Nanny Confidential

by Philippa Christian

  ‘What’s wrong, sweetheart?’ I asked, although I knew the answer already. From my experience, the children of the biggest show-offs on the planet are often the most shy, retiring and hesitant. The truth is, many actors and actresses are also socially awkward and naturally introverted, but they just rely on drugs and alcohol to give them false confidence.

  Like many rich kids, Lavender really didn’t enjoy being the centre of attention. She was scared of loud noises, flashing lights and fast-moving vehicles. This wasn’t great for a child who spent a large portion of her life travelling between crowded events while being trailed by photographers.

  That’s why I have developed a set of secret hand signals that my charges can use to alert me if they feel uncomfortable in intimidating situations. I came up with the idea when I was working for a controversial politician whose son would have constant nightmares about being chased by paparazzi. Imagine being a six-year-old in a busy airport facing a wall of flashbulbs and burly men all screaming for your parent’s attention.

  That’s why I also teach the gestures to the parents and the security team. The grown-ups are sceptical at first, but soon realise the benefits of being able to quickly and subtly communicate in a threatening situation. Young children are far more observant than adults and seem to have an in-built radar for danger.

  It’s also a great way to communicate if our plans are changing, without any outsiders hearing. The children know that if an adult tilts their head a certain way it means ‘stay close, walk fast and don’t play with your siblings’. There are also signals to indicate that we need to leave a venue by the back door and that we need to split up and exit separately. I wanted to remind Lavender that I’d be looking out for her today, even though the cameras were in her house and the crowds were here for her.

  ‘Sweetie, you don’t need to feel nervous about today,’ I told Lavender. ‘If you feel uncomfortable, then you know how to get my attention. You only have to stay as long as you’re having fun. Any time you want we can go and find a quiet corner away from everybody.’

  The little girl nodded, looking relieved, and did a forward roll out of my bed and onto the carpet. I love the way that children can recover so quickly. They don’t feel the need to dwell on things or hold a grudge unnecessarily.

  ‘Can I wear my flashing sneakers with my dress today?’ she asked. If it was down to me I’d have let her, but Alysha had ordered silver Chanel sandals to match the Vera Wang wedding dress. I didn’t think she’d be impressed if I let Lavender wear light-up sneakers instead. ‘If you wear the sparkly sandals this afternoon, maybe you can change into your sneakers in the evening,’ I told Lavender. ‘Your feet might get too hot otherwise. It’s going to be sunny today.’

  I’m pleased to say that Lavender’s Barbie costume, despite the fact that it was a bridal dress, was surprisingly age-appropriate. It looked more like a ballerina’s outfit, with a long white veil and sleeves designed to look like butterfly wings. I was sure it would be covered in pink paint from the grass by the end of the day, but it didn’t matter if it was ruined. Alysha hated her daughters wearing the same outfit on multiple occasions. In fact, the sisters had a separate walk-in wardrobe where I had to ‘file’ any outfit they’d worn more than twice. Once a dress went in there it rarely came out again.

  For the time being, I dressed Lavender in a Juicy Couture tracksuit with ‘Birthday Girl’ printed across the back that Alysha had ordered especially. As we walked into the garden, with four hours until the guests arrived, the place was in chaos.

  ‘I said the dogs should be dyed rose pink, not salmon!’ the party planner hollered into his headset as he sprinted past me. Poor Giovanni seemed to be on the brink of a meltdown, although, in his line of work, maybe that was his normal state.

  In the kitchen a refrigeration chamber was being built around the cake, so that the gold leaf and chocolate ganache wouldn’t melt under the film crew’s lighting. Meanwhile, two-year-old Koko had got hold of Fernando’s fake-tan gun and was brandishing it at a security guard. I quickly rushed over and disarmed her before there was a ModelCo massacre.

  At least all this chaos took my mind off the question that had been driving me crazy ever since Tommy Grant had asked if I was single. What about his girlfriend? I’d stalked him on Google and they’d been photographed together at a party the evening after our supermarket collision. ‘A source close to the it-couple says there’s a wedding on the cards.’ I suspected Fernando would have the gossip, but I felt oddly shy about asking him. So I did what I could to push it to the back of my mind.

