‘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.
‘He also told me to give you a message,’ Rosie continued. ‘He said he’d see you at Lavender’s party and that he’d bring the vegan cheesecake.’
•
What did this mean? How did Tommy even find out who I was and where I worked? And why was he sending me cryptic messages?
I wondered whether Rosie might be right, Was he flirting with me? I needed a man’s opinion, so after I hung up the phone I headed straight to Fernando’s make-up trailer in the courtyard. I knew Alysha was in a meeting with the party planner, which meant that Fernando would have time to deconstruct my love life for me.
When I knocked on the metal door of the make-up trailer and let myself in, I found my closest confidant sitting in a director’s chair, with a blow-up rubber ring underneath him as a cushion.
‘What on earth are you sitting on?’ I choked with laughter. ‘Is that Harlow’s life-preserver from her Lifeguard Barbie costume?’
Fernando wiggled his bum and then winced. ‘Oh, don’t look at me like that, missy. I had an intimate part of my anatomy bleached this morning and it’s a little bit tender to sit on.’
I opened my mouth to ask more questions and then thought better of it. I didn’t want to be traumatised by the details and, knowing Fernando, he’d be only too happy to show and tell the area in question. I have to admit that it was hard to take his advice about my love life seriously when he was poised upon his inflatable throne, which let out squeaks every time he readjusted, like a whoopee cushion. Regardless, Fernando was the closest thing to a life coach I had, and so I filled him in about Tommy, our Whole Foods meeting and Rosie’s Chinese whisper.
‘I don’t know why it’s freaked me out so much,’ I moaned, slumping into the make-up chair opposite Fernando and tilting it back so I could stare at the poster of David Beckham he’d stuck to the ceiling of the trailer. ‘I don’t even know the guy. But just lately I’ve been thinking how nice it would be to actually have a boyfriend, even though I know it can’t happen.’
When I chose this career path I had to make a conscious choice to put my love life on hold indefinitely. I’ve had crushes over the years, usually on members of my boss’s entourage, from security men to pool guys. I’ve only ever flirted from a safe distance, though, and it’s never led to anything substantial. Instead I rely on my guy friends like Will and Fernando to give my life some male attitude when I need it.
‘What do you want me to tell you, sugar lips?’ asked Fernando, taking a slug of aloe vera juice from a bottle. ‘I may not be a nanny—thank god—but I spend enough time around you girls to know that dealing with loneliness is just part of your profession.’
I hated to admit that he was right. When you’re a nanny, it’s almost like being a single mother. There is no other adult willing to cover your duties so you can go out socialising for a night. I’m not complaining, I’m just explaining—it’s a widely acknowledged downside of the job. It’s a cliché, but the children I care for have to come first.
When I go for a job interview, the most common question I’m asked by prospective employers is ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Every smart nanny will answer no whether or not they’re single, because it’s what the parent wants to hear. They don’t want you to be in a relationship, because they think you’re more likely to get homesick. You need to be focused on their children, not crying into your pillow or on the phone to your boyfriend.
It may sound unbelievable, but my relationship status is actually written into most of my contracts. If you check my file with the Applebys there will be a line in there stating, ‘The employee certifies that she is single at the start of her employment.’ They don’t have the power to stop you from falling in love once you accept the position, but most clients rely on the fact that it’s extremely unlikely to happen. Where would we find the time? Anyway, it’s not like I’m starved for affection. I get plenty of love from the children, and I have little time to feel lonely.
‘You and Alysha should bond over your abstinence,’ teased Fernando. ‘How long has it been since Sir Cam was last home? Six or seven months? I swear he only pops back once a year when he wants to impregnate her.’
‘Shhhhh!’ I hissed, glancing around the trailer as if my boss might Apparate in the corner like Voldemort. He waved his hands in a ‘Who cares?’ gesture. I sometimes forget how uncensored and fearless Fernando can be.
‘You know, Lindsay, sweetie—in all seriousness, you should think about online dating or something,’ he continued, oblivious to my scowl as he began painting his toenails with Chanel iridescent blue varnish. ‘I know none of you nannies have time for a full-blown relationship because you’re a bunch of martyrs. But that doesn’t mean you can’t casually date, does it? What about your Aussie hunk, Will? A fly-in-fly-out boyfriend could be just what you need.’
At the mention of Will I felt my lunch glug in my stomach, although I wasn’t sure why he had such an unsettling effect on me. I focused my ill-feelings at Fernando.
‘And how exactly would I have even a part-time relationship?’ I asked. ‘It would be a logistical nightmare. I can’t spend a night away from this house in case one of the children needs me.’
