You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny (21 page)

I didn’t have time to psychoanalyze much more after I got back; somehow I’d managed to get into trouble without even being there. Apparently the day I left, Gymboree had changed to the spring schedule. Brandon’s class was moved up an hour, and Grandma Ovitz showed up late and found herself surrounded by older children. She was livid. Delma and Carmen said she and Judy couldn’t stop talking about me. Maybe it had embarrassed her to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; I didn’t know. What other explanation could there be? My time at home had shaken my brain up a bit, and I was as frustrated with them as they were with me. How hard could it have been to play with him on the floor at the gym? What in the world would this family do if they ever had a real problem?

At least I was about to take a positive step, one that would get me more independence from my job. I had saved enough money for a down payment on a brand-new Celica. Finally, wheels of my own. When I mentioned my plan to Michael, he surprised me by offering to help. He had his CFO call a dealership in Marina del Rey to negotiate a contract. When I went to pick up the car, the salesman complained that he wasn’t making any money because some big shot had bullied him into selling the car at cost. I felt sorry for him, but I was also thrilled to be able to afford my first new car. I was really grateful to Michael—he didn’t have to help me out. I just knew life was going to be a whole lot more fun now.

I called to tell Mandie the good news. She didn’t have a car, either, unless you counted the battered Ford Escort station wagon that the Goldbergs let her drive once in a while on her days off. We both continued to be boggled that these people let their employees drive their children around in automobiles that weren’t exactly highly rated in safety crash tests.

“Just think how cool we’ll be, tooling around in a car that isn’t ten years old or covered in rust!” I said dreamily.

“Speaking of cars,” Mandie said, “I have a car story you’re gonna love. Last weekend, Mr. Goldberg ended up with three cars at the beach house, so he asked me to bring the Porsche home. I wanted to ask him if he was feeling all right. I didn’t mention that it’d been a couple of years since I’d driven a stick shift. But I figured it out after a couple of false starts, lunges, and squealing tires. And there I was, sailing down Pacific Coast Highway.”

“You had the convertible?” I exclaimed.

“Well, yeah, except I couldn’t figure out how to work the roof thingy. It was hot as Hades, and I wanted to put the top down and let my hair blow in the wind. But I was worried that he’d be able to tell that I had opened the roof, so I pulled into a gas station and tried to figure it out. I poked around at things for a few minutes, but I was kind of scared that I’d screw something up. I figured I’d just settle for rolling the windows down, but I couldn’t find those controls, either, or the air-conditioning buttons. And I didn’t want to just start pulling random knobs, not knowing what havoc I might cause. So I gave up. I was dripping wet by the time I got back. I’d been sitting in a mobile sauna for an hour.” She paused. “And then I worried I might be screwing up the leather upholstery with my sweat.”

I laughed. “Was it fast?”

She snorted. “Like hay flying through a baler!”

You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take …

“I got it up to seventy, but then I got scared and slowed back down to the speed limit. But that’s not the whole story. As usual, there was a fiasco at the end.”

“Oh my God, you didn’t crash it, did you?”

“No, thank God. When I got to the house, I realized that Mr. Goldberg didn’t have a house key on the Porsche ring.”

“Oh no!”

“The Goldbergs weren’t going to be home until Sunday, and I wasn’t about to call back to the beach house to say I had no house key. Mrs. Goldberg would have had a fit over my irresponsibility. Then I remembered
that Graciella had a complete set of keys. So I decided to go to her house and get them. Unfortunately,” she added, “Graciella lives in a pretty seedy part of town.”

“Like where I got my nails done?”

“Yeah, only worse. This place was Gang Central as far as I could tell. Everywhere I looked there were bars on the windows and very scary-looking people. I mean, it was spooky. I got to Graciella’s, but of course I didn’t want to get out of the car. There was no way I was going to leave Mr. Goldberg’s precious Porsche parked on Florence and Normandie, especially since I didn’t know how to use the keyless lock.”

“Good decision. So what did you do?”

