Rosie and Opal were already there with their children, whose mouths were full of chocolate buttons. To the disgust of the pushy mothers, there is always a ‘candy bar’ at shoots such as these, with jars full of every American kid’s favourite lollies, from cinnamon candy to Hershey’s Kisses, Bursting Berry Blow Pops and Tootsie Rolls. These producers are sugar-pushers, because they want to keep the kids’ energy levels high (and have sweet treats on hand to bribe the kids with if they don’t behave).
Sure enough, when a female crew member wearing a baseball cap with a ponytail swinging from the back rushed up to us, she had a bag of gummy bears in hand and immediately started pouring them into the children’s hands. ‘Hiya! I’m Stephanie,’ she chirped. ‘We’re so glad that you could join us. Now, I need to get the four of you into hair and make-up immediately.’
I gathered Goldie, Harlow and Cherry in front of my legs. ‘You mean the three of them,’ I said, touching each one on the top of the head. ‘We were told the other three sisters were too young to be in the shoot.’
Stephanie looked puzzled for a moment. ‘Yes, that’s why I said four,’ she said slowly. ‘You’ll need hair and make-up too. We don’t want any shiny foreheads, do we? Oh, and can you sign these release forms? Muchos thankyas!’
As she rushed off, she pushed a piece of paper into my hand. At the top of the page it said, ‘Name—Lindsay Starwood. Character—Mother.’
My heart sunk. Suddenly my trip to the beauty parlour made even more sense. When Alysha had given me a makeover she wasn’t just punishing me for being pap-snapped. She was preparing me to play a Hollywood Mama and needed me to look the part.
While the children were in the make-up trailer having their faces caked with foundation, I called Alysha’s agent to get the lowdown. Kerri-Ann was not my favourite person at the best of times, but she would have sealed the deal on my behalf.
‘Oh yes, didn’t Alysha tell you?’ asked Kerri-Ann innocently. ‘The casting director wanted a package deal with three children and one parent. Alysha suggested that you take her place, seeing as you have the same hair colour and you’ve recently lost a bit of weight. I thought you knew. Oh well, break a leg!’
As a large clock in the corner of the restaurant counted down five minutes to action, it was too late to back out. I’d just have to suck it up and pretend to be a mummy.
The children and I were shown to a round melamine table at the centre of the set, a prime position right in front of the main camera. I guessed this was down to Sir Cameron pulling a few strings. The pushy mothers glared at us, wondering why the children were the chosen ones. It probably didn’t help that Cherry was loudly and tunelessly singing ‘The weebles on the bus go round and round’, although I had tried to explain that it was ‘wheels’. Meanwhile, Harlow had two bubblegum balls stuck in her cheeks, making her look like a chipmunk. As one mother shoved past me she muttered, ‘Who did you sleep with to get this gig?’
The kids and I were given cone-shaped party hats in psychedelic colours with glittering tassels sprouting from the tip to wear. I could understand why Alysha had skipped this job, as she hates to look anything but perfect. A lot of famous mums want their children to appear in commercials, but would never actually lower themselves to that level. I noticed that Opal and Rosie had also been pulled in to play mummies. We rolled our eyes at each other as the crew members fussed about, straightening the kids’ outfits and telling them how to place their hands on the tables.
A crew member placed four ice-cream sundaes on the table in front of us, complete with whipped cream, cherries and candles. When the cameras started rolling we had to blow the flames out in unison. Then I had to say my one line: ‘I can’t believe these are sugar-free. Can you, kids?’
This might sound simple in theory, but there were intricate instructions for both the children and me.
‘Don’t look at the camera, look at your mom,’ shrieked the director. ‘I want to see a big blow of the candle. And no saliva! I need a dry blow, not a spray!’
Blowing out the candles was a fun game for the children the first three or four takes, but the novelty soon wore off as their technique kept being criticised. ‘One more time, but don’t purse your lips so much, Cherry,’ instructed the artistic director; ‘One more time, but can you tilt your chin up a little, Goldie?’ ‘One more time, but could you sit up straighter, Harlow, you’ve got a little tummy roll going on there.’ One more time, one more time, one more time . . .
