Secrets of the Mummy Concierge

by Tiffany Norris

  Bounding upstairs to check out my bedroom (Paulina had given me a floorplan of the villa so I knew exactly who would be staying where and which room needed to be filled with what baby equipment), I threw open my bedroom doors to reveal a soothing balance of white linens and cream stone. An oak four-poster bed sat serenely in the middle of the room and to the left, an en-suite bathroom was separated from the sleeping area by a sliding door, which pulled back to reveal a monsoon shower, freestanding bath and a plethora of cosy-looking towels and bathrobes. But what really caught my attention were the two Juliet balconies and the huge, breezy private roof terrace flanked by cappuccino and blush pink sun loungers.

  Goodness! If this was a ‘staff’ room, I couldn’t even begin to imagine what the main suite must look like.

  I had presumed I would be the only person in the villa at the time. However, on arrival, I was greeted by Javier, Paulina’s private chef, who announced the day’s menu of finca-fresh omelettes, traditional paellas and spicy grilled fish. I noticed that the dining-room table had been set for one and Javier explained that Paulina had booked him for the three days I was there so that I didn’t have to worry about ‘getting to grips with the kitchen’. Paulina, her husband and baby were arriving in three days’ time, which meant I had enough time to complete everything she had asked me to do before her arrival. My purpose on this trip was to completely babyproof the entire villa, something which in theory sounds pretty simple. Teamed with Paulina’s specific demands, though, it was certainly going to be an all-encompassing task.

  On my arrival at the airport, I had already checked that the car that had been booked to collect Paulina, and Charlie had the exact same brand of baby car seat as Paulina had back in the UK. I had also delivered a bag of ‘car journey essentials’ – complete with toys for the baby, nappies, wet wipes, a changing mat, baby sun cream and a hat – to the chauffeur and insisted everything needed to be within arm’s reach as soon as the family were enclosed in the car. Paulina had been very concerned about the two-hour ride from the airport to the villa (‘What if the baby doesn’t stop crying or I need to change her nappy?’) so I had reassured her by getting together a travel SOS kit for their journey.

  Before I left the UK, I had made sure Paulina had a bag for the plane (which I packed myself and delivered to her door on my way to the airport), carefully laden with ready-made formula, bottles, dummies, soft baby books and various muslins to wrap, wipe and snuggle with. I had also convinced a new travel brand to loan us a travel mattress especially for newborns, which unfolds safely onto a parent’s lap whilst on a plane, just in case the request for a baby basinet made to the airline was not met (for those of you who don’t know, if you are flying with a baby then you can request a seat at the front of the plane, which will have a fold-down basinet for your little one to sleep in).

  I had also made a note on my iPhone to call Paulina the morning she was due to travel, to remind her to pick up the ‘mummy bag’ I had packed for her and left in the nursery. This bag, amongst other things, had a spare pair of jeans and top. Paulina had shown me her travelling outfit a few weeks earlier, exclaiming, ‘You have to look fabulous when entering Ibiza!’ It consisted of a white pair of designer jeans and a linen shirt in the palest blue. I had seen far too many baby poo explosions mid-air not to know that if you choose to wear white when travelling, then you should always travel with a spare outfit, so a spare pair of jeans and T-shirt had been folded neatly into her ‘mummy bag’ complete with other essentials such as paracetamol, face moisturiser and an iPad (in case she got stuck under a sleeping baby).

  Abandoning my towel on the nearest sun lounger, I ran upstairs and changed into some linen shorts and a T-shirt before attacking my to-do list. Throughout the morning, various deliveries had been arriving at the villa, complete with harassed-looking Spanish delivery men, who made no attempt to disguise the fact they would rather be eating tapas in a beach bar than helping me unload various baby kit. Hoping they might offer to help the obviously frazzled Englishwoman to unpack the boxes and then remove them, they had instead grunted at me when I asked them to wait and proceeded to smoke about 20 Marlboro Lights on the terrace whilst watching me do all of the hard work.

  Thankfully, and allowing myself a swim as a reward, I had eventually unpacked all of the boxes and they had removed them from the villa, meaning I was now faced with a living room full of every sort of baby paraphernalia you could imagine. Pushing my sunglasses up on my head, I set to work, putting everything into relevant piles: three highchairs, travel cot, sheets, toys, swimming essentials, play gyms, Moses baskets, baby monitors . . .

  You might notice that all of these items are plurals. That’s because Paulina had insisted we needed one of everything for each room. Every bedroom was to be graced with a Moses basket just in case the baby slept better in different rooms throughout the day. We had baby monitors which could be positioned in bedrooms, on the terrace and down by the pool, and highchairs that would sit at the indoor table in the dining room, one for the outside terrace by the pool and another for the BBQ area.

