You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny (23 page)

“Now what did I do?” I said. “Would you stay here with the kids and get them something to eat? I’ll go see what she’s so upset about.”

I sprinted up to the house, where Judy was worked into a lather. “Where have you been?” she snapped. “I’ve been looking all over for you. We were frantic.”

“What’s the matter?” I had visions of Brandon lying somewhere hurt, crying, alone. “Is Brandon okay?”

“I couldn’t find his pacifier. Where did you put it?” she demanded. “He was getting all fussy.”

“It was in his pocket when we got here,” I said. “That’s where I always put it.”

“Well, we couldn’t find it. Michael and I searched all over the damned place, and then I had to send him all the way back to our house.
Michael’s going to leave Brandon with Carmen. You need to go back up there and help her take care of him right away,” she ordered.

“I am so sorry this crisis has been so distressing. But I wasn’t sitting in a lounge chair sipping margaritas. I was entertaining your two
other
children. Why don’t you just rename me Slacker Nanny?”

Oh, excuse me. That’s what I
thought
. What I actually said was, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll walk back to the house.”
Wimp!

Irritation washed over me, spoiling what had been, for me, a really fun time. So much for spending the evening with Mandie at a real party. I wanted Judy, for just one minute, to see how things looked from my point of view. I don’t think she ever realized that I grew up attending parties at our local Elks club. As you can imagine, that had not been an establishment where it was routine to observe:

Years later I would meet one of Mr. Stallone’s nannies, and from what she said, this attitude was par for the course: apparently the staff in his home was not allowed to make eye contact with him unless spoken to first. The nanny also told me that everything concerning the kids went through his wife. The wife, who was considerably younger than her famous husband, tended to become very friendly with her nannies, taking them on shopping expeditions and out to eat, just like girlfriends. But before too long, there was inevitably a spat, and the nanny/friend would be fired.

Speaking of nanny/employer spats, I hoped this one would blow over quickly. After the pacifier scene, I was banished back to the Malibu house for the rest of the evening. Carmen was standing on the deck, and Brandon slept contentedly. She and I stood quietly together and watched as a shower of lights lit up the sky.

I had better luck the next week at the Malibu house. No parties, so I could enjoy the best part about the beachfront place: my own separate guesthouse. It was detached, near the road, and blissfully private. The bedroom was big and open, with hardwood floors and lots of quiet. I relished such a private space. Either Carmen or Delma always came with us, and wonderful friends that they were, they always offered to get up with Brandon so I could snore through the night uninterrupted. Just the thought of having physical separation from the group lowered my blood pressure, even though I had to creep through the courtyard past the pool very late in the evening and report for duty in the main house at dawn.

I was alone at the beach house with the kids that next afternoon when the phone rang. I jumped up from our hundredth viewing of
Sleeping Beauty
to answer it. “Ovitz residence,” I answered automatically.

“Hello, is Michael there?” a man said. His voice sounded familiar.
Dustin Hoffman?

“I’m sorry, he’s not home at the moment. May I take a message?”

“Huh. Who’s this?” he said.

“Oh, it’s just the nanny.”

“Just
the nanny?”

“Yeah.”

“I see. Well, this is Just-the-Roto-Rooter guy. We have the same first name, Just The. I never met another Just The before.”

“Okay.”
I groaned inside.

“Hey, Just The, where are you from?”

“I’m from Oregon.”

“Or-e-GONE. I know a guy from there. Maybe you know him, too.”

“Um—”

“His name’s Ken.”

Okay, there are three million people in Oregon. How on earth was I supposed to know the same guy? Oh, the hell with it.

“Uh, what is his last name?”

“Kesey.”

Now, what were the chances of that? Ken Kesey is the uncle of my health teacher’s wife, and I had been to their house several times in high school.

“Actually,” I said, “I do know him.”

“You do? Wow!”

“Sure, I know him.” I didn’t explain my
loose
connection to the man. I also didn’t let on that I had figured out it was Bill Murray on the other end of the line. “He lives on that farm in Pleasant Hill.”

“That’s right. I’ve been there,” he said. “That’s amazing. What a small world.”

“It sure is,” I agreed.

“Hey, do me a favor. Tell them that some guy named Bill is coming over later today.”

I hung up the phone and felt slightly guilty. My connection to Ken Kesey, the infamous Merry Prankster and celebrated author of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
, was more than a little tenuous. I loved my high school health teacher and his wife, but I had never actually laid eyes on her uncle in my life.

