Secrets of the Mummy Concierge

by Tiffany Norris

  ‘Come, let me show you around and then I’ve booked you in for a complimentary massage. It’s impossible to experience Wind without relaxing in Bali.’ (By Bali, I realised she actually meant the luxury spa that was part of the club – aptly named because it was decorated in golds and peaches, with Buddha heads and incense sticks everywhere you turned.)

  As I followed Ana down numerous corridors, I felt more as though I was in a luxury five-star hotel than a children’s club. It was so far away from those dreaded indoor play centres parents begrudgingly trudge to on miserable winter days when the whole family has seen every episode of Paw Patrol ten times. Despite being slightly judgemental before I got there (I remember rolling my eyes at Patrick when I described where I was headed), I thought how much I wanted my child to come and spend time here. I mean, who wouldn’t? I’d already been handed my ‘Immuni-tea’ (echinacea, hibiscus and cornsilk, in case you’re curious) from a member of staff (who would have doubled as a supermodel) and all around me, I could see well-behaved children. Elbow-deep in paint and sequins, they are poised and happy, ready to create fridge-worthy masterpieces.

  ‘It’s so important for us as a club to find emotional and physical balance for everyone,’ Ana explains, stroking the golden hair of a little boy as he calmly walks by. ‘I want this to be a sanctuary for healing, relaxation and spending time with your loved ones.’ The sense of calm is impressive. Despite the children chatting animatedly to each other and bursting into happy laughter, there’s a calmness that seems to radiate from everyone.

  I look down at the tea I’m drinking – have I been drugged?!

  I nod open-mouthed and visibly impressed as Ana moves us from room to room. Wind is set over three floors – there’s an interactive play-and-learn zone for families, a nutritionally focused plant-based organic brasserie, an onsite spa and salon and a holistic wellness clinic (specialising in everything from ayurvedic massage to cryotherapy). Obviously, I’m here to research the benefits of this club for children and babies (although I do feel a magnetic tug towards the spa) so I ask Ana to show me back to the ground floor, where most of the activities for little ones take place. The play area has a focus on sustainable toys and there are lots of wooden toys and games dotted around. Everywhere I look, there are babies and toddlers grinning with excitement and launching themselves at the huge ladybird that takes centre stage (and has been described by Ana as a sensory den). There’s a pirate ship ball pit (currently expertly manned by a three-year-old and his teddy) and an impressive-looking treehouse (which looks like it has literally been plucked from a forest and placed inside). To the left, I see a children’s café with handpainted walls depicting scenes from a woodland gathering. (I’m amused to see the menu is completely plant-based and wonder if I could ever convince my baby to indulge in ‘cauliflower steak’.)

  ‘We have weaning pots too.’

  Ana has noticed that I’m looking over at the café and she picks up a small pot from a nearby fridge, which has ‘Quinoa and beetroot’ written on it. ‘We completely understand that our members might have children of all ages, so we want to cater for everything.’

  I can’t resist poking my head into the children’s bathrooms – and I’m not surprised by what I see. Unlike your average loo in a children’s play centre, there are no discarded loo rolls or wet patches beneath the cistern. The bathrooms are instead themed like log cabins, with multi-coloured buckets for sinks. Even the babies’ changing area stops me in my tracks. It has that stereotypical calm-like quality that oozes through the air conditioning of this club, and again looks like a mini spa for newborns. A circular changing area painted in calming whites and blues displays a plethora of cruelty-free and vegan baby toiletries – I wanted to clone it and take it home with me.

  Ana softly takes my hand and nods towards a closed door before leaning forwards and opening it slightly. Inside, I see a children’s class is running – eight little faces have their eyes closed in concentration as their teacher talks about mindfulness.

  ‘We have lots of classes for the little ones. Heuristic sensorial singing class for babies, green classes which teach children about the importance of upcycling and recycling, Steiner-inspired art classes . . .’ She stops and taps her finger on her cheek and I can see the Rolodex of classes spinning through her mind. ‘Oh, and there’s the string quartet class where children will learn to harmonise using the viola or violin – that’s always a really popular one.’