  The invitations had said the party started at midday, but nobody arrives on time in this town. By the time one o’clock rolled around and the first guests started to arrive fashionably late, I was exhausted from juggling the demands of Alysha, the children and the party planner.

  As my nannying friends arrived with their children we exchanged sympathetic glances, knowing we’d all had a rough morning. I felt especially sorry for Opal, whose seven-year-old had won the right to be Pony Club Barbie. It made sense, as her dad owned the largest racing club in the country. Poor Opal was currently trying to coax a terrified pony down the driveway while mini Cadillacs whizzed around it. The little girl riding the horse was having a temper tantrum too, because her cream Ralph Lauren breeches were ‘getting hairy’.

  These kids really do live in a different world and think parties like this are normal. For them, having a full-size Ferris wheel in the back garden is the equivalent of having a swing set. The cast of The Lion King performing ‘Hakuna Matata’ on the lawn is no different from a clown making a dog out of a balloon.

  For a while I busied myself in the gift marquee, where every guest’s nanny had been instructed to drop off Lavender’s present. At events like this it’s normal for the birthday girl or boy to send a gift list to their guests, just as a bride and groom would set up a registry before a wedding. Alysha had even hired a security guard just to watch this tent. It’s not unheard of for thieves to target kid’s parties in Hollywood, because they can find such expensive loot.

  When I’d written up Lavender’s gift list, Alysha had ordered me not to put anything under one hundred dollars on it. ‘I’m just teaching the children not to undervalue themselves,’ she huffed. ‘If these people want to be friends with my girls they should be willing to pay for the privilege.’

  Lavender’s wish list, which had been emailed to everyone who had been invited, was not modest. It included spa vouchers, an Armani Junior clutch bag, a miniature Range Rover with cream interior, and an Audrey Hepburn Barbie in a display case. She’s also asked for a Juicy Couture iPad cover, a six months’ supply of coconut water and singing lessons. It looked like one guest had gone for the Dior snowboard, from the shape of a parcel in the corner.

  Sometimes guests still buy ‘off the list’ because they want to give something even more elaborate and impressive. For Goldie’s sixth birthday someone gave her an original Andy Warhol painting, which now hung over her bed next to a picture of Dora the Explorer. One of her classmates was given a ticket for the Virgin space flight, even though he’d have to wait until he was eighteen to use it. I knew a birthday boy in Beverly Hills who was obsessed with the James Bond film The Man with the Golden Gun. For his ninth birthday he was given a real gold gun, in a display case, with ten golden bullets. It’s not uncommon for kids to be given gifts like this that are totally inappropriate for their age, such as getting a Lamborghini when they’re a decade off getting their driver’s licence. A lot of the children in Harlow’s class already owned investment properties.

  A second marquee, set up next to the gift suite, contained a hundred and fifty party bags, ready and waiting for the guests to take home with them. When I was younger I remember being thrilled with a bouncy ball and a piece of squashed birthday cake but among rich kids the stakes are higher, and it’s a competitive business. Lavender’s guests were going home with a party bag containing a Chanel lip gloss, a mini Polaroid camera th
at printed out stickers, tickets to the premiere of the latest Toy Story movie, a leather iPhone case and a bottle of perfume the birthday girl had blended herself. The loot was packaged in a real leather handbag, custom-made by an LA designer and embossed with each guest’s initials.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t hide in the gifts suite forever. As more guests arrived, Lavender wasn’t the only one who was nervous. I am not a natural networker—not with adults, anyway. Put me in a room full of children and I can chat about Star Wars Lego, the new La’ Petite Mini Cupcake & Donut Maker and the latest flavour of Sippah Straws all day, but I have a limited tolerance for grown-up small talk. Usually at events I busy myself with the children so I have an excuse not to join in conversations. However, at children’s parties there is an army of clowns, circus performers and countless other minstrels to entertain them. This means nannies are left standing around and have to be sociable.

  Luckily, Hollywood types have a short attention span, so few conversations last longer than ten minutes. I chatted to a fashion designer, two singers, the founder of a dating website and the inventor of a new diet pill that sounded like a lawsuit waiting to happen.

