Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [50]
“Hi, Tessa,” she says cheerfully. “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” I say, wishing I had enforced a little formality when she started working for us four months ago—maybe if I were “Mrs. Russo” she’d take her job a little more seriously. I grab the remote control from the coffee table and snap off the television to a chorus of protests.
“I don’t want to hear it,” I tell the kids with my sternest voice—which of course, only makes me feel worse. It’s not their fault that their babysitter is such a slouch.
Wide-eyed and still staring at the now-black television screen, Frank thrusts his thumb into his mouth, and Ruby sniffs and says, “It was almost over.”
“I don’t care. You’re not supposed to be watching television,” I say, more for Carolyn’s benefit.
“Carolyn said we could,” Ruby retorts, an answer I couldn’t have scripted better.
I turn and give Carolyn a raised-brow look as she flashes me an innocent, aw-shucks smile.
“They were being so good. And they ate every last green bean on their plates. I just thought I’d give them a special treat,” she says, playing good cop in a way that enrages me further.
“Right, right. . . But next time, let’s stick with Disney or Nickelodeon,” I say, smiling brightly, knowing that I am enforcing a double standard. That when I’m on the phone, I’ll let them watch most anything if it means a little peace. Then again, I am not financing Carolyn’s club-hopping and extravagant shopping sprees at French Lessons so that she can be me.
“All right. Sure,” Carolyn says, as I think back to the day we interviewed her—or more accurately, I interviewed her while Nick sat distracted in the corner, pretending to be engaged in the process.
Afterward, he gave her two thumbs up, calling her “sweet and smart enough,” and accused me of being overly picky when I pointed out the red flags—namely her Rolex, Jimmy Choo sandals, and oversized Vuitton tote, along with her proclamation that housework wasn’t really her “thing.”
But I had to admit, she did have a good rapport with the kids, especially Ruby, who seemed to instantly adore her—or at least adored her long hair and magenta toenail polish. And she is better than the last three sitters we interviewed. One spoke little English; the next was a vegan who refused to even touch meat; the third an ideal Mary Poppins with clearly fictional references. And at this point, Carolyn is my only path to freedom—or at least freedom for ten hours a week. So I say her name as calmly as I can.
“Uh-huh?” she says, cracking her gum, as I plan my “I told you so” speech to Nick.
“I need to go upstairs and do a few things before you go. Would you please read them a book?”
“Sure,” Carolyn says perkily.
“And put some warmer clothes on Ruby?”
“Sure,” she says again. “No problem.”
“Thank you very much,” I say with exaggerated patience. Then I give both kids a perfunctory kiss, which only Frank reciprocates, and head up to my office, which is really more of a small alcove off our bedroom. It is one of the many things I wish I could change about our house, a Tudor built in 1912 that is long on charm but short on functional space.
For thirty minutes, I answer a few e-mails, order several long-overdue baby gifts, and download several hundred photos. Then, something compels me to open an old document, a syllabus for a class I taught called “Games and Sport in the Victorian Novel.” It was only two years ago, but it seems much longer, and I feel a sudden wistfulness for the discussions I led, the lectures covering chess and sexual politics in The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, social game-playing in Vanity Fair, and outdoor sports and the genteel dance in The Mayor of Caster bridge.
Then, as I hear a loud shriek from Ruby that I determine is one of glee not pain, I am overcome with a feeling of regret, an intense pang of missing my old life. The oasis of calm in my on-campus office, the afternoons I had to meet with my students, the intellectual stimulation