Confessions of a Teen Nanny Read online

  Confessions of a Teen Nanny

  A Novel by Victoria Ashton

  To Fanu, Ale, Sasha, Reg, and J Jo—

  without you all, I never would have been

  the most popular girl in school!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  How on Earth did I get into this Mess?

  Chapter Two

  U r a Nanny!

  Chapter Three

  Is this Kid for Real?

  Chapter Four

  Perfect in Prada

  Chapter Five

  Anything for Oprah

  Chapter Six

  Who are these People?

  Chapter Seven

  Deep Breath. Keep your Cool.

  Chapter Eight

  Today we Turn you into a Goddess

  Chapter Nine

  Arrive Late, Leave Early. Make an Impression.

  Chapter Ten

  Dazzled

  Chapter Eleven

  Bomb Ditch

  Chapter Twelve

  In the Hot Tub—Naked

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the Cover of a Magazine

  Chapter Fourteen

  Queen of France

  Chapter Fifteen

  Trust Me…

  Chapter Sixteen

  Blackmail

  Chapter Seventeen

  “To Us!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You’re Fired!”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Going Back…and Getting him Back

  About the Author

  Other Books by Victoria Ashton

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  how on earth did I get into this mess?

  December

  Adrienne Lewis raised a Baccarat champagne glass and proposed a toast: “To a great party and the worst night of my life.”

  Across the empty room, Adrienne’s best friend, Liz Braun, raised her glass and nodded. “You got that right.”

  “Tonight didn’t turn out the way I planned at all,” she said, half to herself and half to Liz. Adrienne looked around the incredible penthouse at 841 Fifth Avenue, the scene of an enormous party she and Liz had just thrown.

  The apartment was famous in New York for its elegance, its size, and the fact that it was owned by the billionaire socialites Dale and Christine Warner and their daughters, Cameron and Emma. Adrienne and Liz both worked as nannies in the building. Adrienne had started with the Warners a couple of months ago, watching their eight-year-old daughter Emma. Liz worked for their neighbor, Dr. Mayra Markham-Collins, a prominent child psychologist and author, who had two children, Heather, age nine, and David, age five.

  “More champagne?” Liz asked, waving the half-empty bottle at her friend. “We have tons left, and there’s a load of food in the kitchen. Pâté? Caviar? Doritos?”

  “No, I’m cool,” Adrienne said, wishing the queasy feeling in her stomach would go away. Wishing she could rewind the night and figure out how the party had gone so horribly wrong.

  Liz stood up and shook out her curly, dark hair. She smoothed her hands over the peach Chanel cocktail dress, conveniently “borrowed” from Mrs. Warner’s amazing closet. Slipping her feet back into the Jimmy Choo heels that Adrienne had swiped for her from seventeen-year-old Cameron Warner’s shoe closet (more like a shoe store, Liz thought), Liz walked over to her friend, and the two girls surveyed the wreck that was now the Warners’ apartment.

  Adrienne took a deep breath. “If we don’t clean this apartment immediately, I am so totally fired.”

  Liz nodded. “Okay. Let’s get to work. We can have this place back to normal in no time. It will be so clean, Mr. and Mrs. Warner will never know we had a party.”

  “That won’t be too hard,” Adrienne said. “Mr. Warner is always drunk. He won’t even notice he’s home!” They ran to where their clothes were stashed in one of the apartment’s guest rooms near the Warners’ master bedroom suite.

  Slipping out of the Dolce & Gabbana designer dress Cameron Warner had given her, Adrienne sighed, smoothed out the wrinkles, and put it back on a hanger.

  I look so great in these clothes, she thought. I can’t believe Cameron has so many. It’s not fair. She tried to control the anger bubbling up inside of her. When it came to Cameron, nothing was ever fair.

  She placed the dress in the wardrobe, where Cameron always hung the clothes she was sending out to have cleaned. The bills from Madame Paulette, the dry cleaner, frequently came to thousands of dollars a month. The Warners would never notice the extra cleaning.