The children looked more and more confused with each new instruction. I don’t think they could understand how a simple activity they did every year at their birthday parties had suddenly become so complicated.
To make things worse, the director clearly hadn’t been warned that I was Australian. ‘What is that accent?’ he hollered after my first take. ‘This simply won’t do. We’re meant to be an all-American diner.’ He turned away and muttered something to an assistant, who frowned and made a note on her clipboard. Stephanie, who had been standing off to the side watching the action, then approached our table to deliver a message.
‘The director has requested that you mime your line instead of actually saying the words aloud,’ she hissed. ‘We’re going to have to dub your speech with another actress’s voice in post-production. The director wants a voice which is a little more . . . local.’
Maybe I should have been offended, but in a sense I was relieved. At least I didn’t have to repeat the line thirty times to perfect the right intonation. It was hard enough getting the candle blowing right, without ‘over or under pursing’, or ‘looking like a fish’ as the director had scolded Cherry.
By the time he eventually yelled ‘Cut’ on our scene we were all out of breath, but our ordeal wasn’t yet over. We now had to be extras in a scene where a group of waiters danced across the tables.
‘Lindsay, I need the bathroom,’ said Cherry, pulling at my arm. She wasn’t the only one, as many of the children had been given supersized soft drinks as props and hadn’t been allowed a toilet break for an hour. The nannies on set were exchanging nervous glances, knowing that it was only a matter of time before somebody ended up in a puddle.
I tried to signal to Stephanie, but she was too busy taking photos on her mobile, probably posting snaps of our out-takes to the fast food chain’s Facebook page. By this stage Cherry was wiggling around in her seat like a performing seal, getting increasingly red in the face. Her mother would kill me if she was caught on camera having an accident.
Then, at the other end of the room I saw Opal scoop up her seven-year-old ‘daughter’ in her arms and run off the set, scattering crew members.
‘Ewww!’ screamed the little girl who’d been sitting at the same table. ‘She peeed on meee.’
The producer called the shoot to a halt shortly after that. I don’t think bodily fluids fitted with his artistic vision. As soon as he yelled ‘Cut’, every nanny in the room whisked their child into the bathroom. I pulled out a box of baby wipes and rubbed the make-up from the girls’ faces. Goldie was already coming out in a rash from the foundation. I was just grateful this was a part-time job for them and not a vocation.
‘You were all utterly brilliant today,’ I told the girls. ‘I was so, so proud of you. You’re all little superstars.’
I’m not the kind of nanny who over-compliments kids or showers them with praise—I don’t think doing this prepares them for the real world. However, after being around all those pushy parents, I felt the need to overcompensate. The world of junior showbusiness can be cruel and unforgiving.
As we left the diner, I heard one mother lecturing her daughter. ‘Why were you smiling so crookedly? I need to speak to your acting coach about this.’
On the drive home, Cherry immediately fell asleep in her car seat, worn out from the bright lights and oxygen expenditure. I was pleased that the other two girls seemed to have enjoyed the experience, not that it’s something I’d like them to get too used to.
As we sped down Hol
lywood Boulevard, Harlow, who was sitting in the back seat, leant forward and tugged my earlobe. ‘Lindsay, I liked you being our mommy today,’ she said sweetly. ‘Are you going to be our mommy from now on? A girl in my class has two mommies and no daddy and my teacher says we’re not allowed to tease her. That’s the same as our family, right? We have two mommies and no daddy too.’
I didn’t know what to say. How could I correct her when, in a strange way, she’d summed up our unorthodox living situation perfectly?
6
Every single evening Alysha gets dressed up and goes out for dinner, despite having a private chef at her beck and call at home. She visits the same three restaurants on rotation, where the cooks have all been schooled on her stringent meal requirements—no gluten, no dairy, no grains and no oils. On top of this, every meal must somehow include coconut. This is because a ‘psychic nutritionist’ once told Alysha that, in a past life, she’d lived on a coconut plantation, and her ‘aura’ craved the taste of her homeland. According to Fernando the psychic nutritionist in question has shares in a brand of coconut oil, and that’s his standard line to all his wealthy clients.
