Nanny Confidential

by Philippa Christian

I already made sure the girls ate healthily and limited their fatty foods, although that can be hard to manage. The problem is, just as their mothers are gifted clothing and jewellery, celebrity children are given a free run of sweet stores and fast food outlets. Lavender even had a milkshake named after her by a global fast food chain, because they wanted product placement in Sir Cameron’s next movie.

  There are certainly strategies that I’ve used in the past when a client has asked me to put their child on an extreme diet that I disagreed with. I make tiny changes like cutting their bread into thinner slices, diluting orange juice with water and swapping ham for turkey. At least this shows the parents that I’m trying to cut calories, but I’m not putting the child at risk. They might lose a little puppy fat but they won’t end up with an unhealthy relationship with food for the rest of their lives.

  There was no way that I was cutting an entire food group from Harlow’s diet. Unfortunately her mother thinks dairy is the enemy and refuses to even keep butter in the fridge in case it ‘infects’ the lettuce leaves. I would need to convince Alysha that removing fat wasn’t a healthy—or fashionable—option. I spent the next hour surfing the internet, searching websites such as Vogue and Trend Hunter, for articles that talked about fats being trendy. I found a perfect article called ‘Fat is the New Black’ about how supermodels like Miranda Kerr are adding it to their diet. I planned to print it out and leave it conveniently on the kitchen counter for Alysha to find. She would be praising the virtues of avocado and almond butter by the time she got to the end of the page.

  It was only 3 a.m. by this time, but I was still wide awake and the night nanny would be on call for another ninety minutes. So I decided to head to the health food store and stock up on supplies. In Los Angeles, health food stores are open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, just in case someone has a chia-seed emergency.

  It might sound odd, but the thought of food shopping in the middle of the night, when the store would be deserted, seemed like the ultimate luxury. I can’t remember the last time I walked around a supermarket alone, without a baby in a trolley or a toddler hanging off my arm. Even when I’m not with the Appleby siblings my ‘nanny alert’ never really switches off. I can’t walk past a child in a pushchair without worrying about whether they’re in reaching distance of a choking hazard. If I hear a baby crying I want to swoop in and comfort them, even though they’re not my own.

  So I was quietly excited as I pulled in to the store’s deserted car park. When I walked in the aisles were as quiet as a graveyard, apart from a plain-clothed security guard pretending to browse the nut section. After a decade surrounded by bodyguards I can spot them a mile off, usually from their slightly bored expressions. I said hello as I passed by, and the security guard looked suspicious. This could have been because I was wearing my pyjamas, which I hadn’t really managed to disguise by throwing a Burberry trench coat over them.

  I would never normally set foot out of the house looking so dishevelled, especially when visiting this shop, which is a bit of a celebrity hotspot. I’ve seen the who’s-who of Hollywood in this health food store, from Pink to Justin Timberlake and the entire LA Galaxy football team. You never know who you might bump elbows with over the sweet potatoes, although I don’t tend to get starstruck. In this business, it’s not unusual to walk into the living room and find your idols sitting on the sofa watching themselves on TV.

  So I’m not sure why I was so stunned to bump into Tommy Grant, the new golden boy of the golfing world. I’m not even a sports fan but I recognised him immediately. When not winning every trophy on the circuit, Tommy, and his supermodel girlfriend, Sophia Balmain, were being photographed at the hottest parties. He was also drop-dead gorgeous, with dark scruffy hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow. He always wore a pendant around his neck with the letter ‘S’. His mum Sharon was his number one fan and never missed a tournament.

  Tommy and his girlfriend were such a beautiful couple that I’d heard a rumour Armani had already signed up their future children to model for their junior range, although that could be an exaggeration.

  Sophia was a stunning brunette who used to be a ballerina. Whenever I saw her on TV she seemed to glide with grace and poise. I, on the other hand, smashed straight into Tommy with my trolley, scattering a box of quinoa across the floor.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ I apologised, feeling my face grow red, as he staggered backwards. He was carrying a shopping basket and I automatically scanned the contents. It had a bottle of ginger beer, a packet of vegetable chips and a portion of vegan cheesecake for one.

