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The mothers at Os Alta Prep love to talk about the nanny.
“It’s such a clich é,” Tatiana tuts, as they watch the pretty young thing fuss over the Morozov boy on the other side of the school yard. “I don’t know how Morozov’s wife could allow a girl like that in her home, looking after her children. Didn’t every sane woman learn that lesson after Jude Law?”
“That’s what you get when you’re not around to manage your house,” Marie says. “I mean even his father drops him off occasionally! But we never see the mother!”
The Morozov boy hugs the nanny and dashes off up the steps into the Junior Prep entrance and the young woman stands up to wave after him. The hem of her cropped t-shirt rises even further to expose more of her midriff above her cut off shorts. The only concession the girl has made to modesty is the hoodie tied about her waist so they can’t see fully how short they are.
“I have a mind to send out a PTA letter reminding parents that appropriate attire is necessary for drop off and pick up.” Tatiana says with all the haughtiness she can muster.
“Cute boots though” Nina notes of the patent Docs the Nanny has paired with outfit.
“I don’t have a problem with the boots!” Tatiana says, “I have a problem with the fact she’s clearly not wearing a bra !”
Nina shrugs and shifts her toddler to her other hip.
“Look alive, here she comes.”
The nanny gifts them with a bright smile as sunlight glints off her septum piercing. Something else that Tatiana would no doubt love to complain about yet again, but can’t while the girl is in earshot of them.
“Morning!” the girl says cheerfully as she breezes past them.
The gaggle responds with a chorus of uncoordinated greeting and false cheer.
They watch her walk out of the gate and untie the hoodie from around her waist, reveal the full exposure of bare midriff and legs.
“Absolutely disgraceful ,” Tatiana huffs.
*
“Miss Saffin!”
Genya closes her eyes and sets her face before she turns around. She loathed parents’ evenings with a passion.
“Mrs Lantsova!” she says, as cheerfully as she can to the most awful mother in her class, “What can I do for you?”
“I really must speak with you about Vasily’s French grade,” Tatiana insists. “It just cannot be correct! I’m practically fluent myself!”
‘Un verre de vin blanc s’il vous plait’ isn’t fluent Genya thinks to herself as she gives Mrs Lantsova’s arm a placating pat.
“And we will have time for that during your slot but I’m afraid I’m keeping Mr and Mrs Morozov waiting.”
“Mrs Morozova is here?” Tatiana demands, “Good! I need to have a word with her about her nanny!”
Genya frowns.
“The Morozovs don’t have a nanny,” she says, looking over Tatiana’s shoulder where the couple in question are waiting at her classroom door.
Mrs Morozova is a vision in a demure, golden silk shirt dress that hugs her figure all the way down past her knees. Her usual messy bun has been swapped out for a sleek, low ponytail and the only way anyone might recognise her as the grunge band t-shirt wearer from that morning is the fact that she has on the same black Doc Martins, one of which she kicks playfully as her husband, in his immaculately tailored black suit, leans against the wall beside her. He smirks at something she says and she beams up at him, nose scrunching, as though his approval is all she needs in the world.
Genya feels Tatiana Lantsova trail after her as she approaches them.
Mr Morozov looks up first.
“Miss Saffin,” he nods.
His wife follows his gaze and smiles at Genya, then her eyes flick past her son’s teacher to the woman behind her.
“Hello Tatiana,” she says, pushing off the wall. “I got your email about Drop-Off Dress Code. I hope this passes muster?”
Mrs Morozova gives a little twirl and her dress shimmers in the light. No one should look that good under strip lighting. It’s just not fair.
Genya looks between the two mothers, assumes that there is some sort of playground politics going on here that she hasn’t quite caught onto yet. She’ll get it from Mrs Helvar in the next slot. Nina knows everything . But from what she can tell right now a challenge has been issued to the status quo of the Os Alta mothers’ hierarchy. And judging by the look of embarrassment on Tatiana Lantsova’s face, it seems that the young challenger may be in with a fighting chance.
“What?” Tatiana blusters. “Oh Darling! I hope you don’t think that was for you! No goodness me!” Tatiana leans in, lowers her voice conspiratorially. “There’s been some complaints from some other mothers about some of the nannies.”
“Ah!” Mrs Morozova says, clearly not believing a word of it, as she turns to her husband. “Nannies,” she repeats to him.
“Menaces to society,” he says, utterly deadpan and it takes all Genya’s years of working in early years teaching not to laugh.
“Anyway!” Mrs Morozova says brightly, “We had best be getting on. We don’t want to take up any more of Miss Saffin’s valuable time. I’m sure she has lots of other parents to speak to. So lovely to see you Tatiana.”
“And you!” Tatiana replies, beating a hasty retreat.
Mr Morozov is silent until Tatiana has disappeared down the end of the corridor.
“The bitch doesn’t even know your fucking name,” he says. There’s no heat to his words. He sounds almost awed at the audacity of the woman.
“Told you,” his wife says.
Genya doesn’t know what makes her do it. Maybe it’s a desire to see an end to Tatiana’s reign of terror? Maybe it’s just because she loves chaos? But she looks thoughtfully after the disappeared Tatiana and then back at the Morozovs.
“You know… PTA elections are at the end of term.”