I remind Jayson about the large realistic plush one we saw in the toy department of London’s upmarket department store, Harrods. I had wanted it so badly but the gleaming price tag of £4,000 was a deterrent. Jayson thought I was crazy to even contemplate such a purchase.
“First of all, be practical. It’s too much money, baby, and it will only collect dust,” he said.
“But I love it. Kourtney Kardashian has one in her baby’s room,” I argued in the middle of the store.
“How the hell are you going to transport a twelve-foot, ten-thousand-dollar giraffe back home? You think Qantas is going to allow you through baggage check with this big thing?”
“I have seen people travel with surfboards so why not the giraffe? They can mail it to us,” I pressed.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I am not allowing it.” He was serious.
I couldn’t have my 10,000-dollar giraffe. Heartbroken after having my heart set on it, I set myself the task of finding another giraffe online. The towering plush will protect our baby when he sleeps and watch over him in his cot. When he is bigger, he will see one at the zoo and notice its resemblance to the figure in his room.
He will love it as much as Daddy does, I think.
Finally, after much pursuit for my giraffe and arguments with Jayson over it, I find one not quite the same as the one in Harrods – a bit smaller in size – about seven feet tall, who would certainly do the job. But the stuffed toy is in a warehouse in San Francisco. I need to fly “Gerald” (I named him already) to Sydney. The freight costs me three times more than the giraffe. Everyone who sets eyes on him instantly falls in love.
I go frequently to op and vintage shops, sellers of antiquities and rare, eclectic finds. I browse upmarket garage sales in the eastern suburbs on several Sunday mornings. I find airplane models made in the ’50s and wooden handmade toys from a bygone era, which some kids about a hundred years ago played with. I love the globe from the ’30s I find, and I envision showing and sharing the places his daddies have been to when he is older. I will tell him our experiences in the countries and the beautiful people we met.
We find old children’s books, Hans Christian Andersen, Brothers Grimm, in ancient leather binding, tucked away in a chest box in an antique shop. For days I scour eBay, bidding for and buying all the things we love, and things that brought back memories of my childhood. We bring a contemporary feel into the nursery, mixing the old with new.
We all have a fascination with the nautical and love sailboats. I search for sailboat models of all kinds, big ones, small ones, and any figurines associated with the sport. I find handmade wooden lighthouses painted in blue and white nautical colours. Our girlfriend Cheryl finds a prized mobile sailboat from Denmark. I find books from baby Jayson’s era and two fifty-year-old clay clowns, one with a broken hat like it had been chipped and bitten away by a toddler.
Dorothy sends us a sheepskin rug which she had kept. I dryclean it and place the furry skin on the nursery floor. There are teddy bears in the box too, including a half-a-century-old Winnie the Pooh, so ancient you could see the discolouration of its fur and the worn, tiny little frayed red vest.
“It was my favourite teddy. I never let Winnie out of sight. He must have lived in Mum and Dad’s garage all this time,” Jayson tells me about the plush his son will soon own.
“Yes, hidden in a cardboard box, ‘Baby Jayson’ written boldly on the box in a blue marker pen; all the memorabilia your mother kept for you.”
In the same box are baby pictures of Jayson, school reports, birth book, medical records, congratulatory cards and even the hospital tag he wore as a newborn in the Sydney hospital. Among the treasures is an item of clothing covered in a thick plastic sheet, smelling of dust and moth balls. It is a little pale green embroidered pantsuit which Dorothy herself sewed by hand fifty years ago. I recognise the outfit from Jayson’s baby photos. It is the outfit he wore at his christening. It is too good to be true, priceless memorabilia.
We search for classic white wooden children’s clothes hangers to hang the hundreds of baby clothes we bought from Baby Dior, Burberry and the famous Parisian label Petit Bateau. We spare no expense on clothes for the son of fashion designers. We go over the top with shoes, socks, slacks, knits, jumpers, in fact way too many clothes for a child, which we hang neatly by seasons and meticulously colour block in the wardrobe. From Paris, London and New York, woollen swaddles, wraps, and posh leather handmade designer shoes are on display, the latest in fashion. Some are adult replicas, everything imaginable in his wardrobe laid neatly before your eyes. Such extravagance but what the heck!