  Back in jeans, the girls finally looked like what they really were: high school students after a night of partying without permission. Turning up the music, Adrienne and Liz emptied the ashtrays, straightened the paintings, and cleaned the bathrooms.

  “Adrienne?” Liz called from across the apartment. “Someone hurled in Mrs. Warner’s toilet!”

  “Well, flush it!” Adrienne called back. “And stop yelling. You’ll wake up Emma!”

  Adrienne kept thinking about her boyfriend, Brian, as she cleaned. Kept thinking about what she had seen before he left.

  “The bathrooms are spotless, and all the shoes and accessories are back in Mrs. Warner’s room. Do you think we’re almost done?” Liz came in and asked Adrienne.

  “Pretty close,” Adrienne replied, dragging two huge bags of garbage into the service elevator area. “Tania gets here about six in the morning.” Tania was the Warners’ Russian housekeeper, who watched Emma when Adrienne wasn’t working. Adrienne glanced at the clock. Three A.M.! “Tania will give this whole place another once-over. Mr. and Mrs. Warner will go straight to bed. They won’t even check the living room. And they’ll never go in the kitchen—I don’t even think Mrs. Warner has ever seen inside the kitchen.” Adrienne looked around the enormous room with its incredible views of the city, TV area, and casual dining corner. The Warners’ kitchen was bigger than her family’s apartment. “By the time they wake up, it will be like this whole thing never happened.”

  “I only wish that it would be like it had never happened for both of us,” Liz said. “You know, you should go check on Emma, and then just run through each of the rooms and make sure someone didn’t go into Mr. Warner’s den, or Mrs. Warner’s dressing room or bathroom, or something like that.”

  “Good idea,” Adrienne said. Liz was always so practical.

  Adrienne walked down a long hall off the entrance to where the girls’ bedrooms were located. Cameron’s was sleek and modern, filled with contemporary art and books that Adrienne doubted she had ever even opened. Cameron was one of the most beautiful young socialites in New York, but she was not known at her school, Pheasant-Berkeley, for her major intellectual contributions. Liz and Cameron went to school together, and Liz had told Adrienne plenty of stories about Cameron over the years.

  Adrienne carefully opened the next door and looked in on Emma. Tiny, blond, and snoring slightly, the eight-year-old girl was squeezed into a ball at the top of the bed, her sheets and covers crumpled on the floor. Smiling, Adrienne gathered them up and carefully placed them on top of Emma, who rolled over with a sigh. Emma was really adorable. It’s too bad she’s an evil genius, thought Adrienne.

  Adrienne backed out of the room carefully and closed the door as quietly as she could. The last thing she needed was for Emma to wake up and start asking questions. Emma was a born prosecutor.

  Walking back into the hall, Adrienne picked up the note that Mrs. Warner had left for her on the hall table. The distinctive paper on which Christine Olivia Warner wrote all her notes was pale gray. The card inside the envelope was thick, and at the top, her ca
refully engraved initials C.O.W. were in ivory ink. The initials always made Adrienne smile.

  Adrienne, began Mrs. Warner, thanks so much for looking after Emma on such short notice.

  Short notice indeed, Adrienne thought. She had just been on her way out the door of her own apartment that morning when Tania called. Tania warned that if Adrienne wasn’t at 841 Fifth Avenue in ten minutes, Madame Warner would fire her.

  When Emma’s asleep, first make certain that the curtains in the drawing room are closed. Mr. Warner hates coming home and finding them open.

  Sure, Adrienne thought. What she hates is the neighbors seeing him stumbling home drunk from some high society benefit.

  Adrienne walked into the drawing room. The room had high ceilings and was filled with gilt furniture that Mrs. Warner had told her had belonged to Marie Antoinette, the last queen of France.

  Turn off the lights, shut down the bar, lower the Picasso over the flat-screen TV… Adrienne ran through her mental list as she walked around the room, finally pressing the hidden buttons that automatically closed the heavy satin curtains. As the curtains closed, she looked longingly out the window at the incredible views of Central Park and the glittering city. She pulled herself away and went back to the letter.

