Nanny Confidential

by Philippa Christian

  But she didn’t sound at all sure. Something in her tone of voice made me suspect that she wasn’t convinced. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. After all, what did I possibly have to complain about?

  3

  ‘Will, is it weird for your boss to ask you to get a bikini wax?’ I asked my best friend back in Hamilton, who had known me since I was three years old. I knew Will’s answer even before he snorted with laughter. I was glad I hadn’t asked ‘Is it weird that my boss has seen my vajayjay?’ It was now the truth, but he didn’t need to know that.

  I had rung Will from a phone booth because I was paranoid about my emails and phone calls being intercepted. I’d started using payphones after the British phone-tapping scandal—I wasn’t going to risk details of my bikini line turning up in a newspaper.

  I desperately needed to talk to someone about my day, and Will was my oldest friend and favourite confidant. Even though I am constantly relocating for my job—six months working for Indian royalty, eight months in a Bermuda tax haven—I use Will as an anchor to my history when I get caught up in Planet Showbiz.

  Only my best friend knows the ‘real’ me rather than Lindsay the professional, capable caregiver. Will knows my tells and my weaknesses, like the fact I rub the end of my nose when I’m nervous, that I’m terrified of multi-storey car parks and that I believed in Santa until I was fifteen years old. These kinds of secrets bind two adults together forever.

  That’s why the first person I reached out to after losing the last shred of my dignity was Will. I had spent the morning in a torture chamber masquerading as a beauty parlour, being plucked, poked and preened into a Stepford Nanny.

  It might sound like a treat but it was far from relaxing. What made it worse was that I felt like I’d been ambushed by Alysha. Yes, my bush had been ambushed! The first thing I knew about my waxing appointment was when I received an email confirming my ‘intimate overhaul’.

  From: holly@beautybynumbers.com

  To: lindsay.starwood@gmail.com

  Subject: Your Ultimate Grooming Package

  Dear Ms Starwood,

  Congratulations on taking the first step to a beautiful new you!

  At the request of Mrs Alysha Appleby, we have scheduled your appointment for 6 a.m. on Wednesday 25 March.

  The Ultimate Grooming Package takes approximately four hours to complete and includes a Brazilian wax, underarm lasering, teeth whitening, foot Botox, a coffee enema and a thirty minute session in our anti-ageing oxygen chamber.

  Please do not eat for 90 minutes before your session, as this can result in nausea.

  Yours flatteringly,

  Holly Sheen

  Chief Beautician

  Not only had Alysha booked the appointment for the crack of dawn, so that it didn’t interrupt my normal duties, but she also insisted on coming to the spa with me. I assumed she’d sit in the waiting room or have a treatment of her own, but when my name was called my boss followed me into the treatment room and positioned herself on a stall at the foot of the table.

  ‘Umm, Alysha, you might not want to sit there,’ I said, ‘You do know that I’m having a bikini wax. From that angle, you’ll be able to see . . . everything.’

  She didn’t look at all embarrassed. ‘Of course I know that. That’s why I’m here,’ she huffed. ‘It’s always good to have a second opinion, and I have very high standards when it comes to personal grooming.’

  I suspected I was being put to the test, and this was Alysha’s payback for the paparazzi photograph. I had promised, after all, that I would try to look less like a nanny, so she was giving me a makeover. I just wish she hadn’t come along to witness my transformation.

  I inwardly cursed eight-year-old Harlow, who had walked in on me in the shower the week before and then announced over breakfast with her mother, ‘Lindsay, why do you have hair where Mommy doesn’t?’ It wasn’t her fault—she was just saying what she saw, and I always tell the children they can ask me anything.

  In my line of work it’s impossible to get five minutes to yourself—even when you’re washing. I have to be quick in the shower because it’s only a matter of time before there’s a little hand knocking at the door, needing my attention.

  I have become far too well-acquainted with my bosses’ private parts in the past. I’m quite a prudish person, I suppose. I get embarrassed just watching sex scenes at the movies, let alone seeing evidence of my employers’ sex lives in the flesh.

