“Hold on, honey, don’t be so snippy, I need to get your cell number.”
“Oh, do you?”
“Despite the fact that you’re already all over the tabloids with that ghastly TV actor, I need your cell for another gentleman.”
“You have my work number,” retorted Nicola.
“You do not want to fuck with me,” seethed Crystal.
“You’re right, I don’t.” Nicola was angry now. “Is there anything else?”
“Okay, listen.” Crystal softened. “One of my clients wants your number; he says he met you at some stupid whore’s party. That’s bad enough! Then I see you plastered all over town with a … TV actor. I see the game you’re playing, girly, but you have to pick between A-list and the dead zone. Just a bit of friendly advice: If you want to get your claws into a leading man, don’t fuck with anyone who’s ever made it into syndication, and for fuck’s sake, don’t even wink at a reality star.”
“You should teach at the Learning Annex,” snarked Nicola. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Seamus approached me, and Paul was a work assignment.”
“Hmmmm. You’re tough. I like that, even if you do work for that burro fucker.” Crystal sounded defeated. “Now listen: give me your number, I’ll give it to Seamus, and you can take it from there. But honey, for the love of all that’s holy, if you date Seamus, steer clear of anyone who ever got a People’s Choice Award, just for the duration.”
“Got it, guru,” said Nicola, before reciting her cell number. And she gave her the real one, because it didn’t pay to screw over Crystal Connors.
* * *
A short while later, the door burst open and Gaynor waltzed back in, accompanied by her twelve-year-old twins, Sylvester and Patrick, two deceptively adorable boys with jet-black hair and mischievous eyes. They did not look like Gaynor, and the identity of their father was a well-kept secret. Nicola groaned. Last time they’d visited the office they’d started a fire in a trash can.
“What the fuck are we doing here, Mom?” demanded Sylvester.
“Sylbesterrr!” howled Gaynor. “I told you already, you’re gonna stay here with Nicola this afternoon.”
“What?” snapped Nicola, her head whipping around.
“Don’t worry, Nico,” laughed Gaynor. “The boys won’t make a sound; they just drove yet another nanny away, so they have to be punished. By sitting here in silence…” She paused, glaring from one boy to the other. “In absolute silence, you hear me?”
Both boys nodded, and stared at their feet.
“Where are you going?” Nicola demanded. “And why me? Why can’t Ingrid handle them?”
Ingrid shot her a death glare. Gaynor looked Ingrid up and down, and shook her head.
“I have to go to the nanny agency and get a new woman for them to torture, and then I have to go and see some clients.”
“You don’t have any appointments,” whined Nicola. “And I’m not sure I’m up to nannying today.”
“Dios mío, I stopped and bought them new iPads on the way here, so they’ll be busy.”
She reached into her Vuitton and pulled out two boxed iPads, handing one to each boy. They took them without a word and retreated to the office couch, tearing into the packaging and leaving the boxes and papers strewn on the floor. In unison, they plugged their iPads into the wall and began setting them up like miniature IT techs.
“See?” chided Gaynor. “You won’t even know my little treasures are here. What time do you need to leave tonight?”
Nicola hesitated. Gaynor was reliably an hour late for everything, and she didn’t want to fall into that trap again.
“Seven,” she replied.
“Then seven it is, mija. I will see you then, if not earlier. They both have their Amexes if they get hungry or if they need anything. They must not buy jewelry, bicycles, or anything over one thousand dollars.” Both boys looked at each other, then at Nicola, then smiled. “But apart from that, all of you have fun, and I’ll be back by seven.”
* * *
An hour later, Sylvester appeared at Nicola’s desk. Even at twelve, the boys had distinct and completely opposite styles. Sylvester shared his mother’s taste for fashion, flair, and drama, while Patrick preferred to act and dress like a Beverly Hills frat boy. Both of them were going to be nightmares in five years.
“Can I call you Nicola?” Sylvester asked.
“Sure, I guess.” She nodded.
“Okay, Nicola. I’m hungry, and I’d like us all to go get some lunch.”