It doesn’t really matter what ingredients are served to Alysha, though, as eating isn’t exactly top of her agenda. She only goes to these restaurants to network and to be seen in the right places. Her dining companion is usually a fellow actress, a fashion designer or a director, whose phone number she’ll conveniently lose once their careers are on the nosedive.
In the few months that I’d been stationed with the family, Alysha had never once eaten dinner with the children. I had tried to hint to her that it could be beneficial, as I think all families bond best over full bellies, but there was always an important event or companion that prevented her from being at home for dinner. On the upside, I was pleased that the kids weren’t being dragged around with their mother every evening. The type of restaurant that Alysha goes to are always overrun with the who’s who of Hollywood—usually the most erratic and unstable characters.
I once worked for a famous businessman who would only eat his dinner if he was sitting in a large gold throne positioned at the head of the table. He had a dozen of these thrones, which were delivered to the restaurants that he wanted to dine in so they’d be ready and waiting.
I also worked for an American sitcom star who hated the paparazzi and, when we went out for dinner, would insist on wearing a blanket draped over his head, covering his entire body from scalp to toes. The only part of him you could see was the hand he held his spoon with. It was like eating dinner with Casper the Friendly Ghost.
In Hollywood’s most exclusive restaurants, strange behaviour like this is often overlooked, mainly because the craziest celebrities are also the biggest tippers. But these are not the kind of antics I think children should be exposed to, so it’s a relief in a sense that Alysha is happy to spend her evenings separately. It’s actually my favourite time of the day, sitting down to eat with the kids, without my boss looking over our shoulders.
This is why I was so surprised when Alysha’s personal trainer, James, stopped me in the hallway and hissed, ‘Hey, Linds, did you get the message about dinner?’ I hadn’t, but my mind instantly went into overdrive. Was he asking me out? What was I going to say? Was this really a good idea?
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about it—James is a former army lieutenant who Alysha met at a charity gala and lured away from active service by naming a salary he couldn’t resist. I have on the odd occasion fantasised about wrapping myself around those toned, flexed muscles, but in reality I find James a little intimidating. If we were to date I’d have to constantly hold my stomach in. He’d expect me to be one of those Hollywood robo-mothers who runs marathons eight months in to her pregnancy.
I realised I was getting a little ahead of myself when James broke in to my thoughts by waving his hand in front of my face. ‘Earth to Lindsay,’ he laughed. ‘You looked miles away there for a moment. I was telling you about tonight. Everyone has been told they have to eat out with Alysha . . . and I mean everyone.’
I hadn’t got the message, but it didn’t seem right. Why would Alysha invite us to dinner? Before I could ask any more questions, the alarm on James’s stopwatch sounded. ‘Sorry, darling, I’ve got to run,’ he said, ‘I’ve left Alysha in her floatation tank and she’ll kill me if her skin wrinkles.’ Then he turned and jogged away down the corridor, as I watched his calf muscles bulging and regretted eating an entire cheese pizza with extra olives the night before.
That afternoon I didn’t have much time to dwell on our dinner plans, because Alysha had far more important work for me. Harlow had got a splinter while riding the antique fairground carousel in the back garden and had to have a particular type of pink, glittery Band-Aid. ‘I’m sure she’ll stop crying if you just kiss it better,’ I told Alysha, but instead she instructed me to drive around every pharmacy in Los Angeles until I found somewhere that sold them.
This wild goose chase took me until close to dinnertime. I only remembered my conversation with James when I went back to my bedroom to grab a sweater and found a Diane von Fürstenberg dress bag hanging from my clothes rail. It contained a cream floor-length gown with a long train and flowing sleeves covered in silver sequins. It was stunning, but not exactly child friendly.
There were no instructions, but I knew the drill. If an outfit was left in my room, then it was my cue to put it on. The reason would soon become apparent. I quickly brushed my hair, trying to undo the plaits Harlow had knotted into the back of my head earlier, and brushed some mascara onto my eyelashes. Wherever I was going, that would have to do.
