You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny (22 page)

I had been dreading the arrival of the new behemoth. Brentwood’s streets were narrow and lined with cars parked on either side, not to mention the ever-present fleet of construction vehicles—cement mixers, dump trucks, etc. Just piloting a sedan to the grocery store made me feel like a rat triumphing over a maze. Judy knew I was nervous and took me out immediately for a spin. She wanted to assess my driving ability.

Driving
wasn’t the problem, for heaven’s sake. I had been driving since I was six, when my uncle Tubby took me out to the hayfields and let me behind the wheel of the flatbed while he threw in the bales of hay. (Yes, I have an uncle Tubby. He’s Uncle Skinny’s brother.) I could even handle a stick shift; the issue was not the mechanics of a flippin’ automatic SUV. It was the
size
of the thing, especially relative to the skinny streets. I couldn’t help imagining that Judy was wishing she had a brake on her side of the car like the old driver’s ed cars did.

“If you’re so nervous about driving this, you should keep both hands on the wheel,” Judy informed me.

Ten and two … ten and two …

We got through the lesson somehow, but I didn’t feel much better about driving it. And I clearly wasn’t much better
at
driving it. A few weeks later, I was wheeling down our street when I heard a loud scraping sound.

“Suzy, what was that noise?” Amanda asked, alarmed.

“Oh, probably a dump truck unloading some gravel, honey. Don’t worry about it,” I said casually, glancing in my rearview mirror just in time to see an old work truck rocking back and forth in my wake. Oh my God, had I just sideswiped that pickup? I must have—why else would it be moving?

I began to sweat profusely. In my mind, a jagged, ugly scrape now marred the shiny new SUV. I just knew this would happen. I frantically pulled into the driveway, parked, and jumped out. Cringing, I peeked at the side. Nothing. Just minimal damage to the driver’s side mirror.

Still. I hustled the kids inside, found Carmen and Delma, and begged for help. They found me a rag to buff up the chrome on the mirror. Barely noticeable, thank God. How would I have explained it to Michael?

“Where are the caterers?” Judy asked in a panic.

It was 1
P.M
. The guests, including many luminaries who had attended the last Academy Awards ceremony, were scheduled to arrive around five.

I shrugged. Carmen didn’t know, either.

June and July were apparently big party months in Los Angeles. If the Ovitzes weren’t going to one, they were throwing one. This was nothing new. Every year, Judy showed her flair for organizing and managing large events by hosting a party for the premiere of one big studio release. Huge, star-studded affairs, these gatherings required Judy to coordinate legions of caterers, publicists, decorators, and studio executives. I wasn’t on the guest list, but I saw the frantic preparations: invitations that played music, colossal ice sculptures, place settings that cost as much as my monthly car payment, champagne fountains, and over-the-top gift bags with the latest electronic gadgets and jewelry from the hottest designers (that part always seemed like such a paradox to me. The richer you were, the better the freebies).

This particular event was only a dinner party, but I could see from Judy’s panicked face that any problem would be cataclysmic. By the
time two o’clock rolled around, she had shifted into full freak-out mode. At that point, even I began to realize that a fiasco loomed.

“Oh my God, where are the damned caterers?” Judy kept asking, dashing aimlessly around the house. “Do you think they could have written down the wrong day?” She phoned Michael’s office and chattered at him. He had no answer, either, but he said he’d be home shortly.

“This is a nightmare!” she kept repeating as she dialed the caterers with shaking fingers. “Where are you?”

Indeed, they had written down the wrong day. Judy let loose with a tirade that would have made a sailor blanch. I was betting the owner of the catering company would remember this particular date for years to come.

“And you can bet Michael will never ever let me use you as a caterer ever again!” she yelled, slamming the phone down. She turned to me.

“Suzy, we’ve got to do something,” she said, pacing the floor. “This is the biggest nightmare of my life. This can’t be happening. Everyone is going to be here in less than two hours! Michael is going to kill me.”

Judy scurried about frantically as Amanda joined in the fun. “Mommy’s having a nightmare! Mommy’s having a nightmare!” she chanted over and over, imitating her mom’s frantic fidgeting.

I knew my hamburger casserole wouldn’t quite cut it, so there wasn’t much I could do in the kitchen. I called Sarah, savior of unsalvageable situations.

“Hey, Suzy,” Sarah said. “Bad day, huh? Michael called Spago to see if there was any way they could help out. I’ll call you right back.”

“Oh God, Suzy,” Judy moaned. “No one is going to want to—much less be able to—come up here on an hour’s notice and feed this many people. This is a nightmare; my worst possible nightmare come true. Do you know I’ve actually had this dream several times?”

She sighed. “We are going to be taking a lot of people out for dinner with no reservations,” she said resignedly.

The phone rang again, and I jumped on it.

“Suzy! Guess what!” The unflappable Sarah was practically bursting with joy. “Wolfgang said he’ll send his people right out. Tell Judy that the cavalry should be there shortly.”

Within the hour, guests started arriving. Aaron Spelling and his wife were first, the lady leading the way. “Darling,” she breathed, loudly placing air kisses at least six inches from her hostess’s cheeks. I swear I could hear the smacking sound all the way in the kitchen. Judy looked pained and pinched, even with Carmen plying the early arrivals with wine and champagne.

But within minutes, Puck’s people showed up in a large Mercedes followed by a huge enclosed truck. Seven people rolled out, jammed a ramp in the back end of the truck, and began to unload carts and trays and containers filled with food. God knows where they got it all on such short notice. They certainly didn’t have time to cook anything. Nevertheless, there it was, a full complement of hors d’oeuvres, salmon, grilled vegetables, you name it, all sizzling hot and ready to serve. Who said Spago didn’t deliver? Judy laughingly told several guests about the catering fiasco, turning it into a cute little story. None of the guests would have believed that their perfect hostess had been spitting nails just a few hours ago.