  I must admit, I don’t know how to react. Steiner-inspired art classes – I’m pretty sure I was brought up watching Sooty and Sweep throw paint at each other on TV.

  ‘So, how much is the membership here?’ I’ve been wanting to ask this question for a while but haven’t quite been able to find the moment. It feels almost brash to be talking about money and I feel slightly uncomfortable. I presume it’s because the majority of mothers who come here probably don’t even have to think twice about handing over their credit card.

  ‘It’s six thousand pounds a year.’ Ana looks me directly in the eye as she says that, almost telepathically challenging me to have any sort of reaction. ‘And all of our members are happy to pay this. After all, our spa speaks for itself – which you’re about to see – and we have the best holistic experts in the world. Did you know our acupuncturist often treats Prince Harry and Meghan?’

  I want to ask her who else frequents Wind (I’m sure this must be celebrity central) but know that Ana is far too discreet to divulge, so instead I follow her as we walk back up the stairs.

  Whilst Wind’s décor hinges largely on bright colours and loud patterns, stepping into their spa transports you to a calming space where you immediately feel the stress seep from your shoulders. Ana explains that she has booked me in for one of their signature treatments (‘I never let a member leave this building unless they look as if they have just returned from three weeks in the Maldives’), so I take the robe she offers me gratefully and open the door to the spa changing room.

  If I could scream in excitement, I would.

  The doors to the changing room are hand-carved from Bali wood and even the towels are made from wood fibres. (How do I know this? There’s a gold-framed sign that explains how the towels are biodegradable, therefore contributing to reforestation around Europe.) I start my ‘relaxation session’ by stepping into their Himalayan salt room, where you can sit and breathe opposite a wall of pink Himalayan salt. I’m then ushered quietly into a room to have a massage on one of their custom-made Dolomite quartz beds.

  ‘They’re filled with thousands of tiny, warm crystals,’ my therapist explains, ‘which work to reduce inflammation and promote healing.’

  If I could tell you any more about my massage I would, but I was in such a state of deep relaxation that all I can report back is that one of those massages will be on my Christmas list every year.

  An hour later, I feel like a changed woman and have to physically force myself towards the exit due to not wanting to leave. As I shuffle down the corridor, glancing wistfully at every massage room and wondering what bliss is happening inside, I bump into a tall, curly-haired woman holding a clipboard. ‘Lovely to meet you – I’m Natasha, aka the colon whisperer. Make sure you come and see me next time you’re here.’

  I smile back and try not to convey any sense of horror on my face. A colon whisperer? Goodness, this place really does have it all!

  PART NINE

  THEY GROW UP SO FAST

  Chapter 28

  ‘It’s really important to us that when Hugo grows up, he goes to Eton, then St Andrews, and therefore, it’s imperative that he starts mixing with the “right” sort of children as soon as possible.’

  I gulp down a mouthful of coffee quickly, scalding my throat as I do so. To say I’m in shock is an understatement, but in situations like this I need to remind myself that just because one parent wants something different to what you would want for your child, it doesn’t mean they are wrong.

  ‘And how old is
Hugo now?’ I ask cautiously, glancing sideways at the little boy sitting dressed head to toe in Ralph Lauren, his finger halfway up his nose.

  ‘He’s eight in April so we need to start quickly.’ She sweeps a piece of paper across the table towards me and gestures at it with her diamond-encrusted finger. The words ‘Etiquette Training for Little People’ stare back up at me.

  ‘This woman is supposed to be incredible. She was trained under a former member of the Queen’s household and now lives in America. Apparently, she flies all over the world to teach etiquette classes and I want you to book her; I don’t care how much it costs. I just need her here, in London, by next month.’

  I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to hide the bemused look on my face but I nod patiently and make a note of the etiquette guru’s name.