  The problem is, many actresses have a distorted view of what warrants acceptable behaviour. It’s a side effect of the job, as they spend their days filming sex scenes with strangers, baring their bodies to a roomful of film crew. It’s not a profession for the bashful.

  I’ve been asked by more than one famous mother to accompany her to a sex shop, usually to choose a present for her husband. I know, I know, we’re modern women and it shouldn’t be a big deal, but would you be comfortable debating the benefits of one product over another with the person who pays your wages?

  I’ll never forget the day the mother of a six-year-old girl gave an iPad to her daughter to distract her while we were sitting in a restaurant. She was watching a Disney movie but then got bored and started flicking through the photo album. Our dinner was interrupted by the sound of groaning, and then the six-year-old shrieking. On screen was a video of her mother having sex with the co-star of her latest movie. They were only acting out a scene, thank goodness, but I’m sure it scarred the little girl for life.

  I’ve learnt, over the years, to hide my embarrassment when events like this occur. However, the waxing incident was a new level of intimacy. But I didn’t say no, or insist that Alysha leave the room. As I lay with my legs spread, having wax applied to my nether-regions, I wondered how my life had come to this—and how soon I could ask to review my contract. When I’d accepted the job with Alysha I hadn’t paid much attention to the clause about ‘adhering to the clients’ standard of personal aesthetics’. In hindsight, I wish I’d asked a few more questions, as it was too late to complain now.

  A mother monitoring their nanny’s beauty routine isn’t uncommon in A-list circles, where your boss can have an opinion on everything from your weight to your dress sense and hair colour. Some girls spend their twenties changing their looks to please boyfriends, but I’d spent mine morphing into different characters for my clients.

  One actress requested that I dye my hair dark brown because she wanted to be the only blonde living in the household. I didn’t in the end, but if she’d pushed the issue I would have. She was paying me $450,000 a year. With a salary like that I could afford the best stylist in the country to bleach my hair back again.

  It’s hard for even the most balanced girl not to get sucked into Hollywood’s expectations. This also applied to my dress sense, which had totally changed since I moved to LA. I can now tell the difference between a T-shirt that cost ten dollars and one that has two more zeroes on the price tag. It’s unusual for an employer to give you a clothing allowance. Instead, you’re supplied with a wardrobe of clothes that are chosen for you. Most mothers don’t want you to have your own style in case it isn’t to their liking. It’s also a strategy to keep the nanny’s weight in check. I knew a size-ten nanny whose boss refused to buy her anything but size-eight clothing. That’s not a very subtle hint.

  That’s why I was uneasy, but not totally surprised, about Alysha giving me a head-to-toe makeover. I had expected Will to laugh when I told him, which would help me to make light of the situation, but it seemed I’d misjudged his reaction. ‘Lindsay, how can you possibly think that is acceptable behaviour?’ he gasped. ‘In any other industry your boss would be up before human resources.’

  I found myself getting defensive and instantly wished I hadn’t told him. ‘You don’t understand, Will! I live in the vainest town on the planet. Do you know what Alysha has written on her bathroom mirror in lipstick? “Looking good is the best revenge.” That’s what I have to contend with.’

&nb
sp; How could he possibly understand the pressure that I faced living here? Will still lived in Hamilton, where he worked as an accountant, having followed his father into the family business. He still lived two streets down from the house he grew up in, and three nights a week he went back home for dinner. His entire life was based on routine and stability, which wasn’t a bad thing, but it couldn’t be more different from my own.

  ‘How can you bear to be around people who are that superficial?’ Will asked, and I could picture him on the other end of the phone scrunching his eyebrows as he did on the rare occasions he was angry. He was naturally placid, so when he had anything negative to say, the words seemed to get stuck in the pores of his face. It was a trait I always teased him about.

  ‘What do you want me to do, Will? Just quit and come back to Hamilton?’ I laughed at the absurdity of this, expecting him to join in, but the comment was met by silence on the other end of the line. ‘Oh, come on, Will. You really think one bikini wax is enough for me to turn my back on my life here?’

