elia should have known the day would end badly.
On the way to the gallery this morning, she was inadvertently saturated by two hose-wielding city employees sent to eradicate all evidence of a splat of dried vomit on a State Street sidewalk.
            Then she had to leave a disappointing message for her sexy new suitor, Officer Sean De La Mora, saying she couldn't have dinner with him tonight because she has to attend a swanky soirée. She left out the part about going begrudgingly as a nanny for her landlords' 4-year-old.
             Then, leaving work, she heard sidewalk crooner Jason P. Jason interrupt his soulful rendition of "Sweet Surrender" to say, "Oh, you'd better surrender those sweets, sweet thang," as she rushed by. Delia wondered if it was some kind of comment on her butt.
             But now, tearing through the closet in her cottage, she has no time to worry about a potentially prodigious posterior. She has all of three minutes to find something that passes for "black tie" and get her rear end, however large it might be, up to the family's Land Rover in time for take-off. If the Beachwoods fail to achieve their ideal degree of lateness because of her inability to find a clean garment, her possibly colossal fanny could be out on the street tomorrow.
             The SUV winds down the Beachwoods' impossibly long driveway and up the neighbors' equally pythonic one to a spectacular Mediterranean-style home with arched windows and thick, stucco walls. Valets help them out of the car.
             Tonight's fête, Delia was apprised on the short ride over, is an engagement party hosted by Stanford and Trudie Ryan in honor of their daughter, Brie. For the occasion, the Beachwoods have dressed Jackson in a dorky little nautical blazer that he is already squirming to get out of.
             "Delia, perhaps you and Jackson can play chess in the study," says Mrs. Beachwood, leading Mr. Beachwood toward the bar.
             No fool - and never having seen a rook in his life - Jackson darts for the kitchen, from which the smell of savory onion tartlets is emanating. To Delia's surprise, they bump into her friend Rodrigo, dressed in a pin-striped apron and loading up a platter of caviar canapés.
             "What are you doing here?" she says.
             "Snagged a gig with Gourmand Catering," he replies, stuffing a mini-quiche in each cheek. "Pay's OK, but the scarfage is killer. Jackson, my man, what's the haps?"
             "Cold maxin' out on the ill tip," the little boy replies dutifully.
             "Atta boy!" Rodrigo says. "Grab some grub, y'all. I've got to make some rounds."
             Jackson helps himself to several fistfuls of biscotti, fig puffs and lemon snowballs in the corner, and Delia downs a salmon medallion and a couple spoonfuls of mushroom risotto before they rejoin the party.
             "Delia?" says a confused voice. "I didn't know you had kids."
             Delia turns to see Peg Trenton, the fabulously with-it director of the Contemporary Arts Forum. They met at an art opening last month, and Delia decided instantly to be her when she grows up.
             "Hi, Peg," she says, horrified to be seen in a servant role by her professional idol. "This is Jackson. His parents rent their guest house to me, and I'm just here ... "
             "She's here so I won't eat too much sweets and act naughty, like last time," Jackson pipes up.
             "Well you should come over and say hello to Frank and Robert," Peg says. "Practically the whole local art community is here. Brie's fiancé is a major collector, you know."
             "I gotta pee-pee," says Jackson, beginning to wiggle and writhe threateningly on the gleaming wood floors.
             "OK, sweetie," Delia says. "I'll come find you, Peg."
             On the way back from the bathroom, Mrs. Beachwood flags them down.
             "Delia, they've just put the desserts out," she says, reeking of martinis. "Don't let Jackson have any. For some reason, the sugar-and-high society combination makes him insufferable."
             Delia is about to ask what she means when she sees Jackson sprinting for the buffet table. She reaches him just as he's about to suck down a ramekin of chocolate ganache, and snatches it abruptly out of his hand. Before she can explain his mother's mandate, the toddler's lip starts to quiver. His eyes well up and he starts to sob, then wail, then jump up and down and flail his pudgy little blazer-encased arms.
             How many cookies did he eat in the kitchen? Delia wonders, but the question is now moot. Jackson has scrunched up his red, tear-streaked face and, roaring, slammed his sucrose-powered body into the dessert table.
             The last thing she remembers seeing as she grabbed the boy and bolted for the front door is the career-haunting image of Peg Trenton's shiny green slingbacks buried under a gooey mountain of raspberry trifle and honey-poached pears.

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