“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime affair,” I announce to my friends. “We want the best for him.”
We build floating white shelves to house the antiques and specially made striped nautical curtains that we find in a classic haberdashery store in Melbourne’s suburb of Toorak. Jenni Munster’s mother Jan knits a blue and white striped blanket in colours to match our drapes, one she knits for weeks – a tradition she never breaks for newborns of her closest friends. She gave Nicole Kidman a similar blanket when Sunday Rose was born. Jan is a best friend and bridge partner of Nicole’s mother, and she knits the beautiful blanket for her friend’s grandchild.
Unwrapping our orders feels like Christmas. We study each of the items to determine their origin. Some we concoct stories about what they had once meant to some other kid. We find them new homes in our nursery, each with their own name – personality and place of origin, each with a story to tell. Suddenly we have a vast collection of thirty teddy bears; one particularly cute one has his own baby suitcase with stickers from various travel destinations.
“I am sure teddy will be coming with us on holidays when he is old enough to travel,” Jayson says.
Finally we go furniture shopping. The nursery isn’t very big and we have in storage a French provincial armchair – an antique we love, had restored several years ago and kept in our lock-up storage. We want it in the apartment, in the nursery, where we can sit late at night during feeding time. It is an exquisite chair, the craftsmanship so superb we want to find furniture that would match it.
We head to Baby Kingdom, the one-stop shop for all your baby needs. We were told of three essential shops to visit in Sydney: Baby Kingdom, Baby Bunting and Babies R Us. Within the three, you will find almost everything and anything you need, like beds, toys, clothes, bottles, strollers, bassinets – every gadget imaginable to keep a baby happy. On a Saturday morning, Rebecca, Jayson and I drive to the Alexandria warehouse. Our arrival causes raised eyebrows, one set from a salesgirl speculating as to why the fashion designer was in store. We arrive at 10am, list in hand detailing just about everything we needed. We want to start a baby shower list and buy later the items our guests didn’t.
Rebecca, with a comprehensive list that she had brainstormed at the Sabbath dinner the previous week, dives into the various aisles, scanning each item on the list with a high-tech device the store has given to her for the purpose. For an hour we argue about what colour the hood of the Bugaboo bassinet should be.
“Sand or black?” I ask several times.
“It doesn’t come in black, sir,” the salesgirl says.
“What? Why doesn’t it come in black anymore? Black is practical,” I say.
She squirms at me. “I know, but it is not a kid’s colour.”
We end up ordering a bespoke black hood. We consider the Mothersteel range, which has the newest inventions and most supreme prams. The stroller made of titanium, perhaps.
“Blue, maybe – it’s popular for boys,” the salesgirl suggests.
“Yes, obvious, we know.”
We progress to “feed time”: stuff like bottles, measuring cups, giant sterilisers, disposable travelling steriliser bags, brushes with funny teeth to clean the bottles, specific teats for the bottles in different sizes and grades. We learn the brand Avanti is the best. Just as we think we are done, having been there nearly four hours and feeling buggered, Rebecca anno
unces “sleep time”. We consider what he would wear, his sheets, blankets, pillows, every minute of his newborn life and just beyond. The entire shopping expedition takes nearly six hours. At the end we are only short of a cot and a set of drawers.
All the furniture looks the same. Nothing suits our decor. Everything is mahogany or painted white. We don’t like anything we see. The lovely salesgirl, a dream so far, has an idea.
“In the warehouse, I have seen an old vintage cot and set of drawers, which a wealthy couple ordered a few years ago. They paid for it but found something else, so the manager offered to keep it in the warehouse and try to sell it for them. You must look at it.”
We venture into the adjacent warehouse to see the piece. It is crafted superbly, the carvings exquisite in the beautiful rosewood, and exactly what we are looking for – the perfect match for our decor.
