Nanny Confidential

by Philippa Christian

  I had been planning to skip our Sunday evening nanny gathering. I knew that my friends would be sympathetic but I just couldn’t face Madge. My nannemy had texted me the morning after the party, all the way from Monaco, where Doctor Jaz and his family were on holiday.

  ‘I just heard what happened,’ she’d written. ‘You must be mortified. I feel so, so sorry for you.’ That was not the reaction I needed. I already felt sick to my stomach every time I thought about my playhouse confinement.

  However, Fernando was the one person I couldn’t refuse, mainly because I knew he’d drag me out kicking and screaming. Also, I knew I couldn’t hide forever, and the thought of a one-on-one date with Fernando wasn’t as intimidating as facing a group of people.

  At seven o’clock on the dot Fernando knocked on my bedroom door. ‘You look terrible,’ he said. ‘A week without fresh air does nothing for your complexion.’

  I was thankful for the insult, as it was one step up from sympathy.

  ‘Thanks a lot, Nando,’ I replied, using the nickname he hates, because it reminds him of fried chicken. He punched my arm and I thought how lucky I was to have him. Also, he was right—I hadn’t brushed my hair in a week and I’d seen Alysha glaring at my ugg boots as I shuffled into the kitchen that afternoon. I was surprised she hadn’t already given me a written warning for letting down the aesthetics of the house.

  Fernando, who never goes anywhere without an emergency make-up kit, quickly pulled out a pair of battery-operated straighteners and smoothed down my blonde haystack. He then slicked on some Juicy Tubes lip gloss and I tried to smile at my reflection. I still looked like a character from Lost who’d spent a year in the jungle.

  ‘That’ll have to do, Linds,’ tutted Fernando. ‘Sometimes you just have to accept that you’re going through an ugly period. But remember that it won’t last forever. When your mood improves, you’ll soon be pretty again.’

  He wasn’t trying to ‘tough love’ me, this is just how Fernando talks. He grabbed my Louis Vuitton handbag and ushered me out the door.

  He had booked a table at one of my favourite restaurants, Japanoise, where you cook your own dinner over fire pits in the middle of the table, using chopsticks. On my nights off I love going to places I wouldn’t usually be able to take the children. There was no way I’d mix food, flames and five-year-olds ever again. A few months before, when we’d been holidaying in the Bahamas, I’d taken the children to a restaurant called Flaming Cheese, where they set fire to the haloumi they melt onto the hamburgers.

  It was the first time that Alysha had ever joined us for dinner, and would probably be the last. It really wasn’t Harlow’s fault that her flaming burger was held too close to Alysha’s Hermès scarf, or that the scarf ’s fabric was so flammable. Apparently since our visit they now kept miniature fire extinguishers next to each of the tables.

  I relayed this story to Fernando on the way to the restaurant and, even though he’d heard it before, he pretended that he hadn’t. I think he sensed that I needed a reason to laugh, and instantly I felt better.

  When Fernando and I arrived at Japanoise the waiter showed us to a table set for three people. The restaurant was packed, probably because The New York Times had recently run an article about how Sunday is the new Friday night. This town really is full of sheep.

  A familiar-looking woman from the neighbouring table leant over and gestured to the spare chair. ‘Is anyone sitting there?’ she asked. ‘Is it okay if I borrow your extra seat? I’m waiting for Ellen and Portia.’

  Even though my pet hate is strangers who name-drop, I gripped the back of the chair to give to her. But before she could take it, Fernando stuck out his hand. ‘Sorry, someone is going to be sitting there,’ he said. ‘Oops, sorry, Linds. Did I not mention that my new boyfriend is going to join us?’

  We both knew that he hadn’t mentioned our dining companion on purpose. I probably wouldn’t have come if I thought I’d be the third wheel, especially if I had to make small talk with someone I hadn’t met before. However, now that we were here I didn’t really mind. I was secretly glad that it seemed Fernando had dumped his previous boyfriend, the male model, who had unexpectedly got engaged to his ‘girlfriend’ just in time for the promotion of her next movie.

