The Manny. Holly Peterson

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      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

Dedication

      Chapter One: Wheels Up!

      Chapter Two: Morning Sickness

      Chapter Three: The Waffle

      Chapter Four: Everyone Knows That

Chapter Five: Is There a Manny in the House?

Chapter Six: Time to Talk Turkey

Chapter Seven: The Manny Makes his Debut

       Chapter Eight: Nannies Are So Much Simpler than Mannies

       Chapter Nine: Exposed!

       Chapter Ten: Wherefore Art There, Fabio?

       Chapter Eleven: Rotten Eggs

       Chapter Twelve: The Big ‘Get’: Be Careful What You Go For

       Chapter Thirteen: Backstage Sitters

       Chapter Fourteen: Kidnapped!

       Chapter Fifteen: Boundaries, Boundaries

       Chapter Sixteen: Sartorial Situations

       Chapter Seventeen: A Job Well Done

       Entr’acte I

       Chapter Eighteen: That Whole Style Thing

       Chapter Nineteen: Say it Ain’t So

       Chapter Twenty: More than just a Manny

       Chapter Twenty-One: Winter White-out

       Chapter Twenty-Two: Table Talk

       Chapter Twenty-Three: Day of Reckoning

       Chapter Twenty-Four: The Other Side of the Tracks

       Chapter Twenty-Five: Clashing Cultures

       Chapter Twenty-Six: Epic Snow Job

       Chapter Twenty-Seven: Wrong Week to Stop Sniffing Glue

       Chapter Twenty-Eight: Morse Code for Big Trouble

       Chapter Twenty-Nine: Cool-Down Period

       Chapter Thirty: Hold on to Your Birthday Hats

       Chapter Thirty-One: The Boudreaux Bombshell

       Chapter Thirty-Two: Wild Life

       Chapter Thirty-Three: A Funny Thing Called Fear

       Chapter Thirty-Four: The Belle of the Ball

       Chapter Thirty-Five: Grown-up Time-out

       Entra’acte II

       Chapter Thirty-Six: Return Engagement

       Chapter Thirty-Seven: Rude Awakening

       Chapter Thirty-Eight: Resolution

       Acknowledgements

       About the Author

       Praise

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       CHAPTER ONE Wheels Up!

      If you want to see rich people act really rich, go to St Henry’s School for Boys at 3 p.m. on any weekday. Nothing makes rich people crazier than being around other rich people who might be richer than they are. Private school drop-off and pick-up really gets them going. It’s an opportunity to stake their claim, show their wares and let the other parents know where they rank in the top .001 per cent of the top .0001 per cent.

      A cavalcade of black SUVs, minivans and chauffeured cars snaked its way up the block beside me as I raced to my son’s after-school game. I’d skipped another meeting at work, but nothing was going to keep me that day. Gingko trees and limestone mansions lined the street where a crowd gathered in front of the school. I steeled myself and waded into a sea of parents: the dads in banker suits barking into their phones and moms with their glamorous sunglasses and toned upper arms – many with dressed-up little darlings by their sides. These children played an important role in their parents’ never-ending game of one-upmanship as they were trotted out in smocked dresses, shuttled from French tutor to Cello class and discussed like prize livestock at a 4-H Fair.

      Idling in front of the school, with his tinted rear window half open, a cosmetics giant read about himself in the gossip columns. His four-year-old little girl watched a Barbie Fairytopia DVD on the small screen that dropped down from the ceiling of the vehicle while he finished the article. The nanny, in a starched white uniform, waited patiently in the front seat for him to inform her it was time to go inside.

      A few yards down the block, a three-and-a-half-inch green lizard heel was reaching for the sidewalk from the back of a fat, silver Mercedes S600. The chauffeur flashed its yellow headlights at me. Next I saw a brown tweed skirt jacked up on a shapely thigh, ultimately revealing a thirty-something woman shaking out her honey-coloured hair while her driver sprinted like a madman to get her arm.

      ‘Jamie! Jamie!’ called Ingrid Harris, waving her manicured hand. Dozens of chunky gold bangles jangled as they slid down her arm.

      I tried to shield my eyes from the glare. ‘Ingrid. Please. I love you but no. I’ve got to get to Dylan’s game!’

      ‘I’ve been СКАЧАТЬ