  ‘Why not?’ he exclaimed. ‘Come on, Lindsay! When you allow your boss to manage your pubic hair, it could be time to take a good, hard look at your job prospects. There’s a great nursery in Hamilton. My sister knows the owner and could probably put in a good word for you. You’d still be able to look after children, but without all this extra nonsense you have to handle at the moment. Wouldn’t you like to just do your job, go home at five o’clock and lead a normal life?’

  I thought about how I had spent my morning and then I thought about my to-do list for the afternoon. While the children were at a movie screening I had to reorganise their walk-in wardrobe (alphabetically by designer), then pick up a box of bacon cupcakes from the doggie bakery, and then take 9-month-old Chanel to be fitted for her first pair of stilettos. If I had my way the children would spend the afternoon in the park with a bat and ball to occupy them, but I had to follow orders.

  The funny thing is, the children would be perfectly happy to live low-key. This is one reason I love caring for the Applebys. The sisters are refreshingly down to earth, in spite of having a mother who I’d once overheard complaining to a girlfriend, ‘It’s so stressful having more money than I know how to spend.’

  In contrast, the Appleby sisters are far more amazed by ‘normality’ than extravagance. When my Mercedes recently broke down, I was given a courtesy car that didn’t have electric windows. Harlow thought the ‘wind-down windows’ were amazing and turning the handle became her favourite game.

  ‘Okay, it does sometimes feel like my days are taken up with unnecessary—and often ridiculous—tasks,’ I admitted to Will, ‘But doesn’t every job have its downsides? It’s just my version of doing admin and dealing with office politics. If I was in a normal job I’m sure I’d still have plenty to complain about.’ My best friend didn’t answer, but I wasn’t sure if that was because I’d won the argument or because my reasoning was so unconvincing that he didn’t think it deserved a response.

  If I’m honest, there’s another reason the thought of getting a ‘real job’ makes my stomach flip over. It’s not because I’d have to take a job with a far smaller salary. It’s because I worry that I wouldn’t be able to get a job outside the VIP bubble. I may be the go-to girl for celebrities, politicians and royalty, but I wonder if I seem particularly employable to the rest of the population.

  I couldn’t imagine sitting in a normal interview, being asked about my strengths and weaknesses. I doubted that parents back in Hamilton would value my proudest skill sets. ‘I know how to use pepper spray, can recite the Scientology prayer and can spot a paparazzi at twenty paces.’

  People in Hollywood have different priorities. I’ve been asked by a mum during an interview, ‘Don’t you think my husband looks like Brad Pitt?’ as if the wrong answer would put me out of the running.

  On another occasion, I went for an interview with a fashion designer who specialised in eco-friendly clothing. The first question she asked me was ‘Do you use tampons?’ When I answered yes she gave me a lecture on how bad they are for the environment. The next day, I received an email saying I hadn’t got the job because of ‘Conflicting hygiene morals’.

  I once beat six other applicants to a job working for a reality television star because my birthday was only one day apart from hers, which meant that we shared the same star sign. ‘We must have compatible personalities,’ she trilled. ‘Our energies will be in sync.’ She didn’t even ask to see my CV, which was lucky, because I haven’t updated it since I was fourteen years old. I wouldn’t know where to start if I had to create a résumé now. Under ‘career highlights’, what would I list? ‘Accompanying parents to waxwork sittings at Madame Tussauds (“Have they made my bum look too big, nanny?”)’ or ‘Applying fake tan to my male boss’s (very hairy) body before he appeared on Dancing with the Stars’?

  I wouldn’t even be able to name-drop my ex-employers because I’m bound by a confidentiality agreement not to reveal their identities. So, as much as I sometimes daydreamed about returning to my home town, to sanity and to Will, it just wasn’t going to happen. It just wasn’t practical.

  ‘Can you please stop saying that?’ I huffed at Will. ‘It’s very easy for you to tell me to quit my job, but my entire life is here. What exactly do I have waiting for me in Hamilton? Really, Will, give me one good incentive. I can’t name a single thing that would make it worth going back. Not a thing!’

  The telephone suddenly went dead and silence filled the phone booth. I glanced at the display screen, but it said I had $23 left on my phone card. How odd. I tried to call Will back but it went straight to his voicemail.