  Also, just getting out of the house had put my worries into perspective. The other diners weren’t pointing and whispering, ‘That’s the nanny who got stuck in the playhouse.’ Instead, they were pointing and whispering about the socialite in the corner who had just returned from rehab after crashing her car into a ditch. I don’t know what it is about celebrities and car crashes, but it seems to happen every other week to these people. On my first week on the job with Alysha she’d crashed into another car while driving her $100,000 Bentley down Hollywood Boulevard. She’d been pulled over for speeding a dozen times, and Sir Cameron had called in a favour to make a drink driving incident disappear from her driving record. It’s no wonder so many celebs rely on a chauffeur most of the time.

  ‘So who is the new guy?’ I asked Fernando, who proudly pulled out his iPad to show me a photo of the two of them pouting into the camera. I recognised his new lover immediately. Caesar Lopez was a gossip columnist who had become a star in his own right. His website, ‘The Daily Juice’, got over 250 million hits a month and was always the first to break every celebrity story.

  I’d never actually met Caesar but we knew each other from the ‘circuit’. We’d first spoken over Skype when I’d worked for a singer in Australia who was on the judging panel of a television talent show. The singer had been running late for an interview with Caesar, so I’d answered the call and made small talk until she was ready.

  When he realised that I was the nanny, Caesar clearly smelt an opportunity for a story. He somehow tracked down my mobile number and, ever since then, periodically called me to try and uncover gossip. He somehow always knew exactly who I was working for and intimate details of their lives. I wondered how many housekeepers, cleaners and personal trainers he recruited as spies.

  I spotted Caesar immediately as he entered the restaurant. He’d recently lost three stone after taking part in a reality television diet show, and was wearing white jeans and a crop top, which showed off his new six-pack.

  On the way to our table he detoured past the troubled socialite in the corner. ‘Hi, Jasmine, darling. It’s so nice to have you back. You’re looking stunning.’

  She didn’t seem to notice the twitch of his fingers or the tiny flash from the camera hidden in his palm. I bet the photo would be on his website by the time we ordered our starters, with an arrow pointing to the white powder under her nostrils.

  ‘My gorgeous Lindsay,’ Caesar cried when he reached our table, ‘how is the gorgeous Alysha and that doting husband of hers?’ I had to admire the guy—he was certainly good at his job and never missed an opportunity. I’d heard that he had an undercover reporter working on the switchboard of the Hollywood ambulance dispatch so that he’d be the first to hear if a star overdosed.

  ‘Stop fishing, Caesar,’ I laughed. ‘You know my policy when it comes to talking about my bosses’ private lives. It’s a no-go area and that’s not going to change.’

  I sometimes wish that I didn’t have a conscience, because I know nannies who have earnt enough to buy cars, yachts and even houses just from selling stories about their employers to reporters. They get away with it because they’re referred to as a ‘source’ or an ‘insider’. I know nannies who have leaked photographs and medical records, and even planted recording devices in their bosses’ bedrooms.

  I could have made a fortune during my career, especially when I worked for Steven Stavros. When he divorced his wife and started dating Jamie, one celebrity magazine was offering $100,000 for the first photograph of them posing together. At the time, he and Jamie were refusing to leave the house.

  As the weeks went by, the price offered for the first photo kept rising until it hit $290,000. I could easily have obtained a photograph, as S
teven’s phone was always left around the house and his pin code was the number on his football shirt. However, I just couldn’t do it, even though I despised Jamie. I sensed that it was a slippery slope and, if I crossed that line, I’d soon be taking photos of Steven’s bottles of antidepressants. A nanny I know found a positive pregnancy test in her boss’ bathroom bin, which a magazine bought for $20,000.

  I can understand why many nannies are tempted, as magazines offer ridiculous money for a story, especially if it’s to do with marriage or babies. If a nanny refuses an offer of cash, they try other incentives, such as free holidays or cars. Some of these reporters have friends in very high places and offer to make parking fines disappear.

  If they’re stuck for a real story, a lot of journalists do make up their stories. An ‘insider’ could be another journalist who heard a rumour from a friend of a friend of a friend, who once brushed past the star in a supermarket. However, I do follow The Daily Juice because Caesar’s stories tend to be eerily accurate.

