You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny (4 page)

Zero-for-three. Needless to say, I didn’t take the job as handler and chef, though it was offered to me, surprisingly enough. It had been quite a day in la-la land. As I lay in bed with traffic rushing by, horns honking, and people shouting, I could only hope that one of my two interviews the next day might bring something a little more … glamorous. After all, wasn’t I in Hollywood? Was it all just makeup and camera angles?

Not being a follower of the life and loves of Hugh Hefner, I was unacquainted with the claim to fame of Barbi Benton, the name the nanny agency gave me when they called bright and early the next morning. But with a name like Barbi, I could guess what she looked like.

“Oh yes. Yes, of course. You are the one from Oregon,” said the house manager, Ms. Chambers, when I called. “When would you like to come up?”

“I’m available today, if that’s all right.”

“Good. How about elevenish.”

“Uh … elevenish would be great,” I replied. “Could I please have your address?”

“Just come to the block of Welby in Pasadena, near the Rose Bowl,” Ms. Chambers said.

Okay, but what was the address? It sounded like she lived in a shopping center. The block of Welby. I didn’t get it.

“Uh, Ms. Chambers, could you give me the street number? Is it Welby Street?”

“Yes. It’s the block of Welby,” she replied, sounding a little agitated. I didn’t want to push it. I wasn’t worried; I’d figure it out.

As we wheeled through the streets of Pasadena, it all began to make sense. The Barbi dollhouse took up an entire city block. There was no need for a number because there were
no other homes
. An ornate wrought-iron fence nearly fifteen feet tall surrounded the vast estate, with an entry gate straight out of Buckingham Palace. I half-expected to see a fur-hatted guard standing in the small brick house near the gate, but there was only an intercom. When I pushed the button, a woman’s voice said, “Hello. Who’s there?”

Entry granted. The heavy gates creaked and magically opened. The mansion in front of me was larger than any building in Cottage Grove, by far—bigger even than the Rainbow Motel. I hoped I wouldn’t get lost. A uniformed maid ushered me through a lovely rose garden, past the house, and up the stairs of a small outbuilding—Ms. Benton’s husband’s office, as it turned out. Ms. Chambers was waiting. Only if she thought I had potential would I meet the family.

Before the interview began, we were interrupted by a pinch-faced, sack-bosomed woman with teeth like rows of Chiclets. She was probably sixty-five years old, her face seamed with wrinkles like an old soccer ball. She walked into the office, complaining under her breath about the swelling in her ankles. Without acknowledging me, she retrieved a white envelope from Ms. Chambers and then hobbled out. Ms. Chambers, noticing the confused look on my face, informed me that she was the current nanny and would be leaving in a couple of weeks.

“You’re attractive. That will bother her,” Ms. Chambers began. So Barbi was indeed a doll. I wondered what
Mr
. Benton looked like. Ms. Chambers sat looking at some papers on the desk in front of her. I assumed she was waiting for me to respond.

I paused a moment, then said, “Thank you. I hope that won’t be a problem.” If I lived here, I could ugly myself up a little. Maybe not wear any makeup; just wash my hair once a week. I guessed she hadn’t had to cover this part of the interview process with the current Grandma Moses.

After I had given this woman the short version of the story I’d told Mrs. Foshay the day before, she began to rattle off a litany of rules and quirks that I would have to deal with. Standard-issue stuff. Except it wasn’t.

For one, there was the refrigerator. It had a lock on it. All the goodies that Barbi and Ken did not have the willpower to resist were locked safely inside the colossal chrome Sub-Zero.

“Who has the key?” I inquired. Two intelligent adults kept their own food in solitary confinement?

“The chef does,” she explained helpfully. “The only time he opens it is to prepare their meals. They are both very strict about their diet.”

“Does she ever beg the staff to open it in the middle of the night?” I had to know.

The question got me a stern dip of her eyebrows.

“Of course not. What kind of people do you think they are?”

The kind of people WHO LOCK THEIR REFRIGERATOR! Why not just stock up on lettuce and bottled water and forget about security?

“Now, back to the issue of your looks,” she continued. “You will, of course, be required to wear a uniform. Actually, it’s quite lovely,” she added, as if forestalling my protest that I would not be caught dead in a nanny habit. She pulled out a dress that looked like it belonged to Mary Poppins and displayed it to me proudly. Apparently, every member of the household was expected to work in costume.

With that out of the way, she proceeded to tell me about the family. I would potentially be caring for one baby boy, their first child. “She will rely on you a great deal,” Ms. Chambers said delicately. “The month after Barbi had the baby, she and her husband left for a long vacation. You’ve had a lot of experience with infants, I’m sure?” I was still digesting the news of the parents’ sabbatical when I heard a man’s voice over the intercom. “I am done with my coffee,” he announced abruptly. Ms. Chambers immediately buzzed the staff to remove the offending coffee cup. She rang into several rooms of the mansion, broadcasting the urgent situation until she found someone to take care of it.

A little more background on this family would have been helpful
.

