Nanny Confidential

by Philippa Christian

  The length of our stay depended on the extent of the scandal and how easily Steven’s publicity team could excuse it as idle gossip. A kiss-and-tell story could blow over in a week if they found a ‘source’ willing to discredit the stripper. If reporters had solid evidence, such as copies of ‘sexts’ or pornographic photographs, then the children and I could be camped out there for weeks, until the storm blew over. Their schoolteachers didn’t question their absence. They used the gossip columns as a sick note, and knew exactly what was happening. They’d email me copies of the kid’s assignments, politely not mentioning their dad’s latest indiscretion.

  During this time their parents came and went, often trailed by Steven’s agent and manager, multiple personal assistants and a frazzled-looking publicist. I always knew that our solitary confinement would soon be over when I saw a photo of the couple in the newspaper putting on a ‘united front’ pose. This photograph would be staged by their publicity team and leaked to a magazine editor who Steven was friends with. It was usually a photo of the ‘happy couple’ arriving at a meeting hand-in-hand, or Steven giving Barbie a piggyback along a beach.

  ‘Why do Mummy and Daddy never look that happy when they’re with us?’ asked three-year-old Zara one evening when her parents’ faces popped up on the television. I paused as I tried to figure out how to explain the term ‘fauxmance’ to a toddler!

  The shocking truth is that, after a decade working as a VIP nanny, I’ve started to think of incidents like this as normal. I’ve learnt that it’s common for powerful men to have multiple wives—sometimes at the same time—and I’ve learnt that many women are prepared to ignore adultery in exchange for an opulent lifestyle.

  This job makes you at best inquisitive and at worst totally distrusting of adults and their agendas. It can also leave you totally jaded when it comes to men and romance.

  I’ve cared for the nine children of a Middle Eastern prince, juggling the orders of the father’s three wives, who all lived together in the same palace. You wouldn’t believe the conversations I’ve overheard women having with their girlfriends. ‘He’s freezing all the assets’, ‘How can I spend a million dollars in a day?’ and ‘Can you teach me how to knock a man out?’ I’ve put children to bed with headphones on to drown out the sound of their parents screaming at each other. I’ve overheard a singer from a nineties boy band admit to his wife that the ballad everyone assumed was written about her was actually written about her best friend.

  I worked for one famous father in Australia who told his wife he had to go to New York for business at short notice. She found out he was lying when she turned on the television and saw him on a dating show. He’d flown to America to film the episode. I overlooked all these misdemeanours and continued to work for the family, because it’s even more important for a child to have the stabilising influence of a nanny when their parents are acting indecently.

  I try not to judge, even though it’s difficult sometimes. My priority is the children, and I see my role as being a steadying antidote to the surreal high of their parents’ lives.

  In spite of this, when Steven’s youngest son, who was not even four years old, added the word ‘sexting’ to his vocabulary, I knew my time with the family was over. It was clear that Steven adored his kids despite his extracurricular activities. But it had become increasingly hard to protect, preserve and heal the children from the sins of their father.

  When I received an email from the manager of Alysha Appleby asking if I’d be interested in attending an interview, the first thing I did was google the surname. I knew who both parents were—knowing the who’s who of celebrities is part of my job description—but I wanted to know what I was getting into. ‘Sir Cameron Appleby + affair’ I typed in to Google. When it showed no relevant results I tried ‘Sir Cameron Appleby + stripper’. Still nothing. This looked promising. When I searched for pictures of Sir Cam and Alysha at public appearances, strangely there seemed to be no photos of them together. However, there was also no hint of a dark and murky backstory. In hindsight I should have known better.

  Over the years, I’ve learnt that the famous faces who are depicted as ogres by newspapers are usually the most kindhearted in real life. I’ve also learnt that the angels, who seem to do no wrong, are sometimes just better at covering their tracks.

  2

  ‘Nanny! Where are you, nanny? How could you do this to meeeee?’