  It took a moment for the sports star to get his breath back, but when he spoke his voice was deeper than I’d imagined. ‘No need to apologise,’ he puffed. ‘It’s nice to see I’m not the only lunatic shopping in the middle of the night. I started to feel like that guy in I Am Legend.’

  He scanned my face, looking puzzled. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’ he asked. ‘I feel like we’ve met before. Am I being extremely rude by not recognising you?’

  This left me in a bit of a tricky situation, as our paths had crossed before, but I wasn’t really at liberty to tell him where. I had once worked for Tommy’s predecessor—the previous golden boy of the golfing world, who had made some unfortunate choices in his private life that had seen him fall from grace. Tommy used to visit our house every now and again, although we hadn’t ever spoken.

  He and Sophia had also attended a charity ball at Alysha’s mansion, although I’d only glimpsed them from across the room. However, I wasn’t really supposed to broadcast who I worked for, even though Tommy wasn’t exactly a reporter. I could have told him if I wanted to, but I found myself dodging the question.

  ‘I think I just have one of those faces,’ I stammered. ‘Although I recognise you from . . . you know . . . everywhere.’

  I kicked myself for sounding like such a pathetic groupie but, thankfully, Tommy laughed. ‘Yep, I’m sure people are sick of looking at me,’ he said. ‘That’s why I prefer shopping in the dead of night. Oh, and I’m horrifically jetlagged. I just flew in from London.’

  Now this was a topic that I could talk about. I like to think that I’m a bit of an expert on long-haul travel. ‘Oh, you should try an extract called Pycnogenol,’ I said excitedly. ‘It’s a type of tree bark that helps you reset your body clock. It’s my lifesaver! And when we’re travelling I give my children garlic oil to stop their ears hurting on take-off.’

  At this, Tommy raised his eyebrows. ‘You look far too young to have children,’ he said. ‘But thanks for the tip. I’ll have to try it next time I’m travelling.’ Then, before I could correct his mistake, he looked towards the exit. ‘Anyway, it was nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘I’d better get my slice of cheesecake home to bed.’

  As he walked away down the aisle I kicked myself for not correcting him. Now he thought I had kids. He’d probably assume I was married. I’m not sure why this bothered me so much, or what came over me next. I blame lack of sleep or the free samples of maca powder that I’d eaten at the entrance to the shop—the label had warned that it’s an aphrodisiac.

  Instead of finishing my shopping, I dumped my trolley in the gluten-free section and followed Tommy around the supermarket like a stalker. I kept one aisle behind him so that he wouldn’t notice, peering through the shelves of dried fruit and muesli between us.

  I watched as Tommy added a tin of soup to his basket and then choose a baguette from the bakery section. I watched him deliberate for five minutes over two types of chemical-free shampoo and then buy neither. I found myself imagining what his kitchen would look like and what he’d smell like in the shower.

  At the freezer section I gave myself a good hard talking-to. ‘Lindsay Starwood, get it together. You are losing your marbles.’ I didn’t even realise I had said it out loud until Tommy turned around and stared at me.

  ‘Hello again,’ he said, sounding surprised. ‘Are you okay? You look sort of lost.’ I was suddenly v
ery aware that I didn’t even have a shopping trolley anymore, as I’d left it behind four aisles ago.

  ‘Umm, yes,’ I stuttered. ‘I just realised that I left my wallet at home. I better run back and get it. It was nice to meet you . . . again!’

  Then I raced out of the store before he could do something chivalrous like offering to pay for my shopping. Once I was safely back in my car I breathed a sigh of relief, until I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw what I looked like. Not only was I wearing pyjamas, but my fringe was clipped back with a pink, glittery Barbie comb that Lavender had stuck in my hair the previous night when we’d been playing hair salon.

  Still, it could be worse. I’d once answered the front door to a delivery guy who I had a crush on wearing pull-up pants over my jeans, like I was Superman. I was toilet-training a little boy at the time and had been showing him how to put them on. The problem was I then forgot that I was wearing them. To make matters worse, they had a Mickey Mouse face printed on the crotch and Daffy Duck printed on the backside. (I’m amazed they fit me, but the little boy in question was the heir to a chocolate brand and a little . . . plus-sized.) I thought the delivery guy was checking out my bum as I walked away, until I looked in the mirror.

