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Idon’t make a move to get out of my car. Not yet, at least. I’m waiting for this one Taylor Swift song playing through my car to end, allowing myself its run time to mentally prepare myself for this hell show I am about to walk into. It’s been a while since I have attended one of these luncheons with Mom and her friends, and it always ends with me feeling like I’m not good enough because Mom goes all starry eyed with the successes of her friends’ daughters. It’s belittling and humiliating, and I don’t. . . I don’t know why I keep going back if I know how it’s always going to go.
Huffing, I slap down the shade visor and slide the little compartment for the mirror, peering into my reflection. I didn’t overdo it on the makeup, cheekbones pink and slightly glittering with highlighter and blush, lips glossy and pink, with some eyeliner and mascara to complete the look. I wore one of my nicer outfits, instead of staying in my usual jeans or shorts and crop tops; a cute, burgundy colored jumpsuit is what I opted for today, along with a coat because of the chill, and heels to add to the formality of it all. You dress up in the best way you can, just to try and one up everyone else.
It’s a ridiculous, materialistic game. I have no idea why I’m even playing it.
The song ends, and unfortunately that is my cue. I turn my car off and grab my purse, trying to ignore the rapid pulse of my heart as I get out and enter the five-star restaurant. It’s a popular brunch place with bottomless mimosas that I might take advantage of and just Uber home afterwards. God knows I’ll need all the alcohol I can get if I want to make it through this luncheon.
I walk into the restaurant, red brick walls and potted plants hanging from the ceiling, the entire place filled with the chatter of the patrons. Approaching the hostess stand, I offer a quick smile and say, “Hi, I’m here for, uh, Jennifer Woods’ party.”
The woman nods with a customer service approved smile. “Yes, it’s the table towards the back. I can show—”
“No, no, it’s alright. I’ll head over,” I say and walk through the restaurant. Women my age are around having brunch with their friends, couples scattered about, and older women as well. It’s unsurprising that the place is busy on a Saturday afternoon, servers expertly navigating their way around tables and customers.
“Oh, there she is! Hi, Alex, honey!”
Despite the tension knotting in my shoulders, I feel a smile touch my mouth at the sound of Mrs. Gayle’s voice—or Cece, as she insists I call her. She’s one of my mom’s most laid-back and sweetest friends, and to this day I always wonder why someone as jovial and kind as Cece is friends with Mom and her other friends. Cece is like Dory among sharks, minus the forgetfulness.
Frankly put, the woman is a breath of fresh air during these suffocating luncheons.
“Hi,” I greet her with a grin, bending down to give her a quick kiss on her cheek. I look up and meet Mom’s gaze, and her smile is a little strained while everyone choruses their greetings. I walk around the table to my mother and bend to kiss her cheek as well. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hello, sweetheart,” she returns. Her head turns towards my ear, her voice dropping so only I can hear as she murmurs, “Greeting someone else before your own mother isn’t polite, Alexandra.”
The tension in my muscles tightens. It’s already beginning.
I don’t say anything in response, and instead take the last open seat, which is conveniently right next to Cece and across from Mom. There are four other women at the table: Rachel Sullivan and her daughter Mona, and Hillary Albert with her daughter Taylor. The only one missing is Cece’s daughter Jasmine, who is currently in London with her fiancée’s family.
“How are you doing, honey?” Cece asks me once I’ve settled in my seat.
“Good, good,” I nod with a smile, shrugging off my coat and draping it on the back of my chair. “Just been busy with work, you know. The usual.”
Apparently hearing my statement, Mrs. Sullivan asks from Mom’s left side. “Oh, are you still babysitting, Alexandra?”
The way she saysbabysittingis as if it tastes foul in her mouth. Across from me, I see the tension bracket Mom’s mouth as she lifts her glass of mimosa. “Nannying, actually, and yes,” I say mildly as I pour myself a glass.
“It’s only temporary,” Mom chimes in, and my gaze cuts to her instantly. My jaw tightens because Mom knows for a fact that my job isn’t temporary.
“Is it?” Mrs. Albert asks, clearly unconvinced as she looks at me from where she is sitting at the far end of the table. “Haven’t you been nannying for a few years now? Doesn’t seem temporary to me.”
A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat, threatening to escape. Fucking hell, I haven’t been sitting down for five minutes and the interrogation and unnecessary remarks have already started.
“Oh, for God’s sake, what’s the big deal?” Cece asks, shaking her head at the other women. “Alex is looking after young children. It’s noble work, in my opinion. She’s taking care of people.” Cece’s gaze goes to my mom, and she arches an eyebrow. “How is that any different from what you do, Jennifer?”
Mom arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow at Cece, but I don’t miss the pink flush climbing up Mom’s neck. “Are you suggesting thatnannyingis the same as performingsurgery, Cecelia?” Mom returns, her voice tightening with annoyance.
Her tone of voice has me rigid in my seat, my quickening pulse a sign of my discomfort. But next to me, Cece is unfazed, relaxed in her chair as she picks up a piece of toasted bread from the basket. “It’s all in the same vein,” she says. “Alex is giving her time to neglected children whose parents are too busy to pay them any attention.” As she says this, Cece’s gaze turns sharp, challenging, as she looks at Mom, Mrs. Sullivan, and Mrs. Albert, her stare pointed and knowing as it flickers to their daughters, as well, who are just listening and watching all of this unfold.
I nearly choke on my mimosa at her obvious implication, the corners of my mouth twitching upwards despite the circumstances. The irony isn’t lost on me that Mom and her other two friends are making subtle digs at my job and showing their opinions of it when they are the ones who used nannying services. I know for a fact that both Mona and Taylor grew up with nannies just like I did, so their mothers making digs about my job is hypocritical. God knows they didn’t have the time to raise their kids—what gives them the right to make comments and try to make me feel badly about my job?
Cece is the only one who didn’t ever hire a nanny to raise her kids. She owns her own illustrious event planning business, and made sure that her building had a free daycare center for her employees who would need to make use of it. She most definitely did, bringing her daughter, Jasmine, and son, Logan, to it so she could visit them during the workday. I am pretty sure that is the extent of childcare Cece sought, because if she wasn’t busy with work, she was the most doting mother around.
Hell, I often used to find myself wishing she was my mom. I wonder if that thought would hurt Mom, or if she simply would be indifferent to it.
“Who’s your client now?” Taylor asks from the other side of Cece, leaning forward on the table to look at me. I’m not exactly friends with her and Mona, but I can tell they don’t enjoy coming to these luncheons either. They have their own reasons for it, probably, but there is some kind of solidarity here, I guess.
I take a sip of my mimosa. I’m not allowed to divulge personal, private details about my clients, of course, but giving a name is fine. “Leo Mackenzie.”
“Leo Mackenzie?” Mona asks, sitting across from Taylor. Her eyebrows rise. “The tight end for the Rebels?”
