Stayed Too Long, a nanny fanfic

Stayed Too Long

By Laura Schiller

Based on: The Nanny

"Miss Chastity, for the last time, leave it!" Nanny Bobo crosses her scrawny arms and sighs, her breath fogging the winter air.

"Last time? Good!" Chastity flips her brown pigtail imperiously over one shoulder. "Then I don't have to hear it again. Noel, gimme a quarter. I want that bear."

She points to the smallest teddy bear offered as a prize at the dart booth, the one in the Santa outfit with a green gift box inside its paws.

"You can't be serious," her big brother complains, rolling his eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses. "Look – they're packing already!"

He's right. The dart booth is one of the last still open; everywhere they look, blinds are pulled down, tables wiped, and even the Ferris wheel is slowing down.

It's the booth keeper who ends the argument by getting out his keys. "Sorry, kids," he says, "Time to go home."

"When Daddy comes back, he'll win it for me," Chastity mutters. "Bet you that quarter."

"I'll take that bet," Noel snorts. "Cause he's never coming back."

She never does get the bear.

It begins with a handshake at a party, nothing more, just as the Biblical flood began with a drop of rain.

CC watches Maxwell Sheffield, her new boss and the Prince Charming of her teenage dreams, pick up the white-gloved hand of Sara Newman and hold it a moment too long. "Delighted," he says, smiling, and Sara drops her strawberry-blonde lashes. It's like a rom-com on TV, complete with Maxwell's lovely mansion as a backdrop. CC could gag.

"So glad you two have finally met!" she chirps instead, putting a hand on both their shoulders. "Sally here was my roommate in college, you know. Her midnight espressos probably got me my diploma, right, sweetie?" We're friends, right? You would never go after Maxwell when you know perfectly well I'm in love with him … right?

"Espresso, eh?" Maxwell's hazel eyes crinkle. "What do you know, I'm a coffee man myself. I've yet to find an American who can make it taste like anything but mud."

"And here I thought you English were all about tea," Sara jokes. "You're surprising me, Mr. Sheffield."

"Ugh, Mr. Sheffield's my father! Please, call me Max."

It's the first time CC has heard him offer someone his first name, let alone a nickname. Neither of them has a glance to spare for her

She knows this is her signal to excuse herself politely, to let them talk. Instead she sticks to them like flypaper for hours, jumping into the conversation as often as she can, and avoiding the sardonic gaze of Maxwell's butler with every champagne flute she snatches from his tray.

"What are you looking at?" she snaps at the aforementioned butler, stopping next to her as she watches Maxwell and Sara waltzing gracefully across the room.

"Nothing, miss," says the young man. "Just observing the scenery."

He's a heavy-set blond with a face she might call pleasant if she were paying attention (which she's not). The only thing distinctive about him is his warm English voice, which always reminds her of dark velvet. She's never really noticed him before, but tonight she finds him positively obnoxious. Does he have to stare at her like this, with sharp blue eyes that seem to notice everything? Is her hair falling out of its bun again? And does her long-sleeved, ankle-length, navy blue dress (slimming, said the saleslady) look very frumpy compared to the pink confection whirling around Sara's slender legs?

"Go observe somewhere else, Butler Boy. You stink of dish soap."

He gives her the brightest, wickedest smile she's ever seen, hands her another champagne flute - and spills it all into her lap.

"Oops," he says, with wide-eyed innocence. "How clumsy of me."

"I'm sorry, Sally," CC whispers to the marble headstone at her feet, using the old nickname which had embarrassed Sara so much. "I admit I used to wish you'd disappear, but not like this … not like this … "

Maxwell, the children and all the other guests are gone; she is the only mourner left, shivering in the scrap of velvet which is the only black jacket she owns. The driving rain has steamed up her glasses so she can barely read the inscription; at least, it had better be the glasses, because everyone knows CC Babcock does not cry.

"Oh, stop this charade, Miss Babcock. You're not fooling anyone."