Fernando pulled a face. ‘Okay, I hear ya,’ he conceded. ‘It’s not like you could bring a guy back here. Can you imagine the TV cameras catching the guy of your dreams sneaking in or out? Not to mention the fact that at least one of the kids seems to crawl into your bed every night.’ We both let the reality of this sink in. ‘Sorry, my darling, I don’t know what else to tell you. That is exactly why I’m a superstar beautician and not a superstar nanny. I’d choose a romp over a rug rat any day, although I do admire and slightly pity your willpower. My bed is an over-eighteens zone for good reason.’
We both spent a few wistful moments staring up at David Beckham’s six-pack. Then there was a bang on the trailer door and a male voice hollered, ‘We start shooting in five. Alysha says can you bring the tear spray.’
Fernando reached for a clipboard with a schedule attached to it and ran his finger along the grid. ‘I better run, Linds. They’re shooting a “reunion” between Alysha and her sister, which is absolutely hilarious seeing as she’s an only child.’
As I said goodbye Fernando gave me a smacker of a kiss on the lips and slapped my bum. It was the most action I’d had in a year. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better answers, gorge,’ he exclaimed. ‘It just looks like you’re set for spinsterhood—either that or a career change. It is your choice to be here, after all.’
•
As I got in to bed that evening I half closed my eyes and stared at the empty pillow beside mine, trying to imagine what it would be like to have a boyfriend there looking back at me.
I couldn’t remember the last time my bed companion didn’t a) demand a bedtime story, b) wet the bed, or c) bring a teddy bear to cramp my personal space even further. As a nanny, would I always be the big spoon, wrapped around a teaspoon? It seemed very likely.
I’ve never admitted this to anybody, but sometimes I feel physically sick from homesickness. I’ve actually vomited from feeling so disconnected and disorientated. It’s usually far worse when I’m away travelling with a family, as I’m thrown off balance by the lack of sleep, strange diet and hot climates.
I can’t remember the last time I cried—probably because I spend so much time mopping up crocodile tears—but I have to find a way to let my emotions out somehow.
My homesickness seems to be getting worse as I get older. I don’t remember feeling as lonely when I was working for Steven Stavros, but that’s probably because he treated me like family. With power-hungry people like Alysha, you always feel like you’re an outsider, which can be hard at times. I’ve learnt little tricks, over the years, for dealing with homesickness. I gravitate towards anyone with an Australian accent, because listening to anyone say ‘G’day, mate’ instantly makes me feel better. I also don’t put up any photographs of my family because it makes me maudlin.
It’s ironic, because I never have a moment to myself, but I’ve felt a constant emptiness inside me for about a decade.
That’s why the Tommy situation had left me so unnerved. How could I even contemplate a relationship, even if an opportunity did present itself, especially if the man in question was a celebrity? With my insane work hours, we would probably spend more time apart than we would do together. I have enough people to miss without adding a boyfriend to the equation.
As I pondered the impossibility of the situation, my bedroom door creaked open and a tiny silhouette stepped into the light. It was Lavender, dressed in white pyjamas and a pink tutu, trailing her comfort blanket, which was actually a three-hundred-dollar Versace bath towel. ‘Lindeeee, I can’t sleep,’ she whispered. ‘Will you tell me a story? My brain feels too busy.’
It was nearly midnight but we were both wide awake, so I followed her back into her bedroom. I shot an evil look at the reality television cameras stationed above Lavender’s beds. I had tried to stop them installing cameras in the kids’ rooms but the producers insisted they needed a ‘360 degree view’ of the mansion.
We crawled under the covers together, and Lavender pressed her little warm feet against my legs, which instantly brought both of us comfort. The book she’d chosen was Robin Hood. It was the Disney Version where Robin is a fox and Little John is a bear, and was currently her favourite story.
As I flicked through the pages, Lavender stopped me at a picture of Prince John, with a scowl so wide that it dislodged his crown. She pointed at his face and asked. ‘Lindsay, why is he so grumpy when he has all of the money?’
I decided to turn it into a teaching moment. ‘He’s unhappy because his friends have left him,’ I explained. ‘He’s sad because he’s lonely. You see, sweetheart, money can buy a lot of things, but it can’t buy you love.’
Lavender stared at me for a moment and picked her nose while she considered my comment. ‘But that’s not true, Lindsay,’ she said eventually, ‘Mommy pays you to love us, doesn’t she?’
Sometimes kids have an amazing ability to see the truth in a situation. They also teach you things about your world that you’d rather not notice.