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Chandler family name with her unprofessional and downright dangerous behavior.
    Lydia shook her choppy blond hair off her face and waited for the tirade to end. As she did, she made some quick calculations. Obviously, she was not going to be fired, probably because Kat still took pity on her for all those years in the rain forest with only air-dropped copies of
Cosmo
for company. She would have to bide her time on the reformation project for Martina, wherein she planned to help the plump, self-conscious, generally miserable ten-year-old to actually get a life. She'd have to figure out a way to get some decent clothes of her own instead of raiding the moms' closet. What about those upscale used clothing places she'd heard about? Maybe she could troll there and—
    “… nanny cam,” Kat concluded.
    Oops. Lydia had missed most of that, but anything that ended in “nanny cam” could not possibly be a positive development.
    “Sorry?” Lydia asked, as pleasantly as possible.
    “You heard,” Anya accused. “You just don't like what you hear. Nanny cams. We need eyes in the back of head for you!”
    Nanny cams. That had to be those closed-circuit television systems by which parents could keep an eye on their nannies' doings. Some parents hid the minuscule cameras in their children's Steiff animals. Her own aunt would do that to her?
    “Gee, Aunt Kat, that's a little drastic,” Lydia began.
    “Not drastic enough!” Anya insisted, eyes blazing. “There must be confidences for what Lydia has done,” she declared, after some further assassination of Lydia's character.
    “Consequences, you mean,” Kat corrected.
    “Yes, yes,” Anya agreed. “Consequences. In old Soviet Union when I was girl, we would go before committee.”
    “There are no committees here, but I can think of one thing in addition to the nanny cams that will show you how serious we are, Lydia,” Kat mused. “It should also help you focus on your responsibilities.” Kat rested her head on her hands and looked at Lydia. “How often does X drive you around?”
    X was the moms' driver. A gay guy in his early twenties with exquisite taste in both clothes and friends (in fact, Lydia was in a hot relationship with his very hetero best friend, Billy Martin), he had gotten to be great buds with Lydia. She had taken advantage of his services not just to bring the children to various activities, but also as a way to get from point A to point B herself. It wasn't as if a girl could ride a bus to Los Feliz, nor could she have taken driver's ed in the Amazon.
    “Some,” Lydia ventured.
    “Ha!” Anya barked. “I check mileage on BMW!”
    Anya was keeping track of the mileage on the BMW to see when Lydia was taking unauthorized trips? Jeez, Joseph Stalin had nothing on her.
    Kat stood up. “Until the end of the summer, no unauthorized trips with our driver. If you're in the car with X, it's because we said you should be there.”
    Okay, this was definitely going to cramp her style. Without X, she was pretty much in a very well-heeled jail.
    Anya took a list out of the pocket of her green velour pants dotted in artistically placed anchor appliqués. They were the sort of pants Lydia would have liberated from the moms' closet until recently. “Right now, you and children have appointment with local public library. I will drive you myself there to be sure children do not select comic books. Go get ready. Be at BMW in four minutes.”
    Kat nodded and Lydia realized that was that. Class dismissed.
    Well, at least she still had her job.

Kiley shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and forced herself to tell Esme and Lydia the horrible words she'd been thinking ever since she'd arrived at the Brentwood Hills Country Club: “This is probably the last time we'll be together.”
    They wound their way out of the kids' indoor play area that included a trampoline, a miniature golf course (complete with a giant windmill), a rock-climbing wall, a big-screen TV