Mama's Got a Brand New Job Read online

“That’s not Eau de Vie, is it?”

  “Maxine!” scolded Caine, obviously more concerned about the client than me.

  “Maybe you just need some water,” offered Vivienne. She poured me a glass from the pitcher on the conference room table. I watched the ice cubes bob up and down in the water as Vivienne brought the glass to my lips. She put her arm on the back of my chair, the scent of her perfume overwhelming me.

  Then like a heroic soldier holding a grenade, I glanced desperately at Caine, and threw up into my hands. In the process, I had managed to elbow Vivienne in the arm, dumping the entire glass of water onto her blouse. It was probably the best thing that could have happened. Vivienne jumped back with such alarm that Caine tended to her, rather than to me. I pushed back my chair and ran out of the conference room, trying my best not to leave a trail of vomit in my wake.

  Joy was a complete saint. After my cursory pass at cleaning myself up in the bathroom near the conference room, I scurried back to my office to hide. Joy took me to the ladies room again and somehow managed to remove most of the vomit from my top. Then she loaned me her scarf to cover up the rest. Although “loan” might not have been the right word as I couldn’t imagine she’d ever want the scarf back again. I would have to buy her an Hermès as a replacement.

  I sat down at my desk, hoping to figure out a plan. Was I supposed to go back upstairs? Or should I just text Caine first and ask for permission? All of my questions were answered when I looked up to see Caine standing in my doorway. “Can I have a word with you?” he asked as he took a seat on one of my office chairs. I just nodded. “First of all, are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. I’m fine. Happens all the time.”

  Caine repositioned himself as far back in the chair as he could while I realized that I had just said the dumbest thing possible. I unclenched the fists I had made to try to gain some composure. I also glanced around to locate the garbage can, just in case I lost control again.

  “We’ve put the meeting on hold so both you and Vivienne can collect yourselves.”

  “Is Vivienne all right?” I had to imagine that it would take her about 45 minutes to re-assemble herself. Maybe some of the water I had dumped on her had washed off some of her perfume. That would be a huge relief because I dreaded going back into that conference room.

  “Vivienne’s fine. She was quite composed, actually.” I thought I detected a longing sigh, but Caine snapped himself straight. “I have communicated to Vivienne that you will not be attending the meeting. For obvious reasons.” I didn’t say anything because if I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure what was going to come out. Caine folded his hands in his lap and declared, “To take your place, Staffing has assigned . . .”

  I slouched in relief when he did not say Nancy Lallyberry. I didn’t care who was going to the meeting in my place as long as it wasn’t her. Although it would have been fun to see how long it would take Vivienne to chew her up and spit her out.

  “Caine, I am so terribly sorry for what happened. It came out of nowhere. I don’t know what fragrance Vivienne was wearing, but it really got to me. Next time, I just won’t sit next to her.”

  I was still talking, but Caine put his hand up. “There’s not going to be a next time.”

  “What?”

  “McCale, Morgan & Black prides itself on providing the best representation to our clients. Given your delicate condition, you are no longer able to do so for Parfum Aix.”

  “Are you kidding me?!” I tried to stand up in defiance, but the casters on my chair were positioned the wrong way and I couldn’t move.

  “I am re-assigning you to another client. You will need to transfer all of your materials over to the new resource. The change is permanent and effective immediately.”

  I rolled around until I could get up. “Look. This isn’t fair. I’m not going to be in a meeting room with Vivienne every day for the next few months. And I’m not going to be pregnant forever. You have to let me stay on!”

  Caine walked to the doorway in finality. “Maxine, I understand your disappointment. But we do not know whether you will come in contact with this sort of thing again. It’s too risky for you, the client, and everyone else to potentially expose you to such a situation.”

  I could understand his point of view, but I still held out hope that some accommodation could be made. “Well, maybe I could help out on a part-time basis. I would still like to stay involved.”

  “I appreciate that, Maxine, but I need a resource that’s 100% committed right now, especially with the upcoming trip to Provence.”