  And then I spotted a guest out of the corner of my eye who made my stomach flip—and not in a good way. It was Sir Royston Kingston, a 62-year-old hotelier who I’d once gone on a blind date with. I’d been tricked into it, by my old boss Steven Stavros, who insisted he knew the ‘perfect’ man for me. ‘He’s rich, charming, handsome . . .’ He failed to mention my date was in the same age bracket as my grandpa.

  It was the worst date ever, not only because of the age difference but because he was an arrogant bore and a total show-off. When I arrived at the restaurant where we were meeting, he’d booked out the entire place just for us. It might sound romantic, but I like to have the background noise created by other people during a date, to cover any awkward silences. It also felt ridiculous having twelve waiters on call for our table.

  I didn’t have anything to say, which didn’t matter because Sir Royston never stopped talking. His favourite topics were how much money he earned and how many houses he owned. At one point he even got out his iPhone to show me photos of his Bel-Air apartment, which had been featured on ‘The Real Estalker’—a blog that profiles extravagant properties.

  After six courses of bragging, I fled home and skyped Steven, who couldn’t stop laughing and said it was the best practical joke he’d ever played. I was just thankful that Sir Royston hadn’t tried to kiss me, although he had given me an open invitation to stay in the penthouse of any of his hotels. I’d told him I’d check my availability, but had never got back to him. I certainly didn’t want to bump into him now, because wealthy men like Sir Royston aren’t used to being rejected.

  My gut instinct was to hide, but first I scanned the garden to check that my six children were safe and entertained. Currently, Goldie was in the playhouse, where she seemed to be running a McDonald’s drive-through out of the kitchen window, passing food from the buffet to children passing by in their Cadillacs. ‘Do you want to supersize that?’ she was hollering. Sir Royston would never find me in there, surely. He had told me on our date that he ‘deplored’ children (not the best pick-up line for a nanny), and was probably only at the party hoping to rub shoulders with Sir Cameron.

  Unfortunately, as I discovered, the Playhouse was like a prop from Alice in Wonderland. All the rooms had high ceilings and adult-sized furniture, but to get inside you had to squeeze through a tiny front door, which was barely larger than a dog flap.

  I had to crawl on my hands and knees, which would probably have been fine, except that I’d chosen to come to the party as the gender-stereotype-crushing ‘Builder Barbie’. I had a tool belt around my waist filled with plastic saws, hammers and a crowbar. It was one of these tools that jammed me inside the doorframe, with the front half of my body in the playhouse and the back half still in the garden.

  ‘You cannot be serious,’ I muttered, as I felt myself jam. ‘Lindsay, you’ve really gone and done it this time.’ I’m not a fan of enclosed spaces at the best of times, and no matter how much I wiggled and jiggled I just couldn’t budge.

  ‘We’ve trapped a grown-up, we’ve trapped a grownup!’ The children had noticed and decided to torture me. One little boy, who was dressed as Prince Charming, began bouncing a helium balloon off my forehead repeatedly. Goldie came towards me brandishing a bowl of pink M&Ms, assessing my face for an opening to stick them in. Outside the playhouse, someone started slapping my backside. I really hoped this was a child’s hand. I had visions of Sir Royston Kingston fulfilling a warped fantasy.

  Then, to my immense relief, I realised there was a telephone mounted on the wall inside the playhouse. This place really did have all the comforts of home! I managed to grab the receiver and dialled Fernando’s number.

  ‘It’s Lindsay!’ I hissed. ‘Listen, this is an emergency. I’m stuck inside the playhouse. Stop talking about spray tan for a second. I. Am. Stuck. Inside. The. Playhouse. You have to get me out of here before Alysha sees me.’

  I hoped that any other parents who’d noticed how long I’d been in this position, would assume I was playing a game, or at least not recognise me from this angle. A few moments later I heard Fernando’s voice outside. ‘You were not kidding, Linds,’ he was laughing. ‘You have outdone yourself this time.’

  I wasn’t in the mood to be ridiculed right now. ‘Just get me out of here,’ I huffed. ‘And try and do it discreetly. If you help me I’ll give you my Karl Lagerfeld backpack. I know you’ve been eyeing it off.’ That quickly got his attention.