  In between the unpacking, I regularly checked my phone for updates on Rupert. Patrick was incredible at sending me video snippets of their day and it made me feel less far away from them both. There was one box that I was extremely excited to unpack, which Paulina had shipped over a week earlier. It was full of the most beautiful baby outfits you could imagine: hand-embroidered bonnets, linen baby grows, tiny smock dresses with daisies handstitched onto them. Reaching into the box, I pulled out numerous newborn vests, hats, bloomers and swimming costumes, stroking them softly and imagining how gorgeous Paulina’s baby would look in them. I had thought ahead and, in my own suitcase, packed 50 baby hangers, knowing the hangers in the wardrobes would be far too big for newborn outfits. Gathering the clothes up into my arms, I hurried upstairs to the nursery, which I had started working on the night before. I had assembled a cot and added a few toys to make it look exactly like Paulina’s nursery at home – noting that I still had to source some frames for the prints that Paulina had ordered (again, exact replicas of the ones at home) so that the baby would not feel ‘confused by her new room’.

  Paulina had asked me to assemble a holiday wardrobe for the baby and to put together outfits for each day of their trip, so 14 outfits, each with their own variables dependent on the weather and if they might take the baby into the pool. For the next two hours, I sat on the nursery floor and put together baby outfit after baby outfit, matching cornflower blue smocks with pale linen bloomers and swimsuits with hooded towels.

  Folding up another newborn cardigan and spritzing the now-immaculate wardrobe with lavender spray, I smiled to myself.

  Life really was pretty good at the moment.

  PART SEVEN

  HONEY, I WANT MY OLD LIFE BACK

  Chapter 22

  The first time I had a call from a celebrity, I was in New York on a Christmas mini break with Patrick and Rupert. We were walking through Central Park, Rupert snuggled up in his pram and Patrick and I bundled up in so many scarves and sweaters that you could barely see our faces. It had been snowing solidly for the last three hours and having been cooped up in our minuscule hotel room (New York hotels are not known for their spaciousness), we had decided to venture out and see if we could rent one of those horse and carriages to take around the park. I was just pulling myself up into one of the carriages (and desperately trying to avoid eye contact with the horse pulling it – horses make me nervous) when my phone let off a shrill beep, alerting me to an incoming call.

  Flustered – I had one leg in the carriage and the other desperately trying not to slip on the icy concrete below – I pulled it out of my coat pocket and distractedly answered.

  ‘Yes, can I help?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Tiffany, please.’

  A clipped British accent echoed down the phoneline and I knew immediately that I was speaking to someone important – there was just something about the way sh
e said my name that oozed authority. I gave Patrick a panicked look, whilst trying desperately to pull my scarf down away from my ears so I could hear properly. Thankfully, Rupert, currently in Patrick’s arms, was far too entranced by the horses to demand any attention.

  ‘Speaking. How can I help?’

  The horse had started to amble its way along the path, pulling us along behind him and I relaxed back into the carriage, Rupert bouncing around on his daddy’s knee, completely excited by this new experience. I couldn’t help but notice, however, that Patrick was huffing beside me – I’d promised this break away would also be a break from work – but I concluded that I’d placate him with a beer and ice skating around the Rockefeller Center later that evening.

  ‘I’m Sandra Halford, the PA to Mr Matthew Aisles, and we would like to use your services.’

  I balked slightly and my face must have given me away as Patrick raised his eyebrows in my direction, obviously wanting to know what was going on.

  Matthew Aisles is a very famous singer who found his fame in the boy band days but has since extended his career into acting. He had been with his girlfriend since they were teenagers and a few years ago, they got married and had a baby shortly afterwards.

  The cold New York wind was biting into my knuckles as I held the phone up close to my face, wishing the sounds of the city around me would melt into nothing so I could make sure I took in every word this PA was saying clearly.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Aisles have a new baby, Jacob, and a toddler, Coconut.’ I clamped my hand over my mouth to stifle my giggles – why do celebrities have to give their children such ridiculous names? ‘They are in dire need of a new nanny – someone who can start within the next month – but are really struggling to find someone suitable. But, here’s the catch . . .’

  The horse had stopped outside a pretty restaurant in the middle of the park and Patrick had jumped out and was paying the driver. I flapped my hand at him, not knowing what to do – should I stay in the carriage and finish the conversation or jump out and hope the PA didn’t hear the snort of the horse in the background? I opted for the latter.

  ‘Right, and the catch is?’

  Walking away from the restaurant, I found an upturned tree trunk and plonked my bottom down on it. It was icy cold but at that moment I didn’t care, I just wanted to get to the bottom of this phone call. I smiled across at Rupert – who was bouncing towards a puddle, much to Patrick’s horror – and turned my attention back to the phone call.

  ‘Well, we have all tried to find someone suitable, but whatever nanny we have interviewed doesn’t seem to understand the – how shall I put it? – highs and lows of working for a celebrity.’ The voice on the other end sighed and I imagined her raising her eyebrows to the ceiling. ‘The job is obviously very different from that of a normal nanny and that’s why we need you.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m so sorry. I can’t help, I’m not actually a nanny.’

  She cut me off before I could continue. ‘We know that – Mr Aisles saw an article about you, that’s why he asked me to contact you. We want you to come here, meet Coconut and see what a day in the life of a nanny for the Aisles would be like. Then, once you have experienced it, we want you to find us the best nanny for the job.’

  I scrunched my nose up as she continued speaking, trying to understand exactly what it was she wanted from me.