  Tears started welling up in my eyes. Trip to Provence? I hadn’t heard anything about that! The trip was probably scheduled right around my due date, so even if I were still staffed on Parfum Aix, my pregnancy would prohibit me from airline travel. Why had I gotten pregnant at such an inconvenient time?

  I was expecting a moment of privacy so I could cry in peace, but I saw Caine’s shiny black shoes still in the doorway. I grabbed a tissue, blotted my eyes and threw my shoulders back.

  He waited a moment, his gaze empathetic while he seemed to mull over what was happening. “I am sorry things have worked out like this. Vivienne informed me about the trip this morning. We have to do what’s best for the client.”

  I nodded.

  “Deirdre Morgan has an interesting project underway, and she needs a senior resource like you. After the meeting this morning, I will formalize the arrangements. In the meantime, please prepare to transition your materials.”

  He made a curt smile, and then walked out of my office. I just stood there, half wanting to scream, half wanting to cry.

  Caine may have booted me from the Parfum Aix account, but he wasn’t going to ruin my relationship with Jacques. Without involving Deschemel in an office imbroglio, I had to explain my situation to him before Vivienne had the chance. Deirdre Morgan had counseled me on it, and Nancy Lallyberry had reminded me of it: I needed to be in control of what people thought about me, not the other way around.

  I whipped off a quick email to Jacques. I explained my recent sensitivities to selected odors and scents, spinning the nausea thing as a pregnancy issue that would be resolved in just a few months. That way, I let him know that I could roll right back onto the team after I returned from maternity leave, whether that was the McCale plan or not.

  Then I realized that I had never given Jacques my opinion about his home-made gin. Here I was, attempting to forge a long-term professional relationship with this guy and I had blown him off when he had reached out to me.

  Certainly, the pregnancy would explain my reticence at being Jacques’s gin sampler. But even though I was pregnant, I could still advise Jacques. So I spent the next hour, which I billed to Caine’s Administrative Account, creating an entire gin primer for Deschemel. While I knew a lot more about vodka than I did gin, there was plenty of transferable knowledge.

  For research purposes, I suggested that Jacques take a trip to the Plymouth Gin Distillery in England. I knew about the place because the distillery is located in what was once a monastery built in 1431. Centuries later, some of the original pilgrims to America lodged at the site, waiting for repairs to be completed on the Mayflower before their historic journey. Sometime after that, the facility was converted to a distillery. In 1793, gin production began. It was the oldest distillery in Britain, certainly worth a trip for an enthusiast like Jacques.

  Then I scanned all of my cocktail apps, focusing on the ones which used gin as a base. I cross-referenced the ingredients to identify the most common mixers with gin. Bitters, citrus and some savory herbs were used most frequently. I hoped this information would help Jacques infuse his gin with some refreshing, distinct flavors.

  Once I finished my packet, I was at a loss for what to do next. I had an unscheduled, albeit brief break in between client assignments. That never happened. It seemed like an ideal time to address some of the pressing issues in my life, i.e. childcare.

  Despite D
ale’s protestations at Osetra, he had helped me complete the NYC Baby Prep application. In my mind, that meant I was entitled to my free consultation. I pulled up the company’s bookmarked webpage and put in a call for a meeting.

  After a brief discussion, I was delighted to learn that NYC Baby Prep could see me in an hour. Apparently, all of my materials had been processed, and a meeting time had just opened up with their director. I loved this place already.

  12

  “Mrs. Pedersen?” A mid-height, mid-weight, brown-suited woman offered me an outstretched hand. “Please come in,” she said, as she pulled me through the door. “I am Tawny Sheen, the director of NYC Baby Prep. But, please, call me Tawny.”

  Had the words “NYC Baby Prep” not been etched in gold on the door, I might have confused the office for McCale, Morgan & Black’s. I had expected the décor to be more on the order of a glorified nursery, but instead of gingham, there were pin-stripes. Pink and blue were replaced with burgundy and gold. White-washed wood was nowhere to be found in the dark-stained, oak hallways. Apparently, to Tawny Sheen and the other stoic associates of NYC Baby Prep, having a child was serious business.

