All of a sudden I’d lost my appetite completely. I had worked for Alysha long enough to know that she must have an agenda for calling us all together. I could tell, even before entering the restaurant, that the atmosphere at the table was awkward. It was messing with the ecosystem, expecting us all to socialise together. It was also messing with some of the staff members’ body clocks, as the night watchman would usually just be waking up at this time and James, who got up at 3 a.m., would usually be going to bed.
‘Oh, Lindsay, you’re here,’ Alysha gushed as I neared the table. ‘Isn’t it just fabulous that everybody could make it on this special night? I’m so glad that we could all get together as a family.’
Her publicist and agent seemed less than impressed by this statement, and I bit back my laughter. In the hierarchy of hired help, Alysha’s office staff considered themselves above the rest of us. They count themselves as professionals and the rest of us as mere servants. I found this funny, as I happen to know that I’m paid more than both her publicist and agent put together.
When I moved in with my first celebrity family, I used to hate living in a house with such a large team of staff, because I wasn’t used to people picking up after me. It felt indulgent to have cleaners sweeping my bedroom, laundresses washing my clothes and drivers transporting me everywhere. It felt especially ridiculous being chauffeur-driven to the school pick-up. Why was my presence even necessary when there was an adult already driving the vehicle?
But over time I’ve learnt that everyone has a unique role and it’s best just to go along with it. I don’t think I’m above any other member of staff, and I think it’s important we all stick together. That’s why I learnt Spanish, because it’s the first language of many of the household staff. It means we can talk about our bosses without them knowing, which is why I learnt all the swear words first.
As Alysha continued to talk, I mouthed one of these words across the table at her housekeeper, who laughed and rolled her eyes at the ridiculousness of the situation.
‘I’d like to thank you all for coming to this celebration,’ Alysha continued, as if we’d had a choice. ‘I have very, very big news. We’re all going to be reality television stars! Well, the children and I are. You’ll be more like extras . . . but isn’t that still exciting for all of us?’
Now I understood the motivation for this dinner. She’d bought us here to butter us up, and had chosen a public place so that we couldn’t cause a scene. I noticed that beside every dinner plate there was a thick cream envelope, which was stamped with the logo of a production company.
‘Now, there’s just a teeny tiny bit of paperwork,’ said Alysha. ‘The producer needs everyone to sign a contract. It’s all very straightforward and is nothing for you to worry about. You probably don’t even need to read it . . . it’s probably a little too complicated for you all. You just need to sign it by the end of dessert.’ She then signalled the waiter. ‘Anyone for Champagne? Now, don’t say no, or I’ll be offended. It’s a celebration, after all.’
At first nobody reached for their envelope, even though we were clearly all itching to. It’s like the first rule of going to a glitzy celebrity party—never ever look inside the goody bag until you’re out of public view. It’s not the done thing to show excitement over freebies. So, as Alysha doled out the champagne and pushed morsels of food around on her plate, I discreetly slipped my envelope into my handbag and excused myself to go to the bathroom.
I only peeled open the package once I was safely inside a toilet stall. I would like to say it was shocking, but after a decade working around showbusiness, it was, unfortunately, exactly what I expected. As well as asking for permission to use my image ‘as the producer sees fit’, it stated that ‘The producer has the right to edit, delete and fictionalize the footage at his or her discretion.’ In signing the contract I was also indicating I understood that ‘it may expose you to public ridicule, humiliation or condemnation.’ Yeowch! They really weren’t pulling any punches.
I’m not sure what was worse—being treated like a second-class citizen, or being treated like one of the family and dragged into Alysha’s fame game.
•
The next morning I woke up feeling exhausted and tearful. I blamed the Champagne I’d drunk the night before. Alysha had insisted on topping up our glasses, and hadn’t allowed us to leave the restaurant until we finished the five bottles.
‘Oh, don’t worry, Champagne doesn’t give you a hangover,’ she trilled. ‘I’m always perfectly capable of functioning the next morning, even when I’ve drunk far too much.’