  Unfortunately Fernando’s methods were neither discreet nor graceful. He straddled me from behind, put his hands around my waist and heaved. I heard a loud crack and then I flew backwards into the garden. Fernando hadn’t exactly pulled me out of the doorframe; he’d pulled the doorframe out of the playhouse. I lay dazed on the grass, still wearing my bright yellow builder’s hard hat, with pink M&Ms stuck in my hair and a wooden doorframe stuck around my waist like a hula hoop. Around me a curious crowd had gathered, including the television film crew and Sir Royston Kingston, who was probably now thankful our relationship had been fleeting.

  I didn’t think it could get any worse, until a flash of metallic red at the entrance to the garden caught my attention. It was Tommy Grant, carrying his motorbike helmet under one arm and a giant cake box under the other. I can’t imagine that his girlfriend ever ended up in these types of situations.

  At that point, Goldie, who was still stationed at the playhouse window, pointed straight at Tommy and announced in a voice that carried across the garden, ‘Look, Lindsay, there’s the man from your screensaver!’ Never leave your laptop in the hands of a seven-year-old who studies web design.

  •

  Thankfully Alysha pulled in a bunch of favours so that my faux pas was not mentioned in the press coverage of the party. Instead, the Hollywood Times wrote a glowing report on the celebrations, focusing on the fancy dress, the pink fireworks display and the legendary guitarist who had climbed onto the roof of the mansion to perform a rock and roll version of ‘Barbie Girl’ on his Yamaha guitar. According to the gossip column he’d earned $80,000 for the six-minute concert. That was like pocket money to Sir Cameron, whose last movie made $1.2 billion at the box office.

  The rock star’s performance was worth every penny in my eyes, as it took the guests’ attention away from me. I hadn’t been able to face Tommy after I manoeuvred myself out of the doorframe. Luckily I had an excuse to escape, as Lavender had eaten too much pink frosting and was making the ‘I’m going to vomit’ hand gesture. I knew exactly how she felt; I felt sick to my stomach too.

  We retreated to Lavender’s bedroom and spent the rest of the evening watching Disney DVDs under her doona. I have a feeling she may have been faking her sickness to avoid the celebrations, because the second we were alone she perked up instantly and started singing along to the musicals, but I didn’t mind having an ex
cuse to leave the party.

  Through Lavender’s bedroom window, I heard the crowds break into the first chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’. I hoped that Alysha wouldn’t blame me later for Lavender’s absence, when the editors of the reality show realised they couldn’t find a shot of her at the cake-cutting.

  I could understood the ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ of the crowd, as the cake was certainly a show stopper, with six tiers in six different flavours (vanilla, coconut meringue, pistachio, bubblegum, peanut butter and jelly, all gluten-free of course). It didn’t have candles because the pastry chef said it ruined the ‘look’, plus Alysha hadn’t paid $13,000 for a cake just to have wax drip all over it.

  As the applause died down, I heard Alysha launch into the speech that she’d been practising for weeks in front of the mirror. ‘Thank you all for coming here today to celebrate the birthday of my special daughter. The apple of my eye, the sparkle in my life. It can be tough for her having two such successful parents . . .’

  It was typical of Alysha to segue into her own achievements. I wondered how many of the grown-ups actually realised that Lavender was missing, or even knew what the birthday girl looked like. As I stared out of Lavender’s bedroom window, a giant pink helium balloon floated by. As I watched, a gust of wind swept it against one of the large spotlights. With a loud bang it popped under the heat, scattering pink feathers onto the partygoers below us.

  11

  In the aftermath of Lavender’s birthday party I went into hiding, avoiding my friends’ calls and cancelling the kids’ play dates so I didn’t have to face the outside world. When seven days had passed and I was still incognito, Fernando staged an intervention and left a note stuck to my bedroom mirror.

  ‘Lindsay-La-La. You are coming out with me tonight. No excuses! No other nannies! Be ready at seven o’clock on the dot. Love, your fairy godmother. PS It wasn’t as bad as you think, really!’