She looked over at Tyler, who was finally sleeping peacefully, with his hands under his chin and his little mouth open. She wondered if he would grow up to be a snorer like Shane . . .
“Wendy.”
“Right, Hank,” she said. She couldn’t tell him that leaving her children right now was impossible—word might spread and then Bob Wayburn would assume he had free rein. If her family situation didn’t improve, he would have it, but for the moment, she had to stall. “I’ll decide after I see the next two days of dailies,” she said.
She wished she could lie down and go back to sleep, but dragged herself into the bathroom and got under the shower. In the past, she’d always been able to leave in the event of a crisis, but that was because Shane was there. And Shane’s exit was compounded by the fact that Ragged Pilgrims wasn’t any old movie. If Ragged Pilgrims, with its $125 million budget, failed, her career was simply over. Shane knew what the stakes were, she thought wearily; no doubt he had timed his disappearance to cause the most possible damage. She had to get him to come back. Maybe if she bought him a car . . . something fancy, like the new Porsche SUV . . .
“Mrs. Healy?” It was Mrs. Minniver, knocking on the bathroom door. “I’d like to talk to you about this situation.”
Was Mrs. Minniver going to quit now too? Maybe she’d be better off bribing Mrs. Minniver with a car instead of Shane.
“I’ll be right out,” she called.
Her cell phone rang. It was Jenny Cadine. “I don’t mean to be an asshole, but I’m not happy,” she said.
Jenny, Wendy thought, did mean to be an asshole, but she let it pass. “I know all about it and I’m going to fix it,” Wendy said, being careful to keep any trace of annoyance out of her voice. “I have a call in to Bob and I’ll call you back as soon as I hear from him.”
“It had better be now . . .”
“Mrs. Healy!” Mrs. Minniver demanded.
“Ten minutes, tops,” Wendy said into the phone and hung up.
She followed Mrs. Minniver into the kitchen. Jeez. She didn’t even know her first name. Did she even have one? Wendy wondered.
“We can’t have a repeat of yesterday,” Mrs. Minniver said. “I have my hours, and I must keep to them. Seven a.m. to five p.m. You may not be aware of my hours because Shane would occasionally ask me to stay longer, and I usually obliged. But then, he always did his share of caring for the children.”
Wendy didn’t know what to say. She felt slimy with guilt. Even her smile felt greasy. “I’m sorry . . .” she said.
“It’s not a matter of an apology,” Mrs. Minniver said huffily, filling up the coffeemaker with water. “I don’t usually make it my place to criticize my clients, but this household is a mess. The children are a wreck and probably in need of psychological counseling. Magda needs a bra—”
“I’ll get her a bra . . . this weekend—” Wendy whispered.
“I really don’t know what you’re going to do,” Mrs. Minniver sighed, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
Mrs. Minniver’s back was to her, and Wendy looked at her hatefully. There she was, in her crisp gray uniform with support stockings (Mrs. Minniver was an old-school nanny, and she never let you forget it), while she, Wendy, the employer, whose life was supposed to be made easier by this person, was standing there with wet hair and a fuzzy old robe with her life unraveling before her. Wendy figured she had two choices. She could scream at Mrs. Minniver, in which case she’d probably quit, or she could throw herself on the mercy of this coldhearted Englishwoman. She chose the latter.
“Please, Mrs. Minniver,” she said pleadingly. “It’s not like I have any options here. I can’t exactly stop working, can I? How would I be able to buy food for my children?”
“That’s not really my problem, is it?” Mrs. Minniver asked, giving Wendy a superior smile. “Although I suppose it’s simply a question of getting the work bit under control.” Wendy felt an insane urge to laugh. Since when did Mrs. Minniver become an expert on what it took to survive in the movie business?
“Maybe I should hire someone extra,” Wendy said carefully. “Someone to come in at five and take over for the evening.” Christ. Two nannies. What kind of life was that for the kids?
“That might be an idea,” Mrs. Minniver said. “You might also consider boarding school.”
“Like they do in England?” Wendy asked, her voice rising in disbelief.
“Magda is certainly old enough. And Tyler will be soon.”
Wendy heard a gasp behind her. She turned around. Magda had been hovering in the open space between the kitchen and the living room. How much had she heard? Enough, apparently, judging from the expression of hurt and confusion on her face.
“Magda!” Wendy said.
Magda turned and ran.
Wendy found Magda on her bed, huddling with Tyler. Tyler was sobbing. Magda looked at Wendy, an accusingly triumphant expression on her face. “Why, Mommy?” Tyler asked, in between hiccupping sobs. “Why are you going to send us away?”
“Because you pooped in your pants, stupid,” Magda said. “Now we’re both going to be sent away.” She jumped off the bed. “Like orphans.”