Secrets of the Mummy Concierge

by Tiffany Norris

  Some clients have also been more than generous with me when it comes to thank-you gifts. I must admit, I’m pretty old-fashioned at heart and I would never expect anything more than a lovely little thank-you card, but when a chauffeur arrived on my doorstop one morning, long legs folding out of his Bentley to present me with a little red box, I honestly didn’t know what to expect. I read the note attached – a heartfelt page of thanks, which actually made me well up. It was from a client of mine who had had a baby through surrogacy and they had written the note on the way to the airport to fly to America to meet their little one. The ink was actually smudged slightly, which I can only presume was from tears of excitement that their baby dream was about to become a reality.

  But it was when I opened the box that I actually stumbled backwards (and bumped my foot on the doorstep!) in shock: inside was a gold and silver Cartier watch. I turned it over in my hands, looking up to see the chauffeur pull away into the traffic before I could stop him and double-check this really was meant for me. When I turned it over, I could see that this wasn’t a mistake: my initials had even been engraved into it.

  PART EIGHT

  TODDLERDOM

  Chapter 26

  I reach into the boot of my car and gather up a collection of files, being careful not to drop them. The back seat of the car is jam-packed with a collection of party decorations. I have 2,000 pastel pink and yellow balloons, a helium pump, party hats, multi-coloured streamers and a huge ‘Happy Birthday’ sign. Rupert is being looked after by our nanny at home. Katherine (or Kiki, as she is known) was a complete lifesaver for us when Rupert was little. If ever there was a real-life Mary Poppins, then she was it and I felt completely at ease when she looked after our son.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as I spot the lorry appear at the front of the expansive drive and I wave manically at Michael the driver.

  ‘You made it! I was having panic attacks on the motorway that you’d got lost.’

  Michael grunts at me in return (he’s not a man of many words) and walks around to the back of the lorry before opening the doors to the back, hands on hips as he shakes his head in dismay.

  ‘You’ve got people to help with this, right?’ he calls back over his shoulder.

  At that moment, I hear a squeal from the front of the estate and Marjorie bounds down the stairs. Marjorie is my client and mummy to twin toddler boys, whose party it is today. At this estate. Which looks like Buckingham Palace.

  ‘You’re here! So, what do you think of the house? It’s amazing, isn’t it? Perfect for my two little princes!’

  I turn around and, open-mouthed, take in the building in front of me.

  ‘The nannies have all arrived and are waiting for you in the ballroom for their brief . . .’ Marjorie walks down the front stairs towards me, looking as though she has lived in this setting her entire life. A tight cream cashmere sweater is offset by a set of pearls around her neck and a long, metallic silver skirt swishes around her ankles.

  Goodness, I hope I look like that when I have toddlers, I think in admiration.

  ‘The caterers are lost somewhere on the M4 – if you can find out what their situation is please – and the event planners are currently assembling the balloon arch.’ She peers over my shoulder at Michael, who is currently unloading around 40 silver glitter balls and a gold and red velvet throne.

  * * *

  When I took on this job two months ago, I had no idea the extent Marjorie would go to in order to create the ‘perfect toddler birthday party’ for her twin boys. I have helped mothers plan numerous birthday parties before – sometimes doing it all myself, other times bringing in event planners if the parents want something a bit more unique. The second Marjorie told me her wish list, I knew I was going to have to bring in the big guns. At our first meeting, I met her in a little coffee shop to go through potential venues. Having not really had much of a brief from her at this stage, I had a list of places that I knew were ‘toddler-friendly’ but also had something a bit different about them – a private members’ club in Soho which had a jungle-themed room, the possibility of hiring out the Disney Store for a Disney-themed party and if the weather looked good, the option of decorating a private garden square in Kensington with a vintage fairground theme.

  But Marjorie took out a red pen from her handbag and swiftly drew red lines through all of my suggestions:

  ‘I need something bigger and better than this. Here’s my ideas.’

  At that point she pulled out a huge laminated file and turned a few pages before pushing it under my nose. ‘Something like this could work. Or maybe this one?’