  I was halfway through bathing two-year-old Koko when I heard the piercing scream coming from the kitchen. It was Monday morning, so this could only mean one thing. On the first day of the week the latest issues of the celebrity magazines hit the newsstands, and Alysha always spent the morning poring over each page of every magazine to see if she’d been mentioned.

  Sadly, this task set the atmosphere for the entire week. If a magazine had included a flattering picture of Alysha in a bikini, usually Photoshopped to within an inch of its life and leaked by her agent, then my boss would be happy and the house would be peaceful. An unflattering photo resulted in an unhappy mummy and flying cutlery, especially if an art director had drawn a ‘ring of shame’ around her cellulite or if a fashion editor had described a recent outfit as a ‘style blooper’.

  There was only one thing worse than being publicly ridiculed, and that was not being mentioned at all. A storm cloud would then hang over the house for days, because Alysha’s bad mood was contagious. It was hard not to be pulled down with her.

  On ‘Magazine Monday’ it was usually Alysha’s poor assistant who was first in the firing line if she hadn’t got any publicity. She’d sacked five PAs in as many months for reasons that included ‘being prettier than I am’ and accidentally putting full-fat milk in her coffee.

  However, this morning it was my name being hollered up the spiral staircase to the children’s wing of the mansion. ‘Lindsay, how could you do this to me?’ she screamed again. ‘Are you trying to ruin my life?’

  As I pulled Koko from the bath and wrapped her in a Versace towel, I mentally ran through a list of possible crimes I might have committed. Had one of the children been photographed drinking a fizzy drink, instead of the brand of coconut water that Alysha was sponsored by? My previous boss had lost a million-dollar endorsement deal after he was snapped smoking a cigarette when he was meant to be the face of a range of nicotine patches.

  But my offence was far worse in Alysha’s eyes. As I entered the kitchen, my boss was pacing around the table, wrapped in a pink kimono that clashed with her furious face. Most of the drama in the household seemed to happen in this kitchen. It was where scripts were read, contracts were signed and arguments played out, despite the fact the house had two studies, four living rooms and a huge library.

  ‘Look at it, look at it!’ Alysha screamed, throwing a balled-up page from a magazine at my head. ‘I cannot believe you did this to me.’ I’m used to being yelled at and am well aware that Alysha is prone to exaggeration, so I didn’t immediately panic. Instead I picked up the paper cannonball from where it had landed beside my feet and smoothed it out onto the kitchen table.

  At first glance I couldn’t see the problem. In fact, I thought it was a very flattering photograph of Alysha, taken at a shopping mall the previous week. I thought she would be happy—her hair was freshly styled, her new Marc Jacobs handbag was in the frame and she was doing the half-smile that she’d copied from Victoria Beckham and practised in front of the mirror every evening.

  I thought the photograph would tick all of Alysha’s boxes, until I looked a little more closely. Ohh no! I would have sworn aloud, if I hadn’t conditioned myself not to use ‘bad words’ in front of the children.

  It seemed my boss wasn’t the only person in the household to have made it into the gossip pages that week. I had unwittingly become a tabloid building block. In the background of the photograph, you could clearly see me a few steps behind Alysha, pushing a four-child buggy, with the baby strapped to my chest in a sling and the oldest sister, Harlow, trotting next to
me, hanging on to my shirt tail.

  Now I understood why Alysha was so enraged. I’d committed a cardinal sin.

  When you’re a VIP nanny there is one golden rule—never, ever get snapped by the paparazzi. If you are accidentally photographed beside your boss, just make sure you don’t look like a nanny. It’s our job to blend in to the background and look like a passerby or a friend—a friend generous enough to carry all the shopping bags, push the stroller and handle every tantrum and nappy change while not speaking unless she is spoken to.

  The truth is, most famous mothers hate being photographed with their hired help, especially when it comes to childcare. I worked for an actress in California who insisted I walk five metres behind her at all times, even when I was pushing her newborn baby in a pram. It’s all part of the superwoman illusion that famous mums like to create. Alysha had once described herself in a magazine article as ‘anti-nanny’, despite the fact that she’d never changed a single diaper.