When everything we bought online arrives, the room is packed full of boxes, and unwrapping them feels like Christmas again. Our hunky Italian handyman friend Lorenzo comes over one afternoon and together we transform the room. Vintage planes and sailboats hang from the ceiling. Teddies sit neatly on printed sailboat cushions on the vintage chair, a wooden Pinocchio from Spain hangs in the corner, a handmade wooden sailboat from Paris, engraved with “Brunsdon”, rests on an antique table top. The room looks visually explosive. It is decorated with nautical striped light fittings, an old desk lamp and antique globe, and the sheepskin rug lies comfortably on the floor.
In the corner, next to the cot, is our prized giraffe, Gerald. He looks up with intense curiosity at toy model airplanes hanging from the ceiling. He stands guard over our baby’s cot. Everything in the room feels nostalgic, like “I have been here before”.
26
Press Hound
“I think a baby shower is refreshing,” says Bryan Collins on The New Normal.
For months we are hooked on The New Normal, the hit sitcom of a successful Hollywood gay couple – a doctor and a TV producer – having a surrogate baby. The episode on whether “to shower or not” is relatably hilarious. We want to keep the birth quiet so a baby shower would do no good for privacy.
Baby showers, I think, are usually girly in the approach – women’s territory, the gathering in honour of the expecting mother and child. She is surrounded by cupcakes and tea-drinking girlfriends who play silly games with each other. Gifts are the biggest thing at showers. When she opens the sentimental and essential items to equip her for motherhood, it will rain down with “oohs” and “ahhhs”.
Straight blokes, macho testosterone ones, also want baby showers these days. In contrast to the feminine affair, theirs are celebrated with a masculine touch – beer and pizza perhaps. My brother got presents like beer mug holders and matching football jerseys for Junior and him at his shower. His wife Rachel said it was his last chance to carouse loudly till the wee hours of the morning with the boys at home.
But refreshing, as Brian had said, I am not entirely sure.
“Let’s keep this a low-key affair, perhaps a few close friends over at our place, maybe for dinner. We can have a few drinks, confidentially announce our due date and share our plans for Thailand in the next few weeks with them,” Jayson says, trying to convince me, knowing he didn’t stand a chance.
“Are you mad? Someone else puts the party on for you,” Vicky screams at me on the phone some time later. “We are doing it in my apartment, your guests will love the view,” she yells again.
So Victoria, aka Vicky to her close friends, Princess Kellie and Jenni Munster – the trio of friends we consider family – will be throwing the shower party. Apparently it is traditional for godmothers to do this, without much input from the parents.
Vicky is a dear friend Jayson and I have known for about twenty years. She is no doubt fabulous, wears expensive clothes and is totally entertaining to watch. There is never a dull moment with her. Years ago, when we were on holidays in Istanbul, we sat by the Slim Aarons style pool at the Hilton one afternoon. Vicky was wearing her Tom Ford sunnies and her Camilla kaftan, with a martini in hand. I told her she had to be on TV and would be quintessential in the role of housewife in the Real Housewives of Sydney, if such a show ever came to fruition. Sure enough, she did join the cast when Foxtel launched the hit reality TV series.
Her breathtaking Bondi Beach apartment sea view is picturesque and totally amazing. Truth is, many never believe the outlook could ever exist here in Sydney. You are literally sitting in front of the beach on a patio. Her modern contemporary apartment is also a showcase for Brett Whiteley’s art.
We are like “this is so sweet”, her offer to throw the entire party at her home. She is generous like that.
Between the three girls, they work hard during those weeks leading to the party. Princess organises all of the food and Jenni organises the drinks, waiters, and hiring staff. It is a massive production, one I don’t have to lift a finger for. The shower is held on a Sunday afternoon with fifty invited guests. The coveted list includes family members from both our sides and close friends. Flashy invitations have polite warnings not to post the invitation or photos of the event on any social media platforms. Guests are asked to come dressed in the colours blue and white.