  I felt guilty that our conversation had ended on such a sour note, because I knew that he had my best interests at heart and just wanted me to be happy. I remember, when we were thirteen years old, pricking our fingers and making a blood pact that we’d never live a ‘fine’ life like most people seemed to. As teenagers we hated the F-word, and banned it from all our conversations. Why settle for fine when you could be amazing?

  More than a decade on, I have a feeling that Will thinks I had broken the pact. Honestly, though, I sort of feel like he let me down. I’m constantly trying to persuade him to move to Melbourne to work for one of the big-name accountancy firms, where he could live up to his full potential. Will is the most special person I know—intelligent, funny and not bad-looking if you like that kind of thing. When we were younger, we’d just solve every argument by wrestling. I’m not sure that would go down so well now. The last time I visited Hamilton, we’d had a weird moment where I’d gone to kiss his cheek and he’d twisted his face at the wrong moment. I’m still not quite sure what that meant.

  I tried again to redial his number but again it went to voicemail, so I left a message even though I hate the sound of my voice on tape and try to avoid it wherever possible. ‘Sorry, Will, I think my phone box cut us off,’ I said. ‘Look, don’t be mad at me. You know you love me, even if I get on your nerves sometimes. I’ll send you a picture of my wax job . . . only kidding! Ha ha! Okay, I bet you’re not laughing. Well, I better go anyway. I’ve got to get home to take the baby to ballet and I’m flying to Las Vegas tomorrow because there’s a kid’s party at Caesars Palace, but I’ll call you again this time next week. Hope you have a good one. Love you.’

  It’s funny, those three words—I love you. Will and I used to say it to each other all the time, but somewhere along the road into adulthood the phrase became too loaded.

  I once worked for a famous mother who never, ever told her children she loved them. However, she would throw the L-word around with friends and colleagues. She’d even say it to me every time I left the house or ended a phone call. ‘See you later, Lindsay. I love you!’

  I never wanted to say it back but didn’t want to offend her, so instead I’d say ‘I love YouTube’. If you say it quickly enough it sounds the same as ‘I love you too’, but you’re not giving your heart away. The truth is, I probably woul
d say those three words to Will. As a friend, I mean. But only if I was sure he’d say them back to me.

  4

  Every Sunday evening at 6 p.m., you’ll find the nannies of Hollywood’s wealthiest families at a restaurant just off the Boulevard, where we know our employers will never, ever find us.

  It is our official night off but we still feel the need to hide, because our bosses don’t really understand the meaning of the phrase ‘me time’. If I stayed at home, then Alysha would still give me orders. ‘I know you’re off duty, but could you just pick up some jars of baby food?’ I wouldn’t mind if the food was actually for 9-month-old Chanel, but it was Alysha who wanted to eat it. ‘The baby food diet worked wonders for Jennifer Aniston,’ she had mumbled to me the other day, scooping pureed banana into her mouth from a jar as small as a thimble.

  This type of behaviour is exactly why we choose to meet at In-N-Out Burger. There is no way that our bosses, some of the vainest women on the planet, would ever set foot inside a fast-food joint, in case just the smell of grease instantly brought on an acne attack and made them gain ten pounds.

  There are usually between six and ten nannies at our Sunday gatherings. My best nanny friend, Rosie (British, currently working for the blonde actress who always stars opposite the actor with the Southern drawl and six-pack), always saves me a seat next to her at the table. Then there’s Opal (a Swedish au pair, working for a troubled pop star) and Mimi (American, whose boss owns half of Silicon Valley). Jess (originally from New Jersey) cares for a six-year-old girl called Rapunzel who has hair down to her waist that is always braided. Her parents, who are fashion designers, remodelled their mansion to look like a medieval castle with turrets and a moat.

  The only regular missing from our meeting that night was Nikki, whose fate we discussed in hushed voices. The British nanny just found out she’s three months pregnant . . . to the very wealthy, very married businessman she works for. He wanted her to keep the baby, on the proviso that she never, ever revealed he was the daddy. She had to discreetly leave her job, but he was buying her an apartment in Bel-Air and giving her a monthly allowance. This happens more often than you’d imagine, unfortunately, and it gives clean-living nannies a bad reputation.