I didn’t want to point out that Alysha’s average day involved waking up at noon, having a facial and then meeting her agent for a liquid lunch at The Ivy. She would probably feel the side effects of alcohol if she had a screaming child to bath, or a kitchen floor to scrub. I don’t think a hangover is a problem experienced by the upper classes.
It’s days like this when I wished I didn’t live with my employers. I know, I shouldn’t complain when my accommodation, food and even my toiletries are paid for. I don’t like complaining about my job, because I know I’m very lucky, but everyone has a bad day at the office sometimes and Alysha’s announcement had left me feeling anxious. I had a feeling that her new reality television career would come back to bite us all.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of sitting around feeling sorry for myself. I had to shake myself out of my slump because I had a big day ahead of me, including taking Goldie to a music concert that evening. A seven-year-old in her class had just released an album, which was currently rising up the charts, although I thought the lyrics were a little explicit for a schoolgirl. She was the third girl in Goldie’s class to sign a recording contract. Their end-of-year play was like a live episode of Glee.
In a few hours I would be front and centre stage at a concert, surrounded by hyperactive schoolgirls, so I needed to snap out of my hangover and stop moping around. I fell back on a strategy I use whenever I’m feeling blue—I just think about the worst boss I’ve ever had, which always puts my current troubles into perspective.
Every VIP nanny has a story about a boss from hell who made their life miserable. In my case, it wasn’t actually a parent, but the new girlfriend of a father who I worked for. Remember Steven Stavros, the unfaithful pop star? He eventually left his wife Barbie after falling in love with a Canadian model he met on Facebook. He had shared custody of his kids, who were teenagers by this point, and asked me to move back in temporarily to help them adjust to the newly fractured family.
He also moved in his new girlfriend, Jamie, who was clearly determined to prove she was the new head of the family. The model-turned-fashion designer had a reputation for being a diva. She had already been married four times and sold the photos from her last wedding to a magazine for a cool $3 million. She was used to getting her own way and clearly didn’t like that my relationship with Steven verged on being a friendship rather than just a professional acquaintance.
One morning Steven came back from a gym session and I casually asked, ‘How did you like the new trainer? Did he put you through your paces?’ She spun on her heels and barked, ‘That is no way for a staff member to talk to their employer. How dare you speak to him like that?!’
As punishment for my error of judgement she then instituted a rule that I was no longer allowed to speak to Steven directly, or even make eye contact with him. It sounds unbelievable, but if I wanted to say hello to him, I had to tell Jamie and she would pass on the greeting. I hoped that Steven would stick up for me, seeing as we’d known each other for years, but he seemed to be under her spell. Even the kids had picked up on the fact that their dad had suddenly started dressing differently, had lost weight and had a suspiciously smooth face. Jamie visited a beautician every single day for some treatment or another, and Steven had started going with her.
That wasn’t the only thing that changed. The kids weren’t allowed to call me Lindsay anymore. They were told
to refer to me only as ‘nanny’. I also wasn’t allowed to make direct eye contact with Jamie or any of her friends. After three months in the job I found myself automatically stooping and had to see an osteopath to correct my neck ache.
If you think this is unfair practice, some nannies I know have even more extreme stories. I’ve seen a mother slap a nanny in the face in the first class lounge of an airport because she’d forgotten to pack the children’s favourite bubblegum-flavoured toothpaste.
Another nanny I know, who worked for an Indonesian billionaire, was never allowed to use the same toilet as the family or drink out of the same glasses. A nanny who I met in India was made to sleep in a storage room under the stairs, despite the fact the mansion had sixteen spare bedrooms.
In comparison to some of these living conditions, working for Alysha didn’t seem so terrible. It’s hard to wake up on the wrong side of the bed when you’re falling asleep in the lap of luxury. My bedroom in the Appleby mansion has a four-poster bed with a $50,000 cashmere mattress, made by the company that supplies beds to the British royal family. All of Alysha’s staff are given matching silk pyjamas monogrammed with the Appleby crest. We’re banned from sleeping in anything else in case there’s a fire and we have to evacuate. God forbid we weren’t colour coordinated for the fire brigade.