“I sat below Graciella’s window, laying on the horn. She probably thought it was just one more car alarm going off in the neighborhood. But finally she poked her head out of the window, and I yelled to her that I needed the house key.”

“What did she say?”

“Well, she doesn’t speak very good English, and my Spanish still consists entirely of food dishes so it took a while to sort it out. We finally settled on going down the street to a place that makes duplicate keys. When she pointed out the place, I knew I was in trouble because I can’t parallel park, so I slowed down to a crawl and Graciella kind of rolled out of the car. I circled the block twelve times until she showed up on the curb again with the key. I’m positive that the police officer on the corner thought I was a drug dealer looking for a sale.”

Mandie sighed. “God, what an afternoon. But what a car!”

I could almost hear the smile in her voice.

My shiny new Celica wouldn’t have impressed the likes of the Goldbergs, but I adored it. The Saturday after I bought it, Michael asked me to do him a favor. (Sure; anything to use my wheels!) He wanted me to go down to Spago and pick up some lox that they had special-ordered. Now, Spago isn’t exactly a carryout place; in fact, I didn’t think they prepared takeout for anyone. But Michael had convinced Wolfgang Puck to do him a special favor.

I took Amanda, and after parking near the front of the restaurant, we walked up and pushed on the two huge glass doors. They were locked.
That struck me as odd. It was the middle of the afternoon. Why would Spago be closed? The sun reflected off the doors so brightly that it was difficult to see inside, but I cupped my hands around the sides of my head and pushed my nose on the glass, trying to get a peek.

“Are they closed, Suzy?” Amanda asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” I answered. “There are people running around in there. I can see Wolfgang. Maybe they’re doing a private party or something.”

I pounded on the door to get their attention. Nothing. Perhaps they hadn’t heard me. I pounded harder and pushed my face back up to the glass. Inside, several chefs stood around, resplendent in their white outfits, glaring at me with fingers to lips as if to shush me.
Don’t shush me!
What in the hell was going on?

Irritation overwhelmed me. More drastic measures were needed. I took off my loafer and used the heel to pound on the door repeatedly. Then I peered back in. This time the men were gesturing with sweeping motions of their hands and arms as if to say, “Go away, little girl, we’re closed.”

Damn it, why aren’t they opening the door for me? Don’t they know I’m Michael Ovitz’s nanny?

Bang, bang, bang. I pounded again, and now Amanda joined in. They couldn’t ignore us now, I thought pointedly, walloping the door. Then I saw Wolfgang approaching. His lips were pursed tightly together, eyebrows pulled down toward his nose, hands on hips. Oops.

“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he yelled at me through the still-locked doors.

“Mr. Puck, I’m picking up some lox for Michael Ovitz,” I said, smiling weakly.

I don’t think he heard a word I said. “Get the hell out of here. We are filming a television commercial. You’re costing me money! Go away!” he yelled as he shooed me with his hands and stormed back to the kitchen.

Luckily a crew member took pity on me and cracked the door to ask what I needed. Salmon, I repeated. For Michael Ovitz. He told me to try around back where all the staff was taking a break. Behind the
Dumpsters, Amanda and I found the employees outside, sitting at tables. They kindly handed over the lox.

I trudged back to the car with Amanda, humiliated. The worst part was that I so quickly slid into the role of a “don’t you know who you’re dealing with” Hollywood bore. I had never been that rude in my life. What was happening to me?

I decided that if the traits of a cranky LA coattail-rider were rubbing off on me, I could at least pick up some of the highbrow cultural trappings as well. I vowed to learn at least a little about the art that practically wallpapered the house. The lines and squiggles confounded me, and I constantly twisted my head at different angles, trying to find something familiar in the dozens of abstract paintings: a dog, a vase, a tree, anything recognizable. Michael kept a stack of art books on the table in the living room, and I sometimes thumbed through the pages hoping to soak up something. One day I saw a picture of the very same painting that was hanging in the living room. No! It couldn’t be, could it? This silly-looking picture—of nothing I could come close to identifying—might cost millions of dollars. The next morning, the construction foreman, Carl, came in to use the phone. (An endless supply of these workers roamed in and out of the house every day, doing exactly what, I never did figure out. Mostly small projects such as the ones Oregon husbands tended to do on weekends; but Michael was not the kind of husband I was used to back in Oregon.) Carl was only a few years older than me, a chatty and friendly guy. This gig paid his way through college.