  When I first moved to Hollywood, having a large entourage was seen as a sign of success and status. However, now it’s far cooler to pretend you’re low-maintenance and juggle the demands of a career and parenthood alone.

  This is why, as I read the caption under the photograph, my heart sank even deeper into my stomach. ‘Soap star Alysha Appleby needs help handling her brood. Six children under the age of nine would be a match for any mom,’ it read. The reporter had probably written those words without thinking, not realising that she was pulling the pin of a grenade.

  It might sound like an overreaction, but Alysha’s oversized family was, unfortunately, a bit of a sore point. With six daughters born almost a year apart, the press often joked she had a girl band in the making. However, there was another reason Alysha had been pregnant for almost a decade. It was the worst-kept secret in Hollywood that Sir Cameron was desperate for a son, and was determined to keep procreating until he got one.

  When I accepted the job with the Applebys, I had been intrigued to see the relationship dynamic between Alysha and her husband, who was twenty-nine years her senior. But so far I hadn’t had the chance, because, in eight months, I hadn’t once met Sir Cameron. I wondered how the couple had time to make so many babies, when his life seemed to be split between far-flung movie sets and their holiday home in San Tropez.

  Although Sir Cameron was always absent, there were telltale clues about his desperate desire for a son. In the basement of the mansion, next to a one-hundred-seater private theatre, was a playroom that was filled with gender-specific boys’ toys, such as cars, guns and a huge electric tank that was once used as a prop on the set of M*A*S*H. On my first day, I’d been warned that this playroom was off limits to the other children (translation: off limits to females). Only the cleaners ever entered the ‘blue playroom’, to dust it.

  Another clue was the book in Sir Cameron’s study titled The Top Boys’ Names of the New Millennium. When I flicked through the pages, someone had highlighted ‘Valentino’ and ‘Oscar’. They had also highlighted and then crossed out ‘Harper’. Obviously the Beckhams had beaten them to it.

  Unfortunately, Sir Cameron’s desire for a son had not gone unnoticed by his oldest daughters, who seemed all too aware that their gender was a disappointment. On my third day on the job I caught six-year-old Cherry (yes, Cherry Appleby—a name more suited to a smoothie than a person!) throwing a hundred-dollar note into the water fountain in the back garden. When I asked what she was doing she told me it was her weekly pocket money, and that she was making a wish. ‘I wished for a baby brother,’ Cherry told me solemnly, ‘So that Mommy can stop crying because she doesn’t have any hair.’ I was puzzled until I questioned the little girl further and realised that she meant ‘an heir’. It was an easy mistake to make.

  Clearly, the Appleby’s family tree was a bit of a touchy subject. This is why Alysha was especially upset by my magazine cameo. ‘You’ve made me look like an unfit mother!’ she screamed. ‘I hired you because you’re meant to be the James Bond of nannying. You’re supposed to be invisible! Instead, here you are flaunting yourself at the cameras. Don’t let me regret hiring you, Lindsay!’

  There was nothing I could do but let her vent her fury. I knew from experience that arguing back isn’t wise. Would you sling mud at the man who pays your wages? People had been fired in the Appleby household for much less.

  ‘I’m very, very sorry, Alysha,’ I grovelled. ‘It won’t happen again, I promise. In the future I’ll make sure that I look less . . . nannyish.’ I wasn’t sure how exactly I’d do this, but I suspected my next pay packet depended on it.

  •

  ‘You’re like an undercover agent,’ cooed my mum during my weekly phone call home, as I relayed the story of Alysha’s recent tantrum. I blushed at the compliment, until I realised that she was kidding. It’s not that much of a stretch. I wouldn’t admit this to just anyone, but I do feel like a secret agent sometimes. I’m certainly not just an ‘overpriced babysitter’, as one former friend called me.

  On a daily basis I wear so many different hats that it sometimes makes me feel dizzy. I’m a surrogate mother, a teacher, a therapist, a nutritionist, a cleaner and a bodyguard. In the last ten years I’ve completed a degree in child psychology online, and five dangerous driving courses to learn how to escape paparazzi. I’ve studied first aid, martial arts, self-defence and had to learn how to fire a shotgun. I was once told by an American movie star father, ‘The more paparazzi you can hit with your car, the higher your pay packet.’

