The following afternoon, Cassandra accompanied Sylvie while she babysat Imogen. Quinn, meanwhile, had a play-date with a friend of his, Julius, and his nanny, a twenty-four-year-old linguistics major from Smith named Hannah. “That Julius is a bastard,” Sylvie remarked to Cassandra, in full view of clever little Imogen, on whom not a single word was lost. “Do you know what he told Hannah, after he met me? He said: ‘I wish Quinn’s nanny was my nanny. She’s so much prettier than you!’ Do you believe that?”
“You are prettier than Hannah,” chimed in Imogen, not because she wanted to compliment Sylvie but because it was the truth and Imogen was a great believer in speaking the truth. “Hannah’s not pretty at all.”
“Julius!” said Cassandra. “What kind of parents name their child Julius? It’s such a jerky name for a little boy. You know? Julius.” She rolled her eyes
“What are we going to do today?” asked Imogen, getting down to business. If she didn’t keep them on track, Sylvie and Cassandra were likely to just sit there for hours talking and talking. Imogen, not being the introspective type, was big on “doing” things. Cassandra dreaded what might be coming, so before the little girl could suggest something kid-friendly and appropriate, she said, “I have an idea.”
“Oh yeah?” said Imogen, prepared not to be impressed.
“How would you like to go lingerie shopping?”
“Cassandra!” said Sylvie.
“Oh, come on, Sylvie, I want to stock up. I feel like Edward’s getting sick of all of the stuff I have. I’d like to surprise him with something.”
“Who’s Edward?” asked Imogen.
“My boyfriend.”
“Oh. Well, so what? What does he have to do with it?”
“With what?”
“With lingerie shopping.”
“Oh—” Cassandra began. Sylvie cut in to stop her, saying: “Where did you want to go anyway?”
“I got this postcard in the mail saying that Agent Provocateur is having a sample sale. Let’s go!”
“Oh my God, a sample sale!” Now Sylvie was persuaded, if bargains were to be had.
“What’s a sample sale?”
“Oh, Imogen,” said Cassandra, almost with tenderness, “the things I’m going to teach you.”
“I think Edward is a stupid name. It sounds old.”
“Don’t worry,” said Sylvie. “He is.”
“You think Edward is a stupid name? What about Julius?”
Or Quinn for that matter, thought Sylvie grimly.
“I go to school with this kid named Bear.”
“Bear?” said Cassandra. “Bear? Does he have a brother named Cub?”
“No, Orlando.”
“Orlando? Bear and Orlando? Christ.”
“I want to be named Francesca. I have this friend named Francesca. But she’s not even that pretty and a Francesca should be pretty. A Francesca should be beautiful! Don’t you think so? Will you call me Francesca?”
“Okay, Francesca,” said Cassandra.
“Can I call you Cassie?”
“Fuck, no!”
“Cassandra.”
“Cassie! Cassie! Over my dead body you’ll call me Cassie.”
“Okay, Cassie.”
“If you call me Cassie ever again, I won’t take you lingerie shopping.”
“So? I’ll get my mother to take me lingerie shopping.”
“Oh, no you won’t.”
“Your mother doesn’t wear lingerie. And I should know. I do her laundry.” And then Sylvie whispered to Cassandra: “She wears those, you know, passion-killers.”
“Oh dear. Those kind of saggy cotton deals with the high waists?”
“Passion what?” asked Imogen.
“Never you mind,” said Sylvie.
They got on the train and got off in SoHo. Once they were inside the Agent Provocateur on Mercer Street, Imogen went straight for the whips. She picked up a tiny black feathered one and rubbed it between her hands. She was in love. She must own this whip or she would die.
“Oh God,” said Sylvie, noticing what Imogen was doing. Cassandra was too busy scooping up fistfuls of frothy, candy-colored garter belts.
“Can I get this, Sylvie? Can I, can I? If you buy it for me, my parents will pay you back. I promise.”
“Now, Imogen—”
“Francesca! Today I’m Francesca.” Assuming this new, splendid identity, she struck a pose with the whip in the mirror. My, but blondes look well in black. The effect was very striking. She’d have to get a whole new wardrobe. She looked down at her peach-colored organic cotton blouse with deepest displeasure.
“What? My parents are rich! Why are you so worried, Sylvie? They’ll pay you back.”
“No, you’re not going to buy anything here, Imogen. But you can look. You can buy stuff here when you’re older.”
“But Cassandra’s buying stuff.”
Sylvie turned and there was Cassandra, merrily putting stuff on hold at the register. Sylvie suddenly felt utterly without interest in lingerie. What she wished she could do was go home and bake more cupcakes. She looked down at Imogen, standing there with the whip. Just think. If the lemonade stand took off, she wouldn’t have to babysit little brats like this anymore.
Somebody’s phone started ringing. “Oh, it’s Edward!” Cassandra exclaimed, all aflutter at the thought of him, and stepped outside to take the call. When she returned, she sighed and said, “I’m so disappointed.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Well, Edward’s coming to town this weekend and of course we’ll be staying at the Harvard Club, but—”
“This weekend? But I need you to work the lemonade stand, Cassandra.”
For ten dollars an hour? Cassandra thought of asking her, knowing full well that Sylvie expected her to do it for free.
“Oh, get Gala to do it. The sight of her is good for foot traffic, right? Just make sure she wears that cheesy American Apparel dress again. I can’t stand those dresses! They’re, like, the death of elegance, if you ask me.”
But nobody did ask you, Sylvie was thinking.
“Gala’s hot!” said Imogen.
“I’m not sure,” said Cassandra, “that I approve of little girls using words like hot. There’s something objectifying about it.”
“But you approve of taking them to lingerie stores?” Sylvie chimed in.
“Well, you’re her babysitter. We didn’t have to come here if you suddenly thought it was so inappropriate.”
“Can’t you get Edward to come another weekend?”
“No, he has some important meeting at the Harvard Club, is the thing. But I’m so upset because, get this! The old rooms are all booked, so we have to stay in one of the modern ones.”
“And the problem is…?”
“The old rooms have four-poster beds, see. The modern ones don’t.”
“So?”
“Well, I just love being tied to a four-poster…”
“Oh, Good Lord.”
“How does that work?” Imogen wanted to know. “How do you tie someone to a bed? Can you teach me how to do it, Cassandra? Can you? There are a bunch of beds at our house. We have five stories.”
“Oh, we just use ties,” said Cassandra, not missing a beat. “Edward’s ties. They’re beautiful. He has very nice clothes. Very classic, you know.”
“Like my daddy’s ties?”
“I guess.” Cassandra now remembered all of a sudden that she was talking to a seven-year-old. “I’m just going to buy these garter belts and then we can get going.”
“What’s a garden belt?”
“Garter belt, Francesca my friend, garter belt.”
“Is it like a garden snake? That would be funny.”
“No, it’s more like—” Sylvie sighed and held her head in her hands. “Come on, Imogen, let’s get out of this place.”
“My whip!” wailed Imogen, refusing to let it go. She was having sparkling visions of using it to boss other little girls around on the playground.
“Oh, my God!”
“What now?”
“Would you look at that lavender baby doll! The sheer one, over there! Hold on a second. I think I just have to have that.”
“You already have—”
“Oh, but Sylvie! Edward just loves me in lavender.”
“I would get it in black instead,” advised Imogen knowledgeably, putting down the whip with great sorrow and reluctance but figuring that her birthday was coming up and she’d ask her parents to buy it for her then. “Black looks hot on blondes, and anyway, if you get it in black it’ll make you look thinner.” She smiled. “Cassie.”