  I cast my eyes over the images in front of me. The first was of Highclere, the beautiful estate where the TV series Downton Abbey was filmed. The second photo was of an incredibly well-known castle in Scotland.

  ‘Marjorie, this location is in Scotland. Do you think your friends would travel all that way for a birthday party?’

  ‘When they see the sort of party I want to put on, of course they will!’ She threw her head back in laughter and diamonds sparkled on her fingers as she ran them through her beautifully highlighted hair.

  When we had our second meeting a week later, I was more prepared. This time I put the glossy photographs down on the table in front of her.

  ‘What about this location? It’s not far from London, sits on the Thames and it’s absolutely perfect for a Narnia-themed party.’ The theme had been emailed to me the night before – at 2am. (My work phone stays resolutely on by my bedside table, much to my husband’s dismay.) I pulled up the Pinterest page I had put together, showcasing décor ideas, colour themes and entertainment.

  ‘I’m going to be honest with you. To pull off what you want, we’re going to have to bring in some experts.’ I opened a new tab on my laptop to show her the website of London’s most sought-after event planner. ‘This is the guy we need to hire. I’ll do all the liaising, make sure he knows what we want. You can now just sit back and relax; it’s all taken care of.’

  Marjorie flopped back in her chair and exhaled loudly. ‘Oh, thank God!’ she exclaimed, her Russian accent more pronounced now that she was relaxed. ‘It’s all in your hands, Tiffany. Don’t bugger it up!’

  ‘Just one more question . . .’

  (I’m always nervous asking as I hate talking about money.)

  ‘You’re going to ask about my budget? There is none. Just make this the greatest party a toddler has ever had.’

  With that, she waltzed out of the café, leaving a trail of Chanel perfume in her wake.

  * * *

  Arranging this birthday party had to be one of the more stressful jobs I’ve ever taken on. With every suggestion I put to Marjorie, her demands grew larger (more balloons, a bigger venue, Michelin-starred chef to cater for the parents!). Armed with my notebook and pen, I gradually managed to tick everything off her list, whilst keeping my head as calm as possible.

  Which is why I now find myself standing outside this exquisite country estate ready to put the weeks of planning into action. First off, the childcare. I head determinedly to the ballroom.

  The ballroom is one of those rooms that every young girl has imagined herself being waltzed around by her very own Prince Charming. The domed ceiling fills the room with wintry sunlight and rainbows of colour dart off each duck egg-painted wall. At the far end, a selection of women in their twenties and thirties are gathered, sipping cups of tea and talking quietly amongst themselves.

  ‘Erm . . . Hello?’ I clap my hands together (channelling my old school headmistress) and wait for the chatter to die down. Ten expectant faces turn towards me. ‘Hi.’ I clear my throat and try to sound confident. ‘I’m Tiffany, the Mummy Concierge. I’ve spoken to you all at various times over the last couple of weeks and it’s great you’re all here.’

  No one speaks. A couple of the women smile encouragingly, so I continue. ‘Obviously, this is a slightly unique situation we are all in.’ Quiet laughter fill
s the room as everyone nods and acknowledges that this is certainly not something they have ever done before. ‘I’ve been through all of your CVs and interviewed you all personally, so I know you’re up for the job. In about two hours, 100 little people will be descending on us and it’s your job as our nanny team to make sure they’re all happy, fed, watered . . . and that’s just the parents!’

  There are polite giggles again so I decide now to change tack: why am I trying to be someone I’m not?

  ‘OK, enough with the formalities.’ I gesture for everyone to come over to where I am and we all sit cross-legged on the floor. ‘I know you are all mega-experienced and will do an amazing job. Let’s just say I don’t think any of us will have ever seen a toddler birthday party like this before, so if any of you have any questions or are worried about anything, just ask away. I’m basically here to make everyone’s life easier.’