  We sat down in Tawny’s office. Painted directly on the wall behind her desk was the NYC Baby Prep logo, a pacifier inside a briefcase. That oddity was accompanied by the company slogan, “Maximizing the efficiency of your prenatal experience to ensure an optimal transition to motherhood.” I repeated the words slowly. My initiation into the cult had begun.

  Having arranged herself precisely in the middle of her chair, in the middle of her desk, Ms. Sheen began. “From your application, we have created a list of services which we think best match your needs. Today we will go over the list and agree to which services you would like. After you sign the requisite paperwork, a 50% deposit will be required.”

  I smiled perfunctorily when Tawny handed me a clipboard and a pen. One piece of paper was on the clipboard. It contained a grid of the NYC Baby Prep services. No prices were listed, and nothing was checked off.

  “Well, it seems that NYC Baby Prep can’t do anything for me,” I cracked.

  Tawny cocked her head to one side, barely hiding her annoyance with my interruption. She picked up a pen and dramatically checked off the first box on her copy, which she read out loud. “Nanny Search.”

  Underneath the box were several bullets describing exactly what was encompassed in the Nanny Search—several rounds of interviews, background checks, drug tests, and impressively, creation of the human resources overhead necessary to manage a household employee. I presumed the bullets were on the piece of paper as a reminder of how much work I was not going to have to do, assuming that I, too, were to check off the box.

  “Mrs. Pedersen, as an attorney, you work long hours. Your husband, a banker, works long hours. It should come as no surprise to you that at the very least, you will need an extended care nanny. The best option for you would be a live-in nanny, certainly until the child is enrolled in kindergarten.”

  My mouth dried out at the thought of having not one, but two more people squeeze into our new apartment. Even if Dale were not the slob that he was, a live-in was absolutely out of the question. “We don’t need a live-in,” I declared authoritatively. “But we need you to conduct the search. We’ll need someone from probably 7:30 in the morning until 6:30 at night.” That was 11 hours. Strangely, I couldn’t image the last time my commute and work fit neatly and regularly into an 11hour bundle. I’d just have to get more efficient with my time once the baby arrived.

  Tawny scribbled something down on her chart. I took that as an acknowledgment of what I had said. “Next is Nursery Design Services.” This one got a swooping checkmark from Tawny.

  I think the second Dale’s sperm fertilized my egg, we started receiving catalogs featuring all manner of infant merchandise. There were countless instant nurseries that I could easily select from a magazine, or even design on-line (although that was never going to happen). “You know, Tawny, I think we’ve got the nursery covered.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful! What does it look like?”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly picked anything out yet, but I saw some really cute stuff in the Pottery Barn Kids catalog.”

  Given Tawny’s reaction, I could have said that I had picked up a crib bumper at the Salvation Army. “Mrs. Pedersen. Seriously. You don’t have time to be flipping through catalogs, of all things.” She slid something from under her checklist across the top of her desk to me. “You indicated that you don’t know the sex of the baby, but we at NYC Baby Prep have our own means of discerning such important information. Look at what our designers have already done for you.”

  I picked up a glossy 8” X 10” photograph. It was a fully decorated nursery for a boy.

  “Why do you think I’m pregnant with a boy?” From all I had read, the fact that my butt had widened by about 50% was supposed to indicate that I was having a girl. Old wives’ tales had to be more time-tested than undocumented suspicions from an upscale nanny agency.

  Tawny waved her hand, like I had entirely missed the point. Which was the photograph. And it was spectacular. All the furniture—the crib, changing table, bookshelf and glider—was a gorgeous cherry wood. Dark blue, hunter green and light tan composed the palette for the carpeting and paint. As I looked closely at the custom bedding and window treatments, I detected a miniature tennis racquet and lacrosse stick motif in the fabric. “This is fantastic!” I whispered, mesmerized.