It wasn’t exactly ideal that my bed would soon have a television camera installed over it, but it was something I was going to have to learn to live with. According to the contract laid out by the production company, none of the rooms of the house would be off-limits, including the staff quarters and their ensuites. They had insisted that cameras would be placed at a ‘modesty-preserving angle’. I’d just have to start getting changed in my closet.
I’m used to being watched, although it’s usually not by two million viewers. In wealthy homes you’re never out of sight of a security camera, security guard or night watchman. This means you can never let your guard down and have to be professional at all times. The cameras even have night vision.
I was caught out in the early days of my career, before I realised that an eye-in-the-sky was always watching me. As a sixteen-year-old, working for the Shawshanks, I used to dance while I vacuumed, pretending that I was Mrs Doubtfire. I even put on a Scottish accent and used to really get into character. I didn’t realise that Jason Shawshank had the security footage streamed directly to his laptop.
I only found out, one evening at a party they held at their mansion, when ‘Dude (Looks like a Lady)’ came on the stereo and he started mimicking my dance moves. I’m lucky that he had a good sense of humour and it became a long-running joke between us.
I didn’t think Alysha would find it as amusing if I was seen to be mixing business with pleasure. It would be the equivalent of the policeman who was caught doing a cartwheel during the royal wedding.
As I dressed Goldie in the outfit that she wanted to wear to the concert—a pink Chanel tutu and a T-shirt printed with a photo of her pop star friend—I thought about how many people would kill for the opportunity she’d had. I once worked for a judge on The X Factor, and have seen firsthand the lines of auditionees who queue around the block, desperately hoping for their fifteen minutes of fame.
I don’t have any such ambitions. I might live underneath the bright lights of Hollywood but being a celebrity nanny isn’t a stepping-stone to fame—in fact, it will more likely put you off ever entering the spotlight.
I see the downsides of stardom every day, from the loss of privacy, to the bad reviews and even death threats. I see actresses sobbing over their piles of hate mail. (If they say they don’t read them, don’t believe them.)
My bosses may seem like show-offs, but I see signs of their insecurity. Next to Alysha’s bed is a pile of self-help books with titles such as Dealing with Loneliness and How to Find Your True Life’s Purpose.
As I sprayed Goldie’s hair with glitter, she sang into her hairbrush. ‘Goldie, would you like to be a pop star?’ I asked her. ‘Would you like to be on stage in front of all those people, like your friend?’
My seven-year-old charge looked up at me with a disparaging expression. ‘Why would I want to be up there?’ she asked. ‘She’s up there on her own. I want to be dancing with the people below.’ I couldn’t help smiling with pride.
7
‘Is the circus here?’ asked Lavender, peering out of her bedroom window. I could understand her confusion. With three trucks, seven trailers and a marquee in the driveway, it did look as if the circus had come to their garden.
The Appleby house had been thrown into complete chaos thanks to the arrival of the reality television film crew, who were now permanently living in the courtyard. A team of twenty men worked in shifts, eating and sleeping in trailers when they were off duty. There was never a moment when a camera wasn’t rolling and there was a constant stream of crew members crashing through the house at all hours of the day and night.
On top of this, cameras had been installed in all of the light fittings, which were constantly whirring overhead, and red lights flickered in all of the pot plants. Alysha had also ordered fifty full-length mirrors, which were installed on every wall in the house, to ensure she could check her appearance at all times. It felt like I was being trapped in a giant changing room, with reflective surfaces everywhere you looked. It also meant the last shred of privacy I had was taken away.
I usually have breakfast at 4 a.m., because it’s the only time of the day I can let my guard down. Alysha rarely wakes before midday and the night nanny is on call until 4.30 a.m., so it’s usually my only moment to myself. However, as I discovered on the second day of filming, there is no downtime in reality television.