  A couple of the nannies enquire as to which loos the toddlers can use (we have specific loos for adults and children – the adult ones are filled with Jo Malone candles and posh handwash, whereas the toddler loos have multi-coloured loo roll and soap that squirts out of a duck’s beak. One nanny gestures towards a bag and asks if she needs to wear her official uniform. Her name is Emily and she trained at the respected Norland Nanny College – which has its own uniform complete with white gloves and a hat that the nannies are encouraged to wear. I smile back at her kindly. ‘Only if you want to, but I think you look perfectly fine in your jeans and T-shirt.’

  I hand out a list of names of all of the children who will be attending the party, alongside their assigned nanny, plus information on any food intolerances, play preferences and so on.

  Right, nannies done. Now, onto the décor.

  Running now (time seems to be passing very quickly), I venture into the second ballroom to find it has been transformed into a scene from Narnia. Fake snow lies on the ground, a glittering sleigh covered in icicles takes centre stage and actors dressed as Mr Tumnus and the White Witch mill about in the most extraordinary costumes I have ever seen. A snow machine blows delicate little snowflakes through the air and classical music plays in the background. I see Vincent, the event planner, in the far-left corner, talking animatedly with one of his assistants.

  ‘Wow, this looks just incredible!’ I throw my arms out wide and shake my head in amazement.

  ‘You haven’t seen the walk-in wardrobe yet . . . Oh, there it is!’ Vincent grabs my elbow and ushers me towards the door where a huge pile of fur coats is being wheeled in by an intern. ‘We’re going to transform this main door into a wardrobe so that the children have to walk through the coats to get to Narnia.’

  He says ‘Narnia’ with a swoop of his arm and I feel a surge of excitement zoom through my body.

  My goodness, this really is going to be the most incredible party ever!

  Excusing myself, I head towards the estate kitchens, where a team of highly trained chefs are putting the finishing touches to a Narnia-inspired feast. There are cupcakes made to look like lions’ heads, sandwiches elegantly resting on mini lampposts covered in snow and platters of Turkish delight sprinkled with blue and silver glitter. (There are also other foods specifically labelled for gluten-free children, celiac, vegan and so on – the chefs have thought of everything.) On a grand, thick oak table at the end of the room, there are menus printed on parchment detailing the options for parents. The parents, incidentally, are having a four-course sit-down meal whilst their children are entertained by the nannies and our troupe of actors, and they’re indulging in Lobster Bisque, Beef Wellington and what look like expensive bottles of French champagne. My stomach rumbles as I survey the feasts, so I sneak a piece of Turkish delight from one of the bowls near me and pop it in my mouth – divine!

  The brief I was given by Marjorie when we first met was to create a party that served a dual purpose: to engage and excite the children and surprise and delight the parents simultaneously. I look around again – I think we have achieved this perfectly.

  ‘There you are!’

  I turn to see Marjorie grappling with the twins (both dressed in velvet suits and bow ties, little gold crowns on their heads). She passes one of them – Henry, I think – over to me and I tickle him, making him explode with laughter.

  ‘Is everything done? Are we ready to go? The chauffeurs should be arriving in around 15 minutes, so we need the nannies outside, ready and waiting.’

  I nod and try to concentrate as Henry sticks his finger up my nose.

  ‘This is all for you!’ I tell him, gesturing towards the ballroom behind me and watching as Henry and his brother James’ eyes open in awe as a life-size lion has just been wheeled into the house (goodness, it does look realistic . . .).

  After I put Henry down, he laughs as he chases his brother into the ballroom containing all the fake snow. I hear shrieks of giggles and see them picking up handfuls and sprinkling it on each other’s heads.

  ‘I just have to hope the parents are as impressed . . .’ Marjorie fidgets with the engagement ring on her finger and looks around. I can tell she’s stressed, but who wouldn’t be? She has pretty much emptied her bank account to put on this party.

  ‘How could they not be?’ I say softly, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. ‘Look at the boys’ little faces! This is literally a dream turned into reality for them.’