The haughty English voice behind her is accompanied by a black umbrella covering her head. Instead of thanking the speaker (Niles, of all people), CC matches his sneer with one of her own. "What charade, Tidy Bowl? I loved Sara like a sister, and I'll stand here as long as I damn well please."

CC remembers it all – Sara's strawberry hair and carefree laugh; long nights gossiping in their tiny dorm room over pots of coffee; Sara squealing with delight as CC informed her of her brand-new secretarial position.

"Oh, come now!" Niles rolls his eyes, which she notices are bloodshot. "We both know you've hated her ever since she married Mr. Sheffield."

She remembers playing third wheel at all those dinners and parties, being desperately sweet to Sara's face, while in the back of her mind, little Chastity screamed: Not fair, I saw him first! Why do some women get it all on a silver platter – beauty, friendship, love – while others struggle every day just to not make things worse?

She remembers Sara after the accident, catching her sleeve, looking up at her with shimmering eyes from the hospital bed. Take care of Maxwell, darling. Promise me …

"Love, hate … whatever," she murmurs. "Sometimes I honestly can't tell the difference."

Niles' hand on her elbow, steering her away from the grave, is more welcome than she'd ever admit. An apology would be too much to ask for (really, that man has far more pride than a domestic should), but what he does say is enough.

"The limo's waiting, Miss Babcock. Get inside before you catch a cold."

He's here. He's finally here. Never mind that she's buzzing on five or six glasses of spiked punch; never mind that he was delayed for hours by Nanny Fine's tonsillectomy, when the insufferable woman already has Niles, the children and a swarm of noisy relatives to take care of her. He came to her sorority reunion, as promised. She hauls herself off the gray velvet loveseat and staggers over to throw an arm around New York's most eligible widower.

"Everyone … allow me to introduce … the light of my life, Maxwell Sheffield!"

CC's voice falls into the silence like a stone. The reunion is over, her so-called sisters returned to their adoring husbands and children. Besides herself and Maxwell, the only one to hear her is a janitor who's been sweeping up the debris. The old man, bless his proletarian soul, chatters so cheerfully in Spanish about the honor of meeting a famous producer that the awkwardness of the moment is almost forgotten. It's not until the cab ride home that it all comes rushing back.

"I feel like an idiot," she slurs. "Don't tell Niles, I … I'd never live it down … "

"Don't worry, CC," Maxwell replies, patting her hand. "Let's pretend it never happened. Tell Niles my accent and my bank account made you the most envied woman in the room. How about that?"

This would be so much easier if he weren't so sweet.

"I love you, Maxwell … " It's out before she can stop it, along with a tear or two. Heavy drinking will do that to a girl, which is why she usually saves it for the privacy of her apartment.

"I know. CC, listen … " Maxwell's face, lit up by the passing lights of other cars, is infinitely sad. She can see the rejection in his eyes before he gives it; her hands flies up to cut him off.

"Sorry. No, forget it. Let's pretend I didn't say that. Partners, all right?"

"Partners. Of course."

They shake hands, not a second longer than protocol requires, and he patiently endures her dizzy head landing on his shoulder. The next morning, as per their agreement, they pretend it never happened.

Niles, in Maxwell's place, would never let that statement stand. He would poke at her defenses until they crumbled; he would settle for nothing less than the truth. Maxwell is too polite for that, which is exactly what she loves about him most.

"What are you still doing here? Shouldn't you be out howling at the moon?"

CC, curled up on the sofa in Maxwell's office with a stack of scripts to read (each one more horrible than the last), blinks up at Niles with exhausted eyes.

"I'm waiting for Maxwell," she says, not even bothering with a comeback. "Where is he anyway? We were supposed to go over these together … "

"He asked me to convey his apologies," says Niles, looking anything but sorry. "Miss Fine … persuaded him to join her and the children at the cinema."

He leaves it to CC's imagination just what sort of 'persuasion' it was.

"Nanny Fine again?" Just the name gives her a headache. "Oh, what does he see in her, Niles?"

"Aside from the obvious?"