  “I’m glad you think so.” Tawny’s eyes lit up for the first time, and she actually swiveled in her chair. “I was so thrilled when I read that you had gone to Yale and Dale had gone to Dartmouth. Blue and green! What perfect colors for a boy’s room! And the fact that you both played sports . . . well, that really got our designers energized.”

  I handed the picture back to Tawny. “What if it’s a girl?”

  “You’ll be even more blown away. With girls, the decorating possibilities are endless.”

  I stared at the photograph one more time. Anyone could have Pottery Barn linens. But only our child could have this magnificent custom zone of elite baby awesomeness. This would have to be my only splurge, I cautioned myself. I justified it by vowing not to redecorate the baby’s room again until he or she turned ten. “O.K. ‘Yes’ to the Decorator Services. What’s next?”

  For the next half an hour, I tried my best to resist the other fantastic offerings that Tawny described. I really didn’t need a custom play-list of classical music to be played to the baby in utero. So what if NYC Baby Prep had determined which composers stimulated the different stages of fetal development? I could download Mozart from iTunes myself.

  I did opt for the Custom Registry Creation service, but declined the Product Assembly Option. I figured this was a great way to get Dale involved in the baby process. Watching him try to put together something like a baby swing would be worth the entertainment value alone.

  After all the boxes had been reviewed, Tawny presented me with an updated checklist. Except this time, the agreed-upon boxes were checked off and the prices were filled in. When I spotted the total, I gasped. It was twice what I had estimated.

  Tawny was well-prepared for my reaction. “You must remember the peace of mind you will have once you engage NYC Baby Prep. No one can put a price on that.” Well, she just had, and it had just crossed the five digit threshold.

  She stood up and presented me with a bound document entitled, “Weekly Activity Schedule: Mrs. Maxine Pedersen.” “This is complimentary with all of our packages. Please review it while I get you something—some water, perhaps?”

  I nodded robotically and opened the book. There was a section for each week of pregnancy and a page for each day of the week. The top of each page described the state of the baby’s fetal development, and a handy diagram displayed the baby’s growth pictorially on the right-hand top corner. I wondered if I could create a quick cartoon by flipping through the pages really fast.

  My wo
rk schedule was listed for each weekday, as well as one trip to the office on the weekend, just as I had communicated in my application. Aside from that, there were a slew of new activities and appointments that I hadn’t even considered scheduling. And of course, there were referrals and contact information for each recommended vendor at the back of the book.

  Why hadn’t I gone to any pre-natal yoga classes yet? What about my weekly pregnancy massage treatments? Yes, I had scheduled doctor appointments with the obstetrician, but not with a dermatologist. I hadn’t even thought about the need to prevent stretch marks, freckles and . . . melasma. I didn’t even know what melasma was, but now I knew I had to do everything I could to avoid catching it.

  Tawny returned to the room with a bottle of water and a glass of ice. “That’s a pretty helpful resource, isn’t it? Most of our clients think it’s worth the Baby Prep fee all on its own.”

  “Really?” It was impressive. I closed the book, knowing that it was yet another sales tactic meant to overwhelm me into signing off on the exorbitant fee structure. Maybe my re-assignment from Parfum Aix was causing me to act impulsively. Hesitantly, I pulled my chair up to the awaiting documents, which Tawny had slyly laid out for me to sign.

  “And for your convenience, the entire schedule listed in the book is available for you to download directly into your calendar, onto your phone, whatever medium works for you.”

  I rubbed the cover of the book with the palm of my hand, still considering what to do. “So, after I upload the data in this binder, I can pull up some future day and see . . .” I opened the book to a random page and read the first thing I saw, which was, “Sexual intercourse with spouse. Position D.” My words slowed as I completed the sentence. Tawny resumed her place behind her desk.

  “Oh, those are just the scheduled intimacy sessions.”

  At least it hadn’t read, “Make love to spouse.” Dale would have had to incinerate the book just for bad phraseology.