  If I was Carrie Bradshaw maybe I could pull these looks off, but I don’t think Tommy would believe it was an ironic fashion statement.

  Maybe tomorrow I’d put in a call to my former boss, a New York fashion designer, and ask her to tweet a photo of a Barbie hairclip. That’s all it took to start a fashion trend these days. Tommy’s girlfriend would probably want one by the end of the week. Then again, why did I care what he thought anyway?

  9

  ‘Mommy, I don’t want a bullion, I just want a bicycle!’

  Lavender’s fourth birthday was coming up, and she was unimpressed with the present her parents planned to give her. I was just amazed that a four-year-old had the word ‘bullion’ in her vocabulary. It’s basically a brick of solid gold, which can weigh up to one kilogram. It was the current hottest trend in kids’ birthday gifts. They have to be kept in the family’s vault in the bank, which is why Lavender was disappointed. ‘I want a present that I can play with,’ she hollered.

  The Appleby household was currently gearing up for Lavender’s birthday party next weekend, as if juggling a film crew wasn’t enough to keep us busy. Of course, Alysha wasn’t organising it herself, as she rarely got her hands dirty. This is the woman who if her daughter wants a glass of water, calls me on my mobile to ask me to fetch it. She doesn’t know the meaning of ‘do-it-yourself ’.

  Instead she’d hired the best party planner in the city—Giovanni Joseph, the man who had imported live zebras for Elton John’s black and white ball. I suspected that Lavender’s fourth birthday party had the same over-the-top budget and vast expectations as his previous client had had.

  It wasn’t that Lavender was spoilt. The birthday girl, who was the most introverted of the sisters, would be more than happy with a more modest ‘cake and balloons’ celebration. However, Alysha was pulling out all the stops to make it perfect. In this town, children’s birthday parties are a multi-million-dollar business.

  When I’d suggested that we cut the party guests down from one hundred and fifty people to a more frugal number, my boss had given me a lecture on the financial expectations of hosting a junior Hollywood celebration. ‘When you’re planning the budget, you have to multiply the kid’s age by $10,000.’ That meant Lavender’s party would have a price tag of at least $40,000.

  The theme of the event was ‘Barbie’s Malibu Dream-house’, which had been chosen by Alysha, not Lavender herself. An email had been sent to all of the casting agencies in America, asking for models or actresses who shared the famous doll’s vital statistics. If she were a real woman Barbie would apparently have a 36-inch bust, 18-inch waist and 33-inch hips. In a city where plastic surgery is rife, it was shockingly easy to find models with these odd proportions. Fernando had put in a bulk order for a special type of shiny foundation, which he’d paint all over their skin to make them look plastic. When the young guests arrived at the front gates of the mansion they would be greeted by an army of life-size Barbies and Ken dolls.

  A fleet of fifty miniature pink Cadillacs would be waiting at the entrance to the mansion, so the young partygoers could drive themselves to the back garden, where a marquee would be set up. Each car had a number plate personalised with the child’s name, and they’d be given the Cadillac as a going-home gift.

  The grass, the trees and even five toy poodles would be coloured a bubblegum pink to match the Barbie theme. There would also be a ‘pink carpet’, where the guests could pose for photographs, and a pink candy bar, where the kids could overdose on red liquorice, fairy floss, marshmallows, pink jelly babies and red velvet cupcakes.

  I would never admit this to Alysha, but I thought the entire theme was kind of clichéd, especially compared to some of the children’s parties that I’d attended in the past year. My favourite was the skater girl party, where an eight-year-old’s parents built an elaborate skate park in their back garden and had a guest appearance from Tony Hawk, as well as a graffiti artist who customised a skateboard for every guest. Admittedly the atmosphere was dampened when one guest fell off the top ramp and broke her arm, but at least the idea was original.

  I also loved the winter wonderland party that was held in the middle of summer. The mother was a singer who’d made a fortune from a Christmas number one, so was overly attached to the season. The huge lawn was covered with artificial snow; there were real penguins and even a seal in the swimming pool. There were also huge ice sculptures shaped like the eight-year-old birthday girl and her parents. Fernando and I joked that it was a perfect replica of the mother, whose face was frozen from Botox anyway.