  Finally, would you turn down our bed properly, and make sure that all the lights are out in my dressing room? Tania always forgets. You’re a huge darling. Thanks. C.O.W.

  Adrienne entered the bedroom, inhaling the fragrance of the linden-blossom–scented water from France that Mrs. Warner insisted be used to wash her sheets. Adrienne looked at the colorful walls, covered in a beautiful old wallpaper she had heard had been taken out of some English duke’s country house. Adrienne lay down on the huge four-poster bed and felt the incredible silk cover and linen sheets. She closed her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to sink into a deep sleep and forget what had happened with Brian. If I stay here, I’ll fall asleep until morning, she thought. Adrienne got up and quickly repaired the damage to the placement of the throw pillows. She pulled back the sheets and turned down the bed for Mr. and Mrs. Warner, smoothing the covers carefully.

  You left a wrinkle! Adrienne could hear Mrs. Warner’s brittle voice in her head. She was always yelling at the maids for not turning down the sheets properly.

  Finally, Adrienne thought. I can turn off the lights in the Cow’s dressing room, go back to the kitchen, and watch TV with Liz.

  Adrienne opened the doors to Mrs. Warner’s dressing room.

  She ran her fingers over the incredible dresses and the dozens of fur coats as she entered the fantasy room. There were custom-built drawers, places to sit, and a whole room for shoes.

  Unlike in any other closet Adrienne had ever seen, Mrs. Warner’s clothes were stored as complete outfits in garment bags. All around the room, sealed garment bags hung on racks, all identical pale gray suede, with COW embroidered on them in ivory.

  Next to Mrs. Warner’s dressing table was a series of photo albums, which Adrienne knew contained photographs of the socialite in hundreds of outfits, fully accessorized from hairstyle down to the shoes. Above each picture was a number; the same number appeared on one of the garment bags, and in the bag was the complete outfit from the book. Every season, stylists from all the major designers came to the apartment with racks of clothes for her to choose from. The things she liked ended up in gray bags.

  Like bodies at the morgue, Adrienne thought.

  Next to the clothes books was a slender volume that Adrienne had looked at many times. Inside were pictures of Mrs. Warner’s jewels—pages of diamonds, sapphires, rubies, and pearls, which were contained in color-coded leather drawers in the safe in the back corner. Adrienne looked over at it.

  The safe was open.

  Adrienne walked up to the safe carefully, her breath coming in quick, short gasps.

  All the drawers were open. Many of the jewels were shoved around in their trays, and some were even on the floor. In the middle, several pink leather drawers were open and empty.

  Oh, my God, Adrienne thought. Someone at the party stole Mrs. Warner’s jewelry!

  With trembling hands, Adrienne opened the jewelry book to see what had been in the empty pink leather drawers.

  Harry Winston Suite, read Mrs. Warner’s loopy handwriting. One necklace, one pair of earrings, one ring, and two bracelets totaling 250 carats of flawless, fancy pink diamonds. Tenth-anniversary gift from Dale.

  A scream rose from Adrienne’s throat and echoed throughout the cavernous apartment. She slumped down on the floor of the closet in shock. I can’t breathe, she thought, I’m going to faint. Her heart pounded in her chest in terror.

  In seconds, Liz was there. She took in the situation quickly. Adrienne could only point at the safe. The open safe.

  “Okay, stay really calm. Could Mrs. Warner have left the closet looking like this?”

  “Never,” Adrienne said, her green eyes welling up with tears. “She’s so totally careful about her jewels.”

  “Adrienne, we have got to call building security,” Liz said quietly. “We can’t call the police, because the building hates that—they don’t want any bad publicity. We’ll get security up here right away, and they’ll figure out exactly what happened.” Liz hurried to the kitchen, where the building phone was located.

  Adrienne nodded as her friend left her, not trusting herself to speak. I may throw up in this closet, she thought, but I can’t. Mrs. Warner will kill me. The thought made her laugh out loud. I can throw up all I want. Mrs. Warner is going to kill me anyway!

  Suddenly she heard a noise, and Adrienne turned.

  “Oooo!” a voice said. “You are in so much trouble!”