  * * *

  A week later, and I have hit a wall: this particular etiquette coach apparently has a completely full diary until early the following year.

  ‘You do know she has flown halfway across the world to work with celebrities and royalty,’ quips her personal assistant when I eventually get hold of her. ‘You really do need to be more organised to book her. She has a waiting list of over two thousand parents.’

  I politely say goodbye and start working on Plan B. There’s no way I can go back to my client and tell her I can’t get her what she wants – I’m just going to have to look closer to home.

  I’d heard about this particular etiquette academy through various Chelsea mummies who gossiped about it over skinny lattes and vegan cupcakes. It was a place that was often ‘whispered’ about, an ‘in the know’ secret that only the most exclusive of children has the privilege of being a part of. I pick up my phone and send a quick message to a colleague of mine who has talked about sending her eight-year-old daughter, Emma, to the academy. As luck would have it, her little girl is already enrolled on the six-week course and is halfway through. I politely ask if I might be able to tag along.

  The following day, I arrive at Coworth Park hotel – a stunning luxury hotel in the Ascot countryside, Emma at my side and raring to go.

  ‘Last week, we were taught all about how to dress for different social occasions,’ she explains as she takes my hand and walks me into an elegant function room, where the class is being held. ‘Did you know, you must never wear more than three colours at the same time?’

  I look down at my multi-coloured shirt dress teamed with a slouchy blue blazer and a bright red scarf. Flinching slightly (and if I’m honest, nervous that one of the 12 eight-year-olds in the room might point out my fashion faux pas), I swiftly remove the scarf and jacket and stuff them into my handbag.

  ‘This week is all about table manners,’ Emma tells me, before bounding off to greet a friend that she has just spotted on the other side of the room. I must admit, I’m already impressed. When I first met Emma a couple of months ago at a dinner party her parents were holding, she had been a typically timid and shy eight-year-old who was barely able to whisper hello. In just three weeks, I can see how much she has transformed. She is engaging and articulate compared to many children her age who’ve already slipped into the monosyllabic awkwardness of adolescence. I watch, impressed, as she compliments her friend on her outfit and then engages in the sort of small talk that I only wish I could do – a part of me is tempted to pull out my notebook and take notes.

  The class begins and I find myself a seat on the back wall so that I can observe. It’s so easy to forget I’m actually here on ‘work duties’ and I have to keep reminding myself I’m due to report back to Maria about the academy and if it might work well for her son.

  Two hours later, the class is nearing the end and the children are summoned to a beautifully decorated dining table in the centre of the room, complete with starched white linen table cloths, silver napkin rings and china teacups.

  ‘We always get a meal at the end of each session,’ Emma explains to me in that very grown-up way of hers. ‘It’s so that we can practise what we have learnt.’

  The first course is soup and a smile breaks out across my face as I notice that each and every eight-year-old is eating their soup perfectly. Spoons swoosh quietly from the centre of the bowl to the top and there are no slurping sounds at all. I am equally impressed when the main course presents itself and I see piles of peas on the plate – not one child turns the fork upside down and scoops the peas. Instead, they spear the peas in small groups onto the tines of the fork using the back of the knife to help them. It’s hard not to be impressed. Although it’s easy to dismiss classes like this as something silly that rich people throw money at, I could actually see that there were some potential benefits for children in negotiating certain social situations in their lives, giving them the confidence and knowledge to do so.

  * * *

  The following day, my phone shrills loudly from inside my handbag. I reach down to retrieve it.

  ‘So, what was it like? Will it work for Hugo?’

  I swing open the door of the black cab and mouth ‘thank you’ to the driver before heaving all of my bags over my shoulder. I’ve just returned from a client who is due home any minute with her newborn baby. My job was to fill her home with flowers, make sure food was in the fridge and have all the baby kit up and running. I then had to rush to Waitrose before it closed to grab some food for supper.

  I dump the bags on the pavement outside my house (I can’t walk and talk at the same time) and concentrate on the voice coming through my mobile phone.