As I tiptoed into the kitchen wearing the clothes I’d slept in—skimpy shorts and a singlet (my monogrammed pyjamas were in the wash)—I collided with a burly, bearded crew member, carrying a lasso of electrical cords over his shoulder. ‘Well, good morning,’ he chuckled, as I glanced down to check how revealing my top was and found it was worse than I feared.
‘Umm, good morning,’ I replied, not wanting to appear rude. To cover my embarrassment I opened the fridge and buried my head in the top shelf, pretending to look for something. ‘Where’s that orange juice?’ I muttered. The bottle was right in front of me, but I needed time to compose myself.
I could hear the technician chuckling behind me and wondered what was so funny. Then I heard the buzz of a walkie-talkie. ‘Testing, testing,’ he said. ‘Is that picture clear enough for you, boys?’
That’s when I spotted a flashing red light coming from behind a pot of coconut yoghurt. I couldn’t believe it. They’d hidden a camera inside the fridge, looking outwards at chest height. This meant that, as I bent over, a crew member in a trailer somewhere was getting an eyeful, right down my top. I glared at the camera, before grabbing an apple and retreating to the safety of my bedroom.
I couldn’t really complain seeing as I’d signed the production company’s contract, which had included the statement, ‘This show may include scenes of nudity, sex and violence.’ Also, I wasn’t really worried that my nipple flash would make the final cut. My modest assets weren’t the stars of the show, or even impressive extras, as Cherry had recently pointed out to me when I’d taken her to a swimming lesson. ‘Lindsay, your boobies aren’t nearly as big as Mommy’s,’ she’d pointed out helpfully, in front of ten other children and their nannies. Thank you, Cherry. Obviously, Alysha didn’t have to worry that my breasts would steal her attention.
‘I hear you got caught on “cleavage cam” this morning,’ laughed Fernando, when our paths crossed in the hallway later that morning. He was on his way to give Alysha a vajazzle and I was taking Goldie to her web design class. This was the trendiest extracurricular activity among Hollywood kids, as every parent wanted their child to be the next Mark Zuckerberg—with better dress sense, of course.
The plus side of having a crew permanently at the house was that Fernando had been asked to work for Alysha full
time, as she needed constant hair and make-up.
He was now there from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. every day and on call during the night for ‘cosmetic emergencies’. I couldn’t be happier about having an ally nearby, especially as Fernando still spoke his mind even when the cameras were rolling.
He was the only staff member who had refused to sign the consent form, which meant his face had to be blurred when he was in a shot, like a criminal in Cops. ‘It makes me seem mysterious,’ he explained, ‘plus I don’t give away my talents for free. If they want me that badly, they can give me my own show, baby!’
If it was anyone else, I suspect they’d be fired, but as usual Fernando lived by his own rules and everyone else had to work around him.
Alysha was certainly taking her reality television role very seriously. She even had a director’s chair especially made with her name splashed across the back in big, glittery letters. She also changed her outfit up to seven times a day to keep her look ‘fresh’. Her stylist had her work cut out, begging designers from across the world to lend Alysha free outfits.
As well as the film crew, make-up team, a stylist and all their assistants, who seemed to spend their days drinking Diet Coke and dropping their cigarettes in the fountain, a team of six lawyers were also living at the house.
Alysha was taking no chances with how she was represented and the lawyers were assessing every snapshot of footage. The other day I’d heard one poor cameraman being scolded for filming Alysha eating a stick of celery. Instantly, a lawyer appeared out of nowhere. ‘Do I need to remind you of clause 23 of the contract?’ she hissed. ‘My client is never, ever to be filmed eating.’ It was all I could do not to let out a giggle. Alysha’s pet hate is the sound of other people chewing, and it would be her worst nightmare to be filmed with her mouth full.
There were cue cards posted around the house with reminders such as ‘chin up’ and ‘hover off the chair’. The last order was from Alysha’s stylist. ‘When you sit on a chair it makes your thighs spread out,’ she warned. ‘Can you try and just hover about a centimetre off the seat?’
Nanny Confidential Page 6
