From: MelanieSchitz@official.com
To: lindsay.starwood@gmail.com
Subject: Elite Nanny Academy
Dear Ms Starwood,
I am writing to you on behalf of my client, a highly regarded businessman whose name I am not at liberty to reveal at present.
We understand that you recently ran a training course in Hawaii for a number of nannies. My client would be extremely interested in sending his current team of nannies to train under you. He feels they could benefit from your knowledge, guidance and expertise.
Could you please tell me when the next term of your nanny school begins, and send through the breakdown of your fees.
Yours sincerely,
Melanie Schitz
Executive Assistant
•
There’s no nicer feeling than returning home and ringing the buzzer on the front gate to be met by kids throwing themselves at your legs. ‘Lindsay is here! Mommy, it’s Lindsay!’ Even the reality television crew milling around the garden didn’t annoy me as much as usual. I did notice that they seemed to be packing up their equipment, loading their props into the back of huge trucks and rolling up the wires that had webbed the garden for weeks.
As I hugged each child I noticed one big difference—they were all dirty. Lavender had a splash of mud across her forehead, and Goldie had leaves in her hair and grass stains on her white Ralph Lauren pants. They looked like ‘normal’ children who’d spent the morning playing, rather than a squeaky-clean commercial for laundry powder, which is how Alysha usually preferred them.
As I scooped them up in my arms Harlow shouted in my ear, ‘Guess what, Lindsay! We’re having a party and even Daddy is coming.’ I tried to hide my surprise. ‘Well, that’s very exciting,’ I replied. ‘Let’s go inside and you can tell me all about it.’
In the hallway of the house I was met by Alysha, looking happier than I’d ever seen her. ‘Lindsay, so lovely to have you back,’ she cried, sounding like she meant it. ‘Did my babies tell you we’re planning a celebration?’ She pointed to the fridge, where an embossed invitation was attached by a magnet in the shape of a clapperboard.
‘YOU ARE INVITED TO A DIVORCE PARTY’ it read in gold letters. ‘Sir Cameron Appleby and the former Mrs Alysha Appleby invite you to celebrate their separation. Help us to usher in the next chapter. It’s never too late to live happily ever after.’
I must have looked shocked because Alysha burst out laughing. ‘Why not?’ she shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can either become a bitter divorcee or face the fact that my marriage had been over for a long time. Cam and I still have a lot to be thankful for.’ She gestured at the children, who were now engrossed in watching the chef ice a line of cupcakes for the party, designed to look like mini balls-and-chains.
I had arrived home just in time, as the party was being held that evening, and Sir Cameron, his new girlfriend and her growing bump were to arrive any second. As Alysha poured me a cup of coffee, which in itself was unheard of—I’d never seen her even boil a kettle before—she filled me in on the party details.
The dress code was ‘outdated’, which was kind of genius. Guests had been asked to dress in fashion that was no longer in vogue, or as a product that was obsolete. This was a breath of fresh air for celebville, where the focus was usually on shiny newness. To my amusement and amazement, Alysha was dressing up as a floppy disk. ‘I know it makes my butt look huge,’ she said as I placed the sandwich board over her head, ‘but the kids helped me make it, after I explained to them what a floppy disk was!’ The six girls were dressing as Care Bears.
The entertainment would be provided by the cast of Divorce Party The Musical, who were flying in from a theatre in Las Vegas. There would be a ‘trash the dress’ area, where women could bring their old wedding dresses, put them on a mannequin and pelt them with paint bombs. There would also be a pop-up therapist’s booth where guests could spend five minutes with a ‘psychologist’ who was actually a comedian.
‘I decided it was time I learnt to laugh at myself,’ said Alysha. ‘If people think it’s inappropriate they don’t have to come, do they?’ I very much doubted she’d be short of guests, however. Most people love hearing about other people’s break-ups, and this was a chance to see the couple—and the scarlet woman who broke up their relationship—playing dysfunctional happy families together.
My prediction was right, as by eight o’clock that evening the Applebys’ driveway was full of limousines. ‘This might be the only party in Hollywood history where guests actually arrive on time,’ I said to Fernando. ‘Everyone is desperate not to miss out on any of the gossip.’
It was also the first and last time that I met Sir Cameron Appleby, who arrived in a helicopter that landed on the tennis courts. Straight away I could see who wore the trousers in his new relationship, as Cindy Berry stepped out of the chopper with a face like thunder. ‘I don’t understand why we couldn’t have detoured past the Jolies’ on the way,’ she complained loudly, ignoring the children who were shyly waiting to meet their daddy.
Naturally, the atmosphere between Sir Cameron and Alysha was a little awkward, but she put on a brave face, and at least the house was big enough for her and Cindy to keep a safe distance. Despite what was sure to be a memorable party, I was feeling exhausted, having left Hawaii just twelve hours earlier, so at 9 p.m. I snuck up to my bedroom for a few minutes’ peace and quiet.