The next event on their social calendar marked the first time I would accompany them to a dinner party. Normally they didn’t take the kids to evening functions, and I wouldn’t have been invited on my own, of course. (Reminder:
Nannies are not part of the family.)
But this time they wanted Josh and Amanda to come for a short visit and then go back home as soon as dinner was served. Once again I faced the wardrobe dilemma: what the hell was I supposed to wear? I wasn’t sure how formal the party was, and I never did get the hang of the LA casual-but-dressy look that came so effortlessly to everyone else. The old cocktail dress and heels? Not too practical while chasing my little charges around the house. I settled for my nanny costume of jeans and a shirt.

Michael and Judy drove in the Jaguar, and I followed behind in the Mercedes. My stress increased with each mile. I had no idea how to find the house on my own. What if I lost them? What if I crashed the Mercedes? What if they looked in the mirror and hated my driving?

At about seven, we arrived at an enormous estate that was surrounded by twenty-foot-tall iron gates, extremely sharp points gracing
the tips of each spearlike pole. The home—scratch that, three-story castle—must have been at least twenty-five-thousand square feet. We approached the valet tent, which was set up under an immense porte cochere. The valets were actually wearing ersatz Buckingham Palace uniforms—we’re talking red velvet, gold braid, and epaulets—and were accompanied by two gargantuan guard dogs.

Who knows what kind of brand name they were. Rottweilers? Pit bulls? A horrifying hybrid? They were the scariest-looking dogs I’d ever seen, and they were unrestrained. Each one had its own handler, standing by on full alert, but it seemed to me that thick chains and padlocks were in order. Okay, so I’m not a dog person. Jacques LaRivière’s yapper knew it, I knew it, and I was willing to bet my unscathed arms that these monsters knew it, too.

I prayed as I got the kids out of the car. All of the guests in front of me passed without eliciting even a doggie blink, and even four-year-old Amanda seemed unperturbed by the vicious guard-beasts. As I got closer and closer, I tried to convince myself that these canines were actually made out of concrete. Maybe they were just elaborate special effects. I had nearly passed them when they began to snap like fasting crocodiles—at me, of course; only at me. I thought my life would end in a flash of bared fangs and flying fur. I sprang three feet into the air and crossed the front door threshold like an Olympic long jumper, propelling the kids in with me.

Clearly, the dogs were trained to sniff out anyone with a net worth of less than a million.

Okay, maybe I was exaggerating about the dogs. But I kept wondering if there was some trick to understanding the upper class. Take my bosses’ wedding anniversary. Late that afternoon I had signed for the delivery of a three-foot-wide box, courtesy of Michael and Jane Eisner.

Michael and Judy came home at the same time that evening, and I saw Judy spot the package and light up with a big smile. She was like a bubbly little girl who knew she was about to get a new pony. “What do you suppose it is? It’s so large,” she asked Michael.

“I have no idea, Judy,” Michael said. “Why don’t you open it and see.”

With that, Judy tore into the box and pulled out a stuffed Mickey Mouse.

Silence. Judy looked at Michael. One eyebrow went up slightly. He shrugged.

“I don’t get it,” she finally said as she reached in again and pulled out Mickey’s bride. “Do you get it?” she asked Michael incredulously. “Do you get it?” she turned and asked me.

Michael didn’t have an answer. Neither did I, so I reached into the box and pulled out an envelope.

“Here, Mrs. Ovitz. It’s a card,” I said, handing it to her.

“That’s it? Do you believe it?” Judy exclaimed. “The Eisners have more money than God—certainly far more than we do. And what do they get us for our anniversary? Two stuffed rodents.”

Another long silence.

“I’ll bet they didn’t even pay for them!” Judy said, looking dejected.

The next day she would give the dolls to Amanda and complain to me about it again. I didn’t quite follow Judy’s thinking: I saw it differently. Maybe the Eisners thought the two mice were a symbol of unity that couldn’t be broken, a very appropriate anniversary gift.

Oh well. At least the Ovitzes weren’t having an anniversary party. I wouldn’t need to worry about my own lack of gift-giving skills.

But I was actually looking forward to the Fourth of July party that they attended each year. I’d heard that it was a huge event in Malibu, complete with a spectacular fireworks display. Just seven doors down from their beach house, so I wouldn’t have to load up all the kids, and I knew Mandie was coming with the Goldbergs. What could go wrong?

The party was hosted every year by Frank Wells, a bigwig at Disney.
All the homes on Celebrity Row, as I called it, were tightly packed together to keep the riffraff from accessing the public beach next to their private homes. Everyone gathered on his beautiful, emerald green lawn for drinks, then meandered just a few feet down to the beach. Lounge chairs were scattered about for optimum fireworks viewing, fire pits and volleyball nets were set up, and caterers in crisp white uniforms and chef’s hats manned a forty-foot-long buffet table. Music blasted from hidden speakers. Down on the beach where the grass met the sand, several very large, unhappy-looking men in suits stood guard. Joshua and Amanda wanted to play with the other kids on the beach, and I asked if Judy could hold Brandon while I went with them. She said yes and took Brandon, who, judging by his cute coos, was wholeheartedly enjoying the ladies fussing over him.

Strains of reggae filled the air, and I played tag with the kids and a whole group of other children. I was having fun for the first time in quite a while, working up a good sweat. After about twenty minutes, I decided to take the kids up to the buffet. On the way up to the food, I passed Mandie coming down.

“Where have you been?” I asked. “You’re missing some actual fun in the sun.”

“Oops,” she said, grimacing. “Big trouble. Mrs. O is looking for you, and she has mean in one eye and angry in the other.”