  ‘It really must be up to the standard of the American woman otherwise it just won’t work. Hugo needs the best and—’

  ‘Maria, it was fantastic,’ I tell her. I think back to the class I had attended the day before. ‘Hugo will adore it and the teachers are wonderful. I definitely think you should sign him up.’

  Maria stays on the phone to me for the next half an hour whilst I simultaneously unpack shopping and talk her through what the etiquette course covers. By the end of the phone call, I have managed to make a delicious-looking tuna salad and have convinced my client that the academy is an essential investment if she wants her little boy to have the manners of a prince.

  Exhausted from such a long day, I finish the call, scoop the rest of the salad into my mouth and collapse into bed.

  Another day in the life of The Mummy Concierge.

  Chapter 29

  The decision to try for another baby was not an easy one. Work was increasing hugely for me (which was fantastic), but there was also something niggling away at me that was making me wonder if I wanted Rupert to be an only child. Perhaps it was working with so many pregnant mothers or being contacted by clients who wanted help prepping for a second baby, but I found that every waking moment started to be filled with assessing the pros and cons of having another child.

  Patrick was on board straight away (he’s from a large Irish family and always talked about having a household filled with as many baby giggles as possible), but I carried on fluctuating between it being a great idea, or a really, really bad one. For starters, I hated being pregnant the first time.

  I wish I could say I was one of those women who really embraced her swollen belly and could laugh at the fact she could no longer fit in her jeans, but that just wasn’t me. Throughout my pregnancy with Rupert, I was crippled with anxiety that something might happen to the baby, or that I wouldn’t be able to cope once the baby arrived, so for me, pregnancy was nine months of intense anxiousness. Teamed with the knowledge of how hard it had been to actually get pregnant in the first place, I was also petrified that trying to get pregnant again might be futile – and this scared me the most.

  For months, I agonised over whether I should stop taking the pill and if we should go down the rabbit hole of trying to conceive. Some days, I would look at how successful my business was and think, How can I possibly do all of this with two children running around? Other days, I would meet a pregnant client and see the excitement in their faces of a baby-filled future an
d crave it so intensely, I’d rush home to Patrick, declaring we had to start trying. But just when I thought I had made my mind up and was ready to commit to trying for baby number two, I was about to be hit with something that would change it all.

  A gorgeous, sunshine-filled new client called Victoria had been emailing me for a few months for advice on conceiving as she and her husband were trying for their first baby. Obviously not a doctor so unable to offer her medical advice, we swapped emails where she bemoaned ovulation kits and asked for advice on how long they should be trying before they went to see a specialist. Her emails always made me smile – she was quick to laugh at herself and her lack of knowledge of anything baby-related (she even admitted she once thought a baby monitor was a TV especially for newborns so they could watch CBeebies!). She was one of those clients who I was convinced I would form a firm friendship with, regardless if she used me as her Mummy Concierge going forward.

  Victoria had booked in to meet me for a coffee one afternoon in Kensington and I knew the second I saw her that she had news. She was smiling so much, her face actually looked as if it must be aching and she was clutching a brochure for a luxury baby brand tightly in her right hand.

  ‘I need your advice,’ she explained, having downed one cup of mint tea and promptly waving at the waiter to bring her another. That was another thing I noticed: she was unable to sit still. Every five minutes or so, she would be up on her feet, reaching for the sugar pot or dashing to the loo. She reminded me of an over-excited toddler and I just knew that the news she was about to share was going to be something positive.

  ‘So . . .’ She twirled her red hair around one of her fingers and her face exploded into a smile again. ‘I’m pregnant . . .’ I jumped up to congratulate her, but she motioned for me to sit down. ‘But I have a confession first: I wasn’t completely truthful to you in our emails.’ Again, her expression reminded me of a two-year-old about to tell someone something serious about a broken tractor toy or a spilt orange juice. ‘When I first emailed you, I said that Jake and I had only just started trying for a baby. It wasn’t strictly true, we have actually been trying for two years.’