  After the waiter had taken our order, the gossip columnist continued on his specialist subject. ‘So, Lindsay, I hear that Sir Cameron has been taking extremely good care of a particular actress while away on location,’ said Caesar. ‘I also hear that you’re thinking of quitting the nannying game for good. If you helped me with this story, I could make a very generous contribution to your retirement fund . . .’

  I frowned at Fernando, who shrugged his shoulders. ‘I didn’t blab,’ he said defensively. ‘This is all news to me.’ I knew he was telling the truth, as it wasn’t a conversation I’d had with anyone.

  ‘Are Alysha’s crazy demands starting to wear you down?’ Caesar asked. ‘Is it her temper? Her vanity? Her inability to eat solids?’ This dinner was going to be exhausting if Caesar spent the entire time squeezing me for information.

  I was opening my mouth to tell Caesar to cool it when his mobile phone rang. (Unsurprisingly, his ringtone was the theme from Fame.) He held up one finger to silence me before answering, ‘Speak to me!’

  As the person on the other end explained their reason for calling, the reporter’s eyes began to sparkle and his foot tapped under the table. The moment the conversation ended he pushed back his chair and planted a farewell kiss on Fernando’s forehead. ‘Sorry, kidlets, I’ve gotta go,’ he said excitedly. ‘Big, big story about to break. Lindsay, you’ll be particularly interested in this one. Trust me, you should keep an eye on the website.’

  As he skipped out of the restaurant, I wondered which celebrity was going to be dragged through the gutter this time. I wish I could say that I didn’t care and that I’m above reading mindless gossip, but I’m just as nosey as the rest of the world.

  Fernando and I spent the rest of the meal bent over his iPad, hitting refresh on The Daily Juice website. When the story broke halfway through our dessert I choked on my chocolate mousse, and Fernando sprayed his aperitif across the table. After my coughing fit we both sat in silence, struggling to take the news in. Caesar hadn’t been exaggerating when he said this story was big . . .

  •

  On The Daily Juice homepage was a photograph of Madge, my nannemy, posing next to her boss Doctor Jaz at a recent function. The headline read, ‘TV DOCTOR DIES OF VIAGRA OVERDOSE’. A big cartoon arrow pointed straight at Madge with the caption, ‘SHOCKED NANNY FINDS THE BODY’.

  ‘Doctor Jaz has been found dead in his home after a suspected Viagra overdose,’ read the article. ‘The 42-year-old divorcee is known to have a heart condition. However, a source close to the doctor claims he was taking the libido-boosting medication to impress his new girlfriend, 23-year-old actress Ruby Garland.

  ‘The Daily Juice have obtained a copy of the 9-1-1 call made by nanny Madge Crosby, in which the 26-year-old Australian tells the operator, ‘I think he’s dead! He’s naked and there’s an empty bottle of Viagra next to him.

  ‘Although currently being treated for shock, Madge will shortly film an exclusive interview from her hospital bed for The Daily Juice.’

  I was heartbroken for the ten-year-old boy who had just lost his father and felt genuinely sorry for Madge. I can’t imagine the shock of finding Sir Cameron in that position. However, my sympathy for my nannemy decreased when I watched the interview that she gave The Daily Juice an hour later.

  In the 20-minute video, she was reclining in her hospital bed. Her hair was freshly curled and her lipstick perfectly matched the pink of her hospital gown. She had called Fernando from her hospital bed to ask if he’d do her make-up for the interview, but he’d refused with typical Fernando frankness. ‘I’m sorry, Madge, but I just can’t do it,’ he said. ‘Firstly, I really don’t like hospitals, and also I really don’t like you. Soz, babes!’

  After talking about the shock of finding Doctor Jaz’s body she turned the conversation back to herself. ‘I don’t think I could possibly go back to nannying after such a trauma,’ she sighed, dabbing a tissue to her cheek. ‘I think the universe is sending me a message. Last week I opened a fortune cookie at a Chinese restaurant and the message said, “Build your own dreams, because if you don’t, someone will hire you to build theirs.” I think all this is a sign that I should follow my true career path . . . and become a singer.’

  Then, to my amazement, she launched into the first verse of ‘Baby One More Time’ by Britney Spears. What she lacked in talent she made up for in volume. I couldn’t believe it. She was pitching for a record deal while being interviewed about the death of a man who was a father and her friend. ‘That girl is one smart cookie,’ muttered Fernando.