At least I didn’t have to waste time worrying about accessories, because Alysha’s personal stylist had also laid out shoes and jewellery. As I slid a delicate Marc Jacobs charm bracelet onto my wrist and stepped into a pair of strappy Jimmy Choos, I thought, ‘This would make an amazing date outfit.’ It was just a shame that my only plus-ones were under ten years old.
As I tottered down the stairs in all my finery, I was met by a squealing group of children. ‘Nanna is here, Nanna is here!’ I thought they were talking about me, until I spotted the children’s grandmother, Eugenie, walking in the front door, carrying an armful of toys and colouring books. This was odd, as Alysha only invited her mother around if she was desperate for a babysitter, usually on my night off.
‘Well, don’t you look like a princess,’ said Eugenie, as I manoeuvred past the children to kiss her on the cheek. She smelt of buttery toast and Chanel No. 5 perfume, and I suddenly missed my own mum terribly.
I adore Eugenie, a 73-year-old widow who is also a prize-winning novelist, but who lives in a modest studio an hour out of the city. Her gifts to the children are always fun but frugal—bouncy balls, plastic soldiers and packets of M&M’s. The kids get more excited by these goody bags than all the elaborate presents their father sends. Last Christmas, after a few too many glasses of eggnog, Eugenie told me it was the worst day of her life when Alysha married Sir Cameron, although she didn’t elaborate on the reasons.
‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ I said. ‘It feels like it’s been ages.’ The last time she’d babysat the kids had been the night of the Met Gala, when Alysha’s stylist had got a stomach bug and she needed me to act as her ‘train manager’, to check that the back of her Givenchy gown was in place as she posed for the paparazzi.
‘Oh, you know my daughter doesn’t like me to intrude into her world,’ Eugenie sighed. ‘I keep offering to babysit but she says the children’s social lives are too busy for their granny. How can a two-year-old even have a social life?’
Although it wasn’t my fault, I felt instantly guilty, because I was the one chauffeuring the children here, there and everywhere. ‘I’ll keep sending photos and drawings,’ I told her. ‘At least that’s better than nothing.’
Unbeknown to Alysha, I send Eugenie care packages containing photos of her growing grandchildren and pictures they drew in art class. A
lysha wouldn’t let me stick their paintings on her refrigerator anyway, as she said they’d clash with the colour scheme in the kitchen and her interior designer would be offended.
I’m not sure why so many wealthy people distance themselves from their elderly relatives. I once worked for a mother of six who would happily splash out $10,000 on a private-jet trip and $18,000 on a painting but refused to pay for her dying father to have an operation to save his life. I had a sneaky suspicion that Alysha kept Eugenie at a distance because her mother was the only person who knew her real age. She had celebrated her thirtieth birthday for the past two years running, and this year planned to celebrate her twenty-ninth.
As I helped Eugenie wheel her overnight suitcase into the kitchen there was a knock at the door. ‘Hey, Lindsay, are you ready to go?’ asked Alysha’s chauffeur, Seth. ‘Everyone else is already waiting at the restaurant.’ I kissed the kids goodbye, grabbed my handbag and followed him obediently to the Bentley waiting outside. I wondered which of Alysha’s three favourite restaurants I was being taken to. It was always a treat to eat ‘adult’ food, rather than alphabet spaghetti and vegetables cut into happy faces.
‘Well, I won’t be eating steak,’ I muttered, when we parked outside Minus-47, a raw food restaurant where nothing is cooked above 47 degrees Celsius. Then I gasped out loud, as I spotted Alysha sitting at a table right next to the window. When James had said that ‘everyone’ was invited to dinner he wasn’t kidding. Around the table sat every member of Alysha’s entourage, including her three personal trainers, her nutritionist, her masseuse, her hairdresser, her stylist, her agent, her publicist, the chef and even the cleaners. Now I understood why she’d left the children in the care of their grandmother—because there was absolutely no one left to ask.
Nanny Confidential Page 5