  ‘So, forgive me for asking, but you essentially want me to test out the nanny job and then find someone who will fit it?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I heard a thud on the other end of the phone line and could only imagine her thumping her desk with her fist in satisfaction.

  By Jove, she’s got it!

  ‘Listen, I’ll email all the details over now but we would need you here no later than Thursday. Coconut has a lot going on that day so it will be the perfect way for you to see what an average day in the life of a celebrity toddler is like.’ She laughed – a thick, cackling laugh that made me shiver. With that, the phone went dead and at the same time an email pinged into my inbox. It was from Sandra – I’ll give it to her, she must be the world’s most organised PA.

  Skim reading it quickly whilst I walked towards where Patrick and Rupert were playing in the snow, I realised that this was one job opportunity I couldn’t turn down. It might be slightly out of my comfort zone, but as far as I was concerned, what better way to help a family find their ideal nanny than to step into the nanny’s shoes?

  * * *

  Later that evening, Rupert was asleep in his cot and Patrick had gone up to the hotel’s rooftop swimming pool for a swim (despite the snow still falling). I had taken the opportunity to curl up by the fire in our room and call a couple of celebrity nannies I already knew, just to understand a bit more about their jobs. I always believe that if you are going to throw yourself in at the deep end, the best way to be prepared is to ‘be prepared’, so I needed to know what I was letting myself in for. The first call I made was to an ex-maternity nurse based in New York, who I once met at a baby conference. Screeching down the phone when she realised I was local, she promptly insisted she come and meet me at my hotel so she could tell me all the juicy details face to face.

  Patrick, refreshed after his swim, agreed to keep an eye on Rupert, and half an hour later I was in the downstairs bar of the hotel as Christine launched herself into the room, enveloping me in a huge hug and charming the waiter to bring her a cup of hot milk.

  ‘It must be working with babies for so long,’ she said, her thick Birmingham accent oozing out of her. ‘I just can’t get enough of the stuff! Reminds me of being at home on a winter’s night and having a mug of milk before bed.’

  Christine was dressed in her usual get-up of thick, elasticated stripy trousers and a bright orange coat. To say she didn’t let fashion bother her would be an understatement – this woman was purely about comfort and wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

  ‘When you’ve worked as a maternity nurse for as long as I have, all style goes out the window!’ She laughed as she shrugged off her coat to reveal a knitted, stripy rainbow-coloured sweater. ‘What’s the point of dressing up if a baby is just going to poo or puke up all over you? You’ve got to be comfortable in my job, that’s what I tell you. Comfort is everything.’

  Christine’s love for the children she works with never ceases to amaze me. She has worked as a maternity nurse for over 40 years and she can honestly remember the name of every baby she has ever cared for – ‘They all carve a special place in my heart,’ I remember her saying when we first met. ‘To forget one of them would be like forgetting a member of my family.’

  ‘Well, where do I start?’ Christine had pulled her stripy legs up under her and warmed her hands before the fire. ‘Some of the celebrity jobs were certainly the more interesting positions I have taken.’

  I shifted forward in my seat, desperate to take in every detail.

  ‘There was one celebrity mummy I worked for who hired an interior designer for her children’s bedrooms . . .’

  Now I had worked with lots of parents who would like designers for nurseries and children’s rooms – maybe celebrities weren’t actually much different from us mere mortals. But a wicked smile spread across Christine’s plump cheeks.

  ‘She had three children at the time – a two-year-old, a four-year-old and a seven-year-old. I had just been hired as their nanny – it was one of the first jobs I took after nanny college – and she told me she wanted to give them all a gift as a surprise for being good at school.’ I nodded along as Christine continued. ‘Now, we’re not talking a new Peppa Pig DVD or a football.’ She laughed loudly and shook her head in amazement. ‘She asked me to source an interior designer to turn each bedroom into an “immersive experience” – those were her exact words.’

  I shook my head in wonder: what the hell did that mean?

  ‘Well, exactly – I had no idea what she was going on about either, but I googled a couple of interior designers and got them t
o present us with some ideas.’

  I made a note in my notebook – nanny duties could extend to sourcing interior designers – then put down my pen to continue listening.

  ‘In the end, we settled on one woman – she turned the four-year-old’s bedroom into an airport – he had a bed made to look like a helicopter, with controls and everything!’ Christine picked up her phone and started scrolling through before showing me a photo of the most exquisite toddler bedroom I have ever seen. The bed was indeed in the shape of helicopter, complete with blue and white exterior lighting and a stunning array of gadgets and extraordinary features such as a personalised dashboard with a joystick, speed dial, clock, radio with adjoining speaker. ‘The bed alone cost £35,000. For a bed! Can you believe it?’

  I really couldn’t, but she hadn’t finished yet. ‘The seven-year-old had a room that was designed to look like a castle – it had a huge turret in the middle with the bed on top and a magnificent “moat feature” which circled it. It was amazing how they did it – they attached some lights to the ceiling so that when the main lights in the room were off, the moat glistened and looked like real water. I think that’s what the mum must have meant by an “immersive” room.’