  The skills needed to be a VIP nanny are weird, varied and always evolving. Just as I’m getting used to the needs of one family, I move on to another, who have their own special set of requirements.

  Last year I was hired to take care of the newborn baby of a reality television star and her rapper fiancé. On the first day in the job I was told I had to learn to speak Gaelic, because the mother’s great-great-great grandmother had Irish blood. ‘How cool would it be if Flossy’s first words were Gaelic?’ she gushed, although she didn’t have time to learn the language herself. She was too busy crashing her car and tweeting about her clothing line. When the baby was asleep I’d watch the Gaelic news to try to learn the basics, and I listened to a crash course language CD every night before I went to sleep. In the end the baby’s first word was ‘mama’. I convinced them it was said in an Irish accent. This is why I get grumpy when people think my job is easy.

  My mum knows me well enough to sense when I am sulking. ‘I bet you’re sticking out your bottom lip, aren’t you?’ she teased. ‘Don’t be silly, love. I know your job is very complicated. I just don’t want you to get too caught up in that strange Hollywood world. As your mother it’s my responsibility to keep your feet on the ground.’

  I often feel like I live on a different planet to my parents, who moved back to Hamilton shortly after I moved in with the Stavros family. My dad said he needed to be closer to my ageing grandmother, but I think that was a convenient excuse. They never felt at home in the city and had only ever moved to Melbourne for the sake of my education. My dad describes any town with more than one bank in the high street as the ‘big smoke’.

  I regularly invite my parents to visit me in Los Angeles but they haven’t yet taken me up on the offer, despite the fact they could have a free holiday. When you’re a nanny working in a foreign country it’s common for your employment contract to include family visits. I negotiated a good deal with the Applebys—I am allowed six overseas visitors a year and Sir Cameron will pay for their flights, plus a hotel for them to stay in. I try not to feel offended when my parents repeatedly turn down the offer to see me. My mum’s entire opinion of Los Angeles is based on one episode she watched of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. ‘I don’t want to go to a place where fish nibble on my feet,’ she says, even though I keep telling her a fish pedicure isn’t a prerequisite.

  ‘Mum, you don’t need to worry about keeping my feet on the ground,’ I reassured her. ‘I’m still the same girl from H
amilton. I’m just playing a character.’

  I’ve found that, to survive working for a boss from hell, it’s best to hide layers of your true personality. I wouldn’t admit it to my mother, but I didn’t recognise myself sometimes.

  There was a silence, and then my mum changed the subject. ‘Have you been on any nice bike rides recently?’ she asked. ‘Your dad and I had a lovely pedal along the river the other day. I’ve got your waterproof jacket here if you want me to send it over.’

  I didn’t want to mention I hadn’t been on a bike in six years and that Alysha would probably sack me if I came to work in an anorak, especially one that I bought when I was thirteen years old and has ladybirds printed all over it, with mittens on strings hanging from the arm-holes.

  For my last birthday my mum sent a care package of ‘treats’ to Los Angeles, which included a nightdress, my ‘favourite’ cheesy crisps and an Enid Blyton book. The nightie was three sizes too big, and I haven’t eaten a cheese Dorito since one of my kids vomited a packet onto me. I did read the book to the children, though, and they loved it.

  I sometimes feel like, in my mum’s mind, I’m frozen in time. It makes me sad that she knows nothing about my world and I know so little about hers.

  Every time we talk I fall back on the same safe subjects: the weather, her vegetable garden and the council’s plans to rip up a local field to build a golf course. Although I try to muster up some outrage, I don’t think it’s convincing. I hate that our conversations are often punctuated with awkward silences, such as the one that was hanging over us now.

  After a pause, my mum filled the void. ‘Well, I’m all out of news. You probably find my life very boring compared to yours,’ she apologised. ‘There’s nothing very eventful happening here. Your life does seem very exciting, so I’m sure you’re happy.’