“Michael’s art collection is really something,” he commented, coming into the room after his call and staring at the wall. “Wow. That’s a Picasso. Is it a copy?”

“No, that’s the real deal,” I chimed in confidently, having just boned up on the subject. I motioned for him to come closer. “Look, can you see that streak of paint?” I asked as I touched the canvas.

WAAA! WAAA! WAAA! Oops. A shrill alarm sounded, like the car version I set off when Kristi visited. Only a hundred times louder. I clapped my hands over my ears. It was so loud that Carmen came
running out of the kitchen howling, frantically waving her arms in the air. “Miss Soo-zita, it is the Picasso alarm, oh my.”

I couldn’t think.

“Miss Soo-zita, you must call Mr. Ovitz.”

He’ll kill me
. But at least the horrible racket would stop. I ran to the relative quiet of the other side of the house to make the call. I dialed frantically. Was the phone even ringing? Or was that just the alarm echoing in my ears?

Oh my God
, I thought, they’ll never answer. They’ve probably got a hundred calls backed up, as usual.

“CAA,” one of the receptionists finally answered.

“I need Sarah in Michael’s office!” I screamed. “Right now!” The still-shrieking horn slowed down our discussion, but finally she transferred me to Sarah.

“Suzy? I can hardly hear you,” Sarah said. She never got too riled up about anything. “Is that the Picasso alarm?” she asked calmly.

“Yes!” I shrieked. “It won’t stop!”

“Oh, don’t worry, Michael’s not here,” she said smoothly, with the practiced air of someone who’d been through this before. “Just wait for the security company to call. It’ll stop in fifteen minutes, anyway.”

“Really?” I panted.

“Yes. And I’ll have the alarm company reset it,” she assured me.

As soon as I put the receiver down, the phone rang. “Hello. Hello?” I boomed.

“What’s the code word?” a man asked.

Damn it. “Carmen, come help me!” I yelled. “What’s the code word?”

“I have no idea, Miss Soo-zita. I only know the code for the house alarm; I don’t know about the Picasso.”

By now the awful noise had been going for almost ten minutes, and my ears were hurting.

“We’ll notify the police, ma’am,” the man said.

“No, no, no!” I pleaded. “Mr. Ovitz’s secretary is calling you right now to take care of this. Please, please don’t send the police!”

Carmen and I both scooted out into the front yard, Brandon in tow. The sound was so piercing that I was afraid his hearing would be damaged if we stayed inside any longer. Big tears rolled down his cheeks, and
it was all my fault. And as we stood by the front gate, nearly forty yards from the door, I realized that the entire street could hear the damn thing. Fortunately, no one came out to investigate. Maybe they were used to alarms going off in this neighborhood.

I tried to avoid Michael that night and the next day at all costs. But oddly enough, he never said a word about the incident. Maybe he was distracted by his work, or maybe it was really no big deal. Who knew? I wasn’t getting any closer to figuring these guys out. Then again, maybe Sarah didn’t tell him.

“You’re not going to believe this, Suzy.” I could hardly hear Michael’s assistant Jay, who was on his cell phone, barreling down the freeway in the family’s brand-new SUV. “It’s a friggin’ tank. Whoa! Watch out. I think I might have sideswiped a semi with the mirrors. This thing is as wide as a motor home, I swear. They don’t expect you to drive this monstrosity, do they?”

“Uh, yeah, they do. I’ve told Judy I’m kind of worried about it. How about you sticking up for me and saying it’s probably too much of a vehicle for the poor little nanny to drive?” I teased.

“This thing is too much for
me
to drive.” Jay laughed. “Okay, I’ll do what I can for you. I’ll be there in about fifteen. Open the gates so I can get this 18-wheeler on through.”