On the day, we serve Bollinger Champagne, mimosa cocktails, expensive vintage cheeses, dips and nouveau finger foods. Rebecca makes velvet cream cheese cupcakes. Two waiters in smart white shirts and black aprons circle the crowded room, topping up glasses. Alex lightens us up with a comic speech. The guests mingle, laugh and play games. One game is to discover the celebrity from their back. Then Dusty and Dylan, our goddaughters, help us open presents. We are overwhelmed with the joy in the room.
Over the years, the press has been both our good friend and enemy at times. Throughout the pregnancy, we keep wishing they would disappear. There just isn’t any room for invasion of our privacy, especially in such unknown times. A week before the baby shower, just when we think our bout with gossip columnists is nothing but a bad memory and we have outwitted the previous by not telling him the whole truth about the “stork coming”, Jayson’s phone runs hot once again. This time it is from another contender known as Jonathan Moran, an equivalent of the latter at the Daily Telegraph. Jonathan also writes for “Sydney Confidential” in the Sunday Telegraph and his entertaining and priceless Instagram account called @jmoconfidential is a personal favourite of mine.
Ros Reines was the head honcho of the Sunday Telegraph gossip columns for many years (until her departure in December 2015), which appeared on the back page of the paper like “guess who, don’t sue”. Stories on breakups, divorces, celebrities and their downfall were Sunday morning reading not to be missed. Personally, Jayson and I preferred to avoid the column. Being in bed with the crew and having your name or a story about you plastered in the newspaper could cause some embarrassment, but also in some way cheapened any good piece of news you wanted to tell the public. It was the last place we ever wanted our baby story to land.
But somehow, the story leaks. We believe it is a result of the baby shower and of the invitation card we sent out to guests, although we had clearly defined our position.
“You have invited fifty of Sydney’s elite women. Don’t kid yourself! Women talk. They tell their best friend and their best friend tells another best friend and before you know it, the news spreads and the entire country knows about your baby,” Vicky tells me and she is right.
It is no surprise when the “Confidential” columnist JMo rings. JMo, I must say, is a sweetheart and he has always reminded me of designer Alber Albaz (Lanvin’s ex-designer). I love his sense of humour, wit and the satire present in his work. He rings for days and we are afraid to take any of his calls. He begins texting us repeatedly, leaving several messages daily. It seems he desperately wants to be the first to break the story in his Sunday column. I can understand his position.
After a week of this, he rings our friends to snoop around on what they know. None of our close friends comments.
“Why are they not returning my calls?”
No one dares to comment.
“Jayson and Aaron are expecting two babies on Christmas Day,” he tells one of our friends, but she remains tight-lipped.
JMo’s story doesn’t run that Sunday, the day of the baby shower. I assume our unavailability to comment made the editor pull his story. She sees the bigger picture. In general, you say one word to the press, you have said a thousand. If you speak to them in any form, you have given them something to work with. Years ago on a Sunday morning, we read a front page story with headlines “Jayson Brunsdon bags Collette Dinnigan”. For starters, Jayson is not that kind of person who would bag anyone – especially Collette, whom he has such respect for. All Jayson really said was that it would be amazing if Collette (Australia’s most influential designer) showed at Fashion Week because it would be good for our industry.
Another time, which nearly destroyed my relationship with a valuable client, was when a gossip columnist visited my office and read a personal note on my pinboard, which the celebrity had written. She returned to her office and told her peer, who wrote a scathing piece scrutinising the celebrity’s inability to spell our names. For God’s sake, it was a private note, personal, and about which I cherished. I was so angry. They embellish, saying what they think about rumours and gossip they hear. It is best to avoid the press and not speak to them at all if you do not want to tell your story. Even after pressure from friends, I stood on principle.
“Give them what they want and they will stop hassling you. Best to set the record straight and get on with your life,” my PR guru friend says in our phone conversation about how to tackle JMo’s persistence.
Truth is, our story is way too fragile right now to come clean. Why cheapen it by allowing it to be fodder for the back-page gossip columns?
“We don’t want to be Sunday morning entertainment,” I whinge at Jayson. “I owe the papers nothing; this is a private matter, something for us.”
Designer Baby Page 22