  He was right, in a sense. Within an hour that video had over five million hits on YouTube, and before the end of the week Madge had an agent and was moving to New York to record an album. At her leaving party I heard her boasting about the $50,000 compensation package she’d received from Doctor Jaz’s estate. It must have been hush money, paid on the proviso that she didn’t do any further interviews, as Fernando said Caesar was raging because she wouldn’t return his calls.

  ‘She has the morals of a snake,’ I huffed to Fernando. ‘I’m so happy to see the back of her. Good riddance!’ However, I was surprised to feel an emotion that resembled envy. I hated to admit it, but a tiny part of my subconscious was jealous because Madge had found an escape route. It’s not that I wanted to leave my job anytime soon, but I sometimes wondered how long I could keep up the long hours and the extreme demands.

  I had, on previous occasions, had doubts about my job, but usually only when I’ve worked sixty days straight and barely have the strength to lift my own head, let alone massage anti-cellulite cream onto a seven-year-old. At moments like this I sometimes fantasise about pursuing a Plan B, but the problem is I don’t really have one. There isn’t really a standard retirement age for this profession. Every now and again a nanny drops off the scene, and absorbs back into the normal world like a former Men in Black agent. Most nannies leave to have children of their own or end up working in the service industries, although that comes with a significant pay cut. I’m only twenty-seven years old, but I’m classed as a veteran in this industry.

  I voiced my doubts aloud for the first time a few days later. As I tidied away the kids’ dinner plates, I was surprised when my mobile rang and I saw my parents’ home number flash up on the screen. Had something happened? Usually, my mum appreciates that our catch-ups need to happen on my schedule.

  As anyone who lives in a different country from their family will appreciate, every time my phone rings I fear it will be the phone call that will turn my world on its head; an illness or a terrible accident that I wasn’t there for because I was on a trampolining date with the Beckham boys or snorkelling with the children off Richard Branson’s private island.

  ‘Mum! Are you okay?’ I couldn’t hide my panic as I answered. I grabbed the kitchen countertop to steady myself, and heard the whirr of the ceiling camera repositioning itself above me. The cameramen who remotely control them have a sixth sense for drama.

 
‘Oh yes, my darling, your dad and I are fine,’ my mum answered, and I let out the breath that I’d been holding. ‘But we’re worried about you. We read about that doctor who died and how the nanny found him. Is she a friend of yours? Why didn’t you call us?’

  Now that I knew everyone back home was safe, I wished that I hadn’t taken the call at all. There is something about my mum’s voice that makes me feel instantly vulnerable. I suddenly wished I was at home, sitting on the couch, beneath one of the itchy blankets she crochets.

  ‘I’m okay, Mama, really.’ I lowered my voice. ‘It’s been a hard week, but you know me. I’m resilient.’

  In another country, which felt like another world, my mum tutted. ‘You seem to be having more bad weeks than good recently,’ she said, and I tensed as her words hit a raw nerve.

  It did seem that way to me too. Either Alysha’s demands were getting more extreme or my tolerance was getting lower. The previous week, I’d very nearly spoken my mind when she had confiscated Goldie’s bicycle because ‘cycling gives you thick thighs’. I later discovered the reality television team had scripted the comment. I couldn’t understand why Alysha was allowing herself to be treated like a puppet just because a producer claimed that controversy was the secret to drawing in viewers.

  ‘I really can’t talk about this right now,’ I told my mum, conscious that the ceilings had ears and everything I said was recorded. ‘I’ll call you next Sunday at our usual time. Oh, and if you see Will, could you tell him to call me too? I don’t know what’s going on but I can’t seem to get through to him.’

  My mum cleared her throat. ‘I actually do have some news for you, dear, but I’d much rather tell you in person. I was thinking, why don’t you come home to Hamilton for a visit? It feels like so long since we saw you. Your dad and I miss you terribly.’

  It had been over eighteen months since I’d seen my parents, which was a long time even for me. Usually whenever I accept a job with a new family, I try to fly back to Australia for a quick visit, because I don’t know when I’ll next get the opportunity.