Then she took Scott’s hand, ready to write her number on it. But he jerked it away at the last moment.
    “Can’t. Forgot. I’ve got to do this TV thing that’s taping over there.” He cocked his head in the general direction of the outdoor bar. “It’ll show.”
    Lydia sat up. “Turn around then.”
    He did craning to see what she would do. Lydia pulled down the back of his sky blue Gottex swim trunks just far enough to scrawl the number of the cell phone her aunt had given her. She then capped the marker and tossed it back to the woman from whom she’d borrowed it.
    Scott wagged a playful finger at her. “You’re a bad, bad girl.” “Thank you. So what show?”
    “New reality show.
Platinum Nanny.
”
    “Yeah? They were shooting at De Sade last night,” Lydia said. “I was there with a friend.”
    “For a new girl in town, you get around. I’ll call you. I’m gonna get awesome exposure from this. Hey, you wanna come watch?”
    Since Lydia was already enjoying his awesome exposure, she allowed as how she might do just that.
    The host of
Platinum Nanny,
Amber “A.M.” Mahaffey, was also its executive producer. She’d been an MTV veejay fifteen years ago, back when Platinum had been in her prime. A.M. parlayed that gig into a career as a television executive.
Platinum Nanny
had been her idea; her close personal relationship with Platinum had made the whole thing possible. Or, as cynics might point out, it was a last-ditch effort to resuscitate Platinum’s and A.M.’s careers, both of which were currently on life support.
    Kiley stood with the contestants near the shallow end of the pool, wearing the navy Speedo the show had given her. The other four girls had been provided with bikinis that ranged from tiny to almost nonexistent. Jimmy had been given cutoff jeans covered in Confederate flags. It was all a setup, of course—it hadn’t taken Kiley long to figure out that reality TV was as carefully planned as a scripted show, with each person’s role clearly defined: the Brilliant and Obnoxious (Cindy), the Competent and Sexy (Veronique), the Buffoon ( Jimmy), the Alt-Artist (Steinberg), the Streetwise (Tamika), and finally, the Innocent . . . which would be her. She was sure that when the show was edited and aired, the producers would emphasize those roles. From multiple seasons of
Survivor,
Kiley knew the lamb always got tossed to the wolves. It did not bode well for her longevity on the show.

13
    Esme had driven past the Brentwood Hills Country Club on occasion, stared at the Jaguars and Beemers that turned onto the private driveway, gazed at the magnificent grounds secure behind high wrought-iron fences and gates. But she never imagined she would be inside those gates herself.
    Now, just three hours into her two-week trial period as the Goldhagens’ nanny, Esme was not just inside the gates, but inside the club’s playroom for children. It was the size of an elementary school gymnasium. But unlike a school gym, the crowded playroom featured every toy and activity imaginable. There was a trampoline and miniature golf, a climbing wall, an arts and crafts corner, and more Legos in one pile than Esme thought humanly possible.
    But Easton and Weston were ignoring all these attractions. Instead, they sat in front of the big-screen, high-definition television, mesmerized by
Dora the Explorer.
It made Esme smile. Part of
Dora
was in Spanish, but most of it was in English, which made the show an excellent way for the twins to learn their new language. And if the kids ended up addicted to TV,