"Hmph! You mean the fact that she's got more hair than brains? Aw, Mistah Sheffield! Haaah!" Her imitation of Nanny Fine's casual hand flip and foghorn laugh falls miserably flat.

Niles' expression grows stern. "Miss Fine has something you will never aquire, Miss Babcock. Not with all the family fortunes in the world."

"And what's that? A skirt that used to be a handkerchief?"

"A loving heart."

As usual, he gets the last word, closing the door behind him with one final, inscrutable glance from his sea-blue eyes.

Part of her wants to cry into those interminable scripts until they're too soaked to read. Part of her wants to follow Niles into the corridor and slap his smug British face, or maybe grab him by the lapels and kiss him dizzy. But all she can do is sit there, her head spinning, hating Niles – or is it Nanny Fine, or even herself? – more than ever.

Somehow, while brooding over her supposed inability to love, she broods herself to sleep. And when she wakes up at five a. m. on the sofa, with the scripts for a pillow and a massive crick in the neck, she finds a blanket tucked around her body and a breakfast tray on the desk.

He's a butler, she tells herself severely. A professional caretaker, doing his job even for me. Still, if Niles could have seen the look on her face as she holds that blanket close, he might just take back what he said.

The moment Chastity Claire Babcock realizes the truth about herself is the single worst moment of her life.

It started with that terrible proposal. If she were an honest woman (which she's not), she would admit that there is nothing she wants more than to marry Niles. But since when does CC Babcock get what she wants? Since when does she deserve it?

It can't be true. He can't possibly love her. Not after twenty years of waxed floors, dirty coffee, humiliation and contempt, with the odd passionate kiss thrown in just to confuse her. Not when she herself has been so hateful in return. It has to be a trick, his most elaborate and vicious trick so far. She mustn't fall for it. Not this time.

"Oh, please!" she snarls, pacing around the Sheffield's front hall like a tigress in her red suit. "I would never marry you! You're – " Sweet, caring, loyal … at least to the Sheffields. Everything I don't know how to be. Too good for me. " – a pathetic excuse for a man!"

"Ditto," he retorts. Of course, the old trick, turning her own words against her. Now she's the pathetic excuse for a man. How tired she is of hearing that.

Whether it's something in her face, or some impulse of his own mysterious thoughts, Niles looks down at her with a sudden gravity: the satirist becoming the judge with frightening ease.

"Look around you," he says simply, gesturing to the Sheffields side by side. "They're married. They're starting a family. Where are you going to be ten, twenty years from now? You're going to be saying "Merry Christmas" to your friends in rehab and wondering what might have been."

Turning to Maxwell, he nods a solemn farewell. "I'll be leaving first thing in the morning, sir."

The door closes behind him with a firm, final click.

CC is left to face them by herself: Maxwell, twenty years older than the man she first fell in love with: a silver streak in his soft black hair; joy and wisdom in his face. Nanny Fine – Mrs. Francine Sheffield – round and glowing, like she's swallowed the moon. They're so beautiful together, so right, that it takes her back to Maxwell and Sara's first handshake (and the pudgy secretary watching them) all over again. I give up, Sally. Neither of us won him after all.

"My God … he's right. The best years of my life are gone, and they sucked."

All these years chasing desperately after the love she sees before her – the common, everyday warmth of a happy marriage – and she's lost her chance, ruined it with her own wilful blindness. Her illusions lie at her feet like so much broken glass: she is not confident after all, or, infallible, or even altogether sane. She is not Maxwell Sheffield's destined bride. She is Chastity Babcock, deeply flawed and painfully alone, still waiting for Prince Charming to win the teddy bear for her, stubbornly ignoring the prize right in front of her nose.

Niles Brightmore has been honest with her – faithfully, brilliantly, sometimes brutally honest – because he loves her, and she loves him in return. And just seconds ago, she let him walk away.

He is wrong about one thing, though: she does have a heart. Just enough of a heart to ache with, as she's never ached before. Just enough to finally show her the truth.

"I've always stayed too long at the fair … Well, not this time. I have to move on."