Carmen soon came in from shopping, and I told her what a strange conversation Bill Murray and I had had.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Bill, he’s a big jokester, that one. Very nice guy, though.”

When Judy came home, I gave her the phone message.

“God, I hope he’s not bringing that kid of his. Last time that little monster was over, he hauled off and bit Joshua.”

Yes, that has actually been known to happen with young children
. I clenched my teeth.

“I couldn’t believe it,” Judy continued. “He bit him right on the face. Can you imagine the nerve of that kid? He hasn’t been over since, and I don’t plan on inviting him. And why the hell they named him Homer I’ll never know.”

I didn’t pipe up. I liked how Bill had joked with me on the phone. And I was willing to bet that he wasn’t like the famous movie-making mogul who had his assistant call Sarah at the office to officially pencil in
playdates for the children. Bill’s kids probably didn’t have their own schedules—he sounded like a real, regular kind of dad.

Bill rumbled in an hour later, without little Homer. “Where’s the nanny? I gotta meet the nanny.” Then he came bursting into the living room. “Hey! You must be Just The. Come over here, Miss OreGONE!”

He swooped me up in a tight bear hug. “And there’s Carmen!” he said, seeing her in the doorway. “Come here, you! I missed you.” He picked up Carmen, too, and she started laughing.

Later, after he left, I said to Judy, “Wouldn’t it be funny to live with a guy like that? His wife must have a pain in her side all the time from laughing.”

Judy just stared at me for a long time. “Yeah, she has a
real
pain in her side all right,” she said.

This name-dropping thing wasn’t foolproof.

I was cruising down Pacific Coast Highway, thrilled to be on my way back to Cottage Grove for a long weekend. Judy had approved my leaving the beach house at 2:30, but she and Amanda left at noon for a mother/daughter fashion show in Malibu, and by one I was really antsy. Carmen shooed me out the door, promising to take care of Brandon and Joshua. I thanked her profusely; she knew how excited I was about going home.

But my lead foot got the best of me, and the officer who pulled me over didn’t care one whit about Michael Ovitz.

“Well, I guess the most powerful man in Hollywood won’t be too happy about your ticket, now, will he?” he retorted sarcastically when I tried to wheedle my way out of a citation. Crap. My fifth speeding ticket in three years.

I wasn’t going to let that officer ruin my excitement; I was off to spend a sweet weekend at home. I swung by the Brentwood house to pack my things, and Delma came dashing out to meet me.

“Suzy, Judy’s holding on the phone. She’s steaming mad,” Delma said.
What in the world had I done now? Had the cops called Michael about my ticket? Did he have spies at the LAPD?

“Suzy, she just went off on me,” Delma cried, wringing her hands. “I’ve never heard her so upset.”

I tried to catch my breath, gulped, and grabbed the nearest phone, holding it a healthy distance from my ear.

“Yes, Mrs. Ovitz, it’s Suzy,” I said timidly.

“I know who it is,” she snapped. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Huh?”

“Carmen is not your boss, I am! And I’m very unhappy with you. What did you do, just run out the door after my car left the driveway? I was already letting you go early. And by the way, I am not happy about uh … uh … the fact that sometimes you don’t pick up the kids’ toys,” she ranted.

Come again?
I couldn’t think of what to say, and I’m not sure I could’ve managed the words if I’d had them. The pit of my stomach dropped out as she kept yelling. Mercifully, she finally hung up.

I immediately dialed Sarah, practically engulfed in tears.

“Suzy, calm down,” Sarah said, trying to console me. “Judy must be under some heavy-duty stress or something. Surely it couldn’t really be you. They always tell me how happy they are with you.”

“But she complained that sometimes I don’t pick up the kids’ toys,” I sobbed.

“That’s ridiculous.” Sarah snorted.

Ten minutes later, Judy called again, apologizing for losing her temper. Had Sarah called and told her how upset I was? I tried to stop crying. Judy even said that she was looking forward to my return, and she sounded sincere. Was she? I didn’t even bother trying to analyze it; I just wanted to hold on to any shred of appreciation I could find. If she was willing to throw me a crumb, I was willing to accept it.

I heard Joshua whining that he wanted to talk to me. Great. Having just heard his mother’s earlier tirade, I was sure he was going to join in on the fun.