  A friend of Goldie’s had a Willy Wonka birthday party. His dad owned a chocolate company and the gold invitations came wrapped inside a block of chocolate.

  However, even these were just the tip of the iceberg, given the parties I’ve attended around the world. There were parents who flew sixty children first class from Hollywood to Disneyland . . . in Paris. And the London businessman who booked the whole of Harrods for his son’s party. He gave every ten-year-old guest a five hundred pound gift card and organised a miniature steam train to drive them around the store.

  It wasn’t as though the Applebys hadn’t been known to go all out, though. Last Easter we had an egg hunt in the garden and invited fifty of the littlest movers and shakers in Hollywood. I was given the task of hiding two thousand chocolate eggs in the garden. However, in addition to the candy, I also hid a hundred plastic balls with fifty dollar notes inside. I tried to counteract Alysha’s desire to show off her wealth with a little bit of home-grown magic—I made Easter Bunny footprints on the floor with talcum powder and spent an entire afternoon picking brown jelly beans out of bags of Jelly Bellys so I could scatter them around like rabbit poo.

  The stakes were even higher with Lavender’s birthday, because the event was going to be filmed for Alysha’s TV show. We’d had to send release forms with all of the party invitations, asking for permission to show their children’s faces on film. I thought this might put some parents off attending, but it had the opposite effect. Usually it’s the nanny who has to chaperone kids to a party, but the film crew was proving to be a drawcard.

  I was helping the girls as they were having final measurements taken for their Barbie costumes when Rosie phoned me in a panic. ‘Terrible news,’ she hissed, ‘my boss wants to come to the birthday party too. She’s suddenly decided she wants to spend quality time with her daughters. I can’t imagine why.’ It was the same reason over seventy mothers had sent an RSVP—hoping that it would boost their profiles.

  That’s why I was dreading the party. It’s a dangerous concoction, putting children who aren’t used to sugar in a room with parents who aren’t used to being around children.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rosie,’ I said, ducking in to
the movie theatre, which was the only soundproof room in the mansion. ‘I’m also so, so sorry about the dress code. It obviously wasn’t my idea, and I tried to warn Alysha it could get complicated.’

  Every child had been told to come dressed as a different Barbie. This seemed easy in theory, as she’d had a lot of personas over the years, from doctor to astronaut, lifeguard and flight attendant. The problem was that every mother wanted her daughter to come dressed as Pony Club Barbie so that she could ride into the party on a real horse and steal the show. There was currently a group email going around at least eight mothers, arguing about why their child should get the honour. Luckily, the birthday girl was going as Bridal Barbie, wearing a miniature wedding dress custom-made by Vera Wang.

  ‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,’ said Rosie before she hung up. ‘A friend of my boss asked me about you the other day. Some good-looking guy who rides a motorbike. He didn’t tell me his name but he’s clearly a somebody because he acted as if I should know him.’

  This is one lesson you learn very quickly in Hollywood. If someone doesn’t offer their name it’s best not to ask, as if they’re even vaguely famous they’ll be offended that you don’t recognise them.

  My mystery inquirer was probably one of my former employers, I figured. Rosie’s boss owns a baseball team, and I’ve worked for lots of sportspeople over the years.

  ‘He asked if you were single,’ added Rosie. ‘He was cute, whoever he was. Have you got a secret admirer I should know about?’

  I raised one eyebrow. It certainly wasn’t one of my ex-employers—they would never ask about my love life. ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Maybe he was getting me confused with someone else.’

  ‘Why? Because you’re so hideous?’ laughed Rosie. ‘You really are oblivious sometimes, Lindsay. I bet all your male friends secretly fancy you.’

  I instantly thought of Will, but that didn’t support Rosie’s theory—he just seemed increasingly frustrated by me at the moment. ‘You’re living in a fantasy world, Rosie,’ I scoffed. ‘But thanks for trying to make me feel better about my spinsterdom.’ An admirer was no use to me if I didn’t know his identity.