It didn’t last, as Alysha came bursting into my bedroom behind me. ‘You won’t believe it,’ she cried. ‘The entertainment has just cancelled.’ It seemed that the cast of Divorce Party The Musical had missed their flight from Vegas. ‘Lindsay, everyone is gathering around the stage. They’re expecting a spectacle. You have to do something, you have to help me!’
The house was overflowing with singers and actresses—surely one of them could offer their services. But I suspected that Alysha was too proud to ask her peers—however, it showed her personal growth that she wasn’t too proud to ask me.
‘You must have some hidden talent,’ she said, sounding desperate. ‘Sing, dance, tell jokes? I’m so, so sorry to ask you, Lindsay, but I don’t know what else to do. Please think of something. I don’t want to give Cindy Berry any reason to call this party and me a failure.’
I thought of how rejected I’d felt when I found out that Will had got engaged without telling me, and we hadn’t even been dating. ‘Okay, I’ll think of something,’ I heard myself saying. ‘Just give me ten minutes and I’ll work something out.’
As Alysha turned to leave my room, I pulled the glass of champagne from her hand and downed it in one. Usually drinking on the job is a no-no, but these were extenuating circumstances. My boss raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll send you up a bottle,’ she said.
•
I cannot dance for toffee and the only jokes I know are from Christmas crackers, so that really only left me with one option—I’d have to impersonate a singer. The problem was I couldn’t pick anyone currently in the charts, as there was a good chance the actual singer would be at the party. Imagine how embarrassing it would be impersonating Britney in front of Britney!
I desperately scrolled through the names on my iPod, looking for an artist whose songs I knew the words to. I was about to give up when, on a playlist that I’d made for my mother, I found the answer. Did I really dare? Then again, did I really have another option?
As the party raged downstairs, I committed another nanny no-no by sneaking in to Alysha’s bedroom and raiding her walk-in wardrobe. I assumed that she’d forgive me, seeing as I was only doing it to save her face. On one rail of her closet were all the costumes she’d worn when she appeared on Dancing with the Stars. I picked out the most over-the-top dress of the bunch. It was gold with huge shoulderpads covered in silver tassels.
I then headed to Alysha’s bathroom, where I covered myself in fake tan that I prayed was the wash-off kind, backcombed my hair and assessed my disguise in the mirror. There were two things missing. I grabbed a pair of large, round cushions from my boss’s four-post bed and stuffed them down my bra. With one more swig of champagne courage, I was ready to take the spotlight.
I had to text Fernando to fill him in on the crisis. ‘How on earth do you get yourself into these situations!!!’ he replied, which was exactly what I had been thinking.
As I tottered down the stairs in a pair of silver platform heels that Alysha had bought in a charity auction from a Spice Girl, I was glad the dress code was ‘outdated’, so at least I fitted in.
On the way to the stage I stopped to tell the band the song I’d be singing. ‘Really? Are you sure?’ the band leader asked, and then shrugged. ‘Well, if that’s what Mrs Appleby wants, that’s what Mrs Appleby gets.’
My legs were shaking as I climbed the steps to the stage, which had been erected in the ballroom of the mansion. When I reached centre stage and looked down, I found myself staring into the faces of the toughest crowd in the world—from Oscar winners to multiplatinum performers and every judge from every TV talent show. Oh well, it was too late to back out now.
I put on my best country and western accent and spoke to the crowd. ‘Well, howdy, people, I just flew in from Dollywood and I’m delighted to be here.’ Thank goodness my mum idolised Dolly Parton when I was growing up, so I knew her entire backstory. I got into my stride as I told the crowd all about my life—how I grew up in the mountains and was one of twelve children. How I was so poor I used cracked raspberries as lip gloss and burnt matches as eyeliner.
I could see Fernando in the corner of the room doubled over with laughter, standing next to Caesar, who was filming the entire skit on his iPhone. Well, if I was going to be the lead story on The Daily Juice tomorrow I may as well put on a good show.
I reverted to my normal voice and said to the crowd, ‘I’ll tell you a secret—I’m actually the nanny.’ I then pointed at Sir Cameron, who was standing in the corner of the room with his mouth hanging open. ‘If only my boss would realise that I should only work nine to five.’ Then with perfect timing, the band struck up the first chords of Dolly’s iconic hit.
I strutted and hollered and, when the final chorus kicked in, I realised that the crowd were singing and dancing with me. Some of the women had kicked off their shoes, others were dancing around their handbags, and the children were leaping around ecstatically. Maybe it was the uncool dress code that helped them lose their inhibitions. Or maybe it was the sight of someone else making a complete fool of themselves. Whatever the reason, the most elite celebrities in Hollywood decided to dance, for one evening, as if no one was watching.
At the end of the song, when the guests broke into thunderous applause, I realised two things. First, that this had been one of the best nights of my life. Second, deep down I knew that it was also a finale, marking the end of my time with the Applebys, and also my career as a VIP nanny.