  * * *

  This certainly isn’t the first time I have worked with competitive parents. Just like Marjorie, there seems to be a tribe of new mothers and fathers who treat parenting like a professional sport. The second their baby is born, it’s as though there’s a checklist of must-haves, must-dos and must-be-better-thans. At first, I was completely bemused by it all – why do these parents care so much about what other parents think? But the more I worked with people who live in a world of luxury, the more it started to settle on me that they are actually just like any other parent: they want the best for their child and they want to be seen to be doing the best. For some people, splashing money in order to do this might seem vulgar, but whenever I felt like this, I would take a step back and bring it back to the bare roots.

  Every parent I have ever worked with who is competitive about the lifestyle they give their children is usually doing it because they want what’s best for their little one. If a certain school has a reputation for being the best, why not give it your all to get your child in there? If you want to give your child a birthday party they will never forget (and you have the money to do so), who am I to say it’s bad parenting? As my motto goes, every parent is different and every child is too. The only thing that’s important is that YOU DO YOU!

  I truly believe that with all of my heart.

  Chapter 27

  It’s a breezy October morning, the kind where it looks as though England has decided to throw on its winter coat in a patchwork of reds, oranges and yellows and cover the ground and air in an autumnal haze. I kick up a bunch of soft leaves that have fallen to the ground and rock my arms merrily from side to side as I walk down a cobbled mews towards my first appointment for the day. The cold air catches in my throat and I pull my scarf up around my ears, but even that can’t disguise the smile on my face. Whilst the rest of London are busy sweating on the Underground, their winter coats and hats being disregarded on tube seats as they reach the lower bowels of the city, I was one of those happy few actually looking forward to work that day. Why? Because I was visiting three of London’s most elite members’ clubs for children.

  I’ll be honest with you, when I first heard about a few new members’ clubs for children popping up around the capital, I had to supress the mother of all eye-rolls. Why? Because when the emails first pinged into my inbox, I was hit with words such as ‘Self-confidence classes for babies’, ‘Steiner-inspired art lessons’ and ‘Baby raves teamed with organic food’. Don’t get me wrong, having lived in London for most of my life, I was used to hearing about the next weird and wacky craze that had descended on th
e city. In my twenties, I was one of the first people to test out a restaurant that hung 60ft in the air from a crane. In my thirties, when planning my wedding, I was invited to an exclusive wedding gallery, which was essentially like living inside the pages of a glossy bridal magazine (complete with perfumed rooms to match your mood). And now here I was, entering the exclusive realms of the parenting elite, and, I must admit, I was actually quite excited. According to my London Mummy set, Wind (aka the newest members’ club for parents and children, which I’ve changed the name of because it’s THAT exclusive) was THE place to be at the moment, so I had to be there – my job practically insisted.

  A client of mine actually set the balls in motion after an initial phone chat with her, where I happened to mention the rise in children’s members’ clubs. ‘I didn’t even know they existed,’ she said, sounding slightly put out. ‘So, what do you have to do to get on the list? I presume there’s some huge waiting list, right?’ To be honest, at that stage I didn’t know the answer, so I promised I’d find out and report back. Which is why I was standing in front of a tall glass building, decorated in butterflies, down a narrow mews in Notting Hill, off a side road adjacent to London’s famed and beloved Portobello Road.

  As I slid through the floor-to-ceiling doors, I was met by a slim, elegant woman, her hair in a top knot, who introduced herself as Ana. She was not what I had expected at all. She wore Lululemon yoga pants and had that clear porcelain complexion which meant there was no need for make-up. Her feet were completely bare and she had 20 or so woven bracelets decorating both of her wrists. If I could remove my surroundings and guess where this woman would be most at home, I would have said the long, sandy stretches of a Goan beach.

  ‘Welcome.’

  Her voice was like honey, a whisper compared to the loud and confident tones of the mummies I was used to working with. She took my hand and stroked it gently, looking me up and down in the sensual way that lots of hippy types do. Despite us being polar opposites, I immediately liked her. Her calm demeanour made me feel instantly relaxed and I felt the Zen fold itself into my body and any anger or tension melt away.