  Standing in the doorway to the dressing room was little Emma, dressed in tiny Lilly Pulitzer pj’s, her hair in rumpled pigtails. Hands on her hips, Emma looked around her mother’s closet. She closed her mouth, swallowed, and glared at Adrienne.

  How on earth did I get into this mess? Adrienne asked herself.

  CHAPTER TWO

  u r a nanny!

  Two Months Earlier

  “So, I’m in calc,” began Liz, “and Cameron is sitting in the third row, wearing these amazing Prada sunglasses—fast asleep.” Adrienne grinned at what she knew would be choice gossip.

  “No way,” Adrienne replied, amazed as usual by the behavior of the rich girls who went to her best friend’s snotty private high school on the Upper East Side.

  The mid-October sun shone with the last gasp of summer warmth as the best friends walked together through Central Park toward the Sheep Meadow. Ever since they were little girls, Liz and Adrienne had loved the meadow. They had had birthday parties there, had played there, done homework there and, in fact, had each gotten their first kiss on the broad, grassy heart of Central Park.

  Now, of course, they spent less time there. After eighth grade, each girl had started a different school—Liz had received a scholarship to the Pheasant-Berkeley School for Girls, and Adrienne had gotten into Van Rensselaer High, the best public school in the city. They had changed a lot, but their friendship had never faltered. Liz was the cool, practical friend, cautious and wise, and Adrienne, the impulsive and emotional one, always ready for a party or good gossip. Adrienne knew they made a great team.

  That day neither of them noticed the gorgeous weather. They were completely caught up in the latest scandal concerning Cameron Warner, a classmate of Liz’s whose escapades Adrienne followed like a TV soap opera.

  “So our teacher, Mrs. Dunn—” Liz continued.

  “Is she the one you always say is a total bitch?” Adrienne asked.

  “Exactly. So Mrs. Dunn goes, ‘Um, Cameron?’ and wakes her up. Cameron gives Dunn the total look of death, reaches into her bag, and pulls out a bottle of Chanel polish and an emery board. It looks like she is going to start to do her nails!”

  “Oh, my God!” Adrienne said, turning to Liz with a shocked expression. “No one could get away with that at Van Rensselaer!” She g
iggled.

  “Well, no one gets away with it at P-B, normally,” Liz said, and continued: “And so Dunn says, ‘Cameron, if you spent less time doing your nails and more time on your calculus homework, you might actually pass this class.’”

  “Outrageous,” Adrienne said.

  “But you’ll never believe what happens next.” Liz smiled and continued. “Cameron looks at her, takes off her sunglasses, and says: ‘Mrs. Dunn, I am not doing my nails. This, for your information, is just routine maintenance. I don’t do my own nails—somebody else does them for me. Furthermore, my housekeeper makes more money than you do.’”

  “No way,” Adrienne said, stunned. “Did she send her to the headmistress?”

  “That is the scandal. No,” Liz finished triumphantly. “Cameron never goes to the headmistress.”

  “I don’t know how she gets away with that stuff!”

  “I do,” Liz replied. “Her trust fund. That and the new library her parents just built for our school.”

  Adrienne nodded. “I wish I were rich,” she said. Not that I’m poor, Adrienne thought, thinking of the comfortable Upper West Side apartment where she lived with her family. “I wish I had extra cash for new clothes and going out with friends whenever I wanted—especially going out with Brian.”

  Brian Grady was Adrienne’s boyfriend of two years. He was gorgeous, funny, smart, and broke. He lived in Washington Heights in a small apartment with his parents and three brothers. He always had to scrape together money when they went out.

  “If I only had a job like yours,” Adrienne moaned.

  Liz worked three days a week as a nanny for Dr. Mayra Markham-Collins. Dr. M-C—as Liz liked to call her—had two kids, Heather and David, whose father’s identity was still unknown. New York society whispered behind closed doors that they were test-tube babies. It was well-known that Dr. Markham-Collins wanted everything in her life to be perfect—including her children. Dr. M-C was rich, and Liz made a bundle. Adrienne envied her for it.