“Now, when you travel with the family in the convertible Rolls-Royce, you will always ride in the front seat with the driver and be in uniform. It is very important to them that when they are out for a drive, it is clear to onlookers that you are
the help
. Are there any questions so far?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“Good. By the way, how is your health?” she asked.

What?
I was not even nineteen years old, for God’s sake. How bad off could I be? Did she want to know about my menstrual cramps once a month and the fact that I dislocated my knee trying out for the track team in the eighth grade? The current nanny looked like she just emerged from an all-night bingo parlor with her portable oxygen in tow, and she managed to work here. How hard could it be?

We wrapped up the interview, and I was politely escorted out past the huge mansion. I never did see the inside, or Barbi or Ken for that matter. Clearly I was not going to be Skipper.

My second interview that day was with “a family in the entertainment industry.” The Ovitzes. I didn’t have a clue who Michael Ovitz was. I was actually a little disappointed when I didn’t recognize the name—I’d imagined someone like John Travolta. The nanny placement agency told me only his last name and that he was president of a big talent agency. I just heard a bunch of initials.

Had I known that Creative Artists Agency (CAA) represented nearly every major Hollywood actor and actress I’d ever heard of, I would have had more time to get nervous before I arrived at his office. Instead, it all hit me at once. I stared in transfixed awe at the receptionists, who, all blasé as you please, confidently threw around some of the biggest names in entertainment. Cher. Sally Field. Michael Jackson. The two women behind the desk mesmerized me. Both answered a never-ending stream of calls from the ridiculously famous while simultaneously signing for packages and greeting guests. Both of them were extremely pretty, poised, and professional. They were not wearing winter-weight dark dresses.

My first interview in this intimidating office was with Mrs. Ovitz. An assistant ushered me into a dramatic conference room with floor-to-ceiling glass windows where a woman sat quietly at a marble table. I was stunned at how blond and beautiful she was. She wore a butter-colored silk outfit and diamond stud earrings the size of small grapes. Her style and demeanor seemed that of a queen.

“Hello, I’m Judy Ovitz. It’s nice to meet you,” she said, smiling warmly and extending her hand to welcome me.

I gave my standard speech, and she told me about their three children. If I made the cut, I would next meet Mr. Ovitz. Michael was clearly the king, though I wasn’t sure of what. But I did know who all the movie stars were.

I must have made it through the first round, because after a brief meeting with the CAA human resources manager, I was back watching those receptionists deftly field calls from Academy Award–winning actors. A beautiful woman dressed in three different shades of beige appeared in front of me and said, “Ms. Hansen, please step this way. Mr. Ovitz will see you now.”

Just like the receptionists and everyone else in the office, the assistant was dressed in an expensive designer outfit. I, on the other hand, stood up in my blue dress and white patent leather pumps, humiliated that I was violating the Labor Day white shoe rule by more than three months. My mom and I had realized in the motel that I looked quite tacky, but it was this or the sprinkler-ruined black dress. Looking down at my fashion faux pas whites, I became even more nervous. I couldn’t have felt more out of place if I’d been wearing athletic socks and Birkenstocks. I felt all the blood drain out of my face and into my hopelessly dowdy feet. The room began to turn slowly, then more quickly, in circles. Grabbing the backs of the chairs and then the receptionists’ counter, I steadied myself and focused on not fainting.

We walked down the busy corridor, people bustling by in both directions. At the end of the hallway, I could see into a spacious office where an attractive man was seated behind a desk the size of two formal dining tables. He wore a telephone headset and reclined back at an angle that must have strained the limits of his ergonomically correct leather chair. He had short, light brown hair, bright eyes, and a white shirt that was meticulously pressed and starched. His conservative plum-colored tie matched the colors in a painting on the wall behind him.

My escort paused silently in the doorway, and I stood motionless. As the man said good-bye to his caller, he pulled the headset off and gave me a warm smile. In a very officious manner befitting the introduction
of a visiting diplomat, the woman announced: “Mr. Ovitz, this is Ms. Hansen to see you. Your ten-twenty. She has already interviewed with Judy.”

On the one hand, I was honored to receive such an introduction. On the other hand, how jam-packed was this guy’s calendar? Did he have a ten-twenty-five?

“I need some uninterrupted time here,” he told my escort. “I don’t want to take any calls for fifteen minutes.” She nodded and turned away, and I stepped into the inner sanctum.

The man gestured to a seating arrangement that was like one you might find in an issue of
Architectural Digest
—a leather couch and several low-slung chairs arranged around a modern coffee table at the other end of his huge office. An immense contemporary painting dominated the wall. I had never been in a place quite so intimidating, with perhaps the exception of the principal’s office when I was grilled over my possible involvement in some prom-night shenanigans. I was petrified and sat silent and wide-eyed. Mr. Ovitz laughed and said, “You look scared to death, white as chalk. Just relax.”

Right. Every one of your employees whom I have spoken with says that you’re the “most powerful man in Hollywood.” It’s just a wee bit intimidating
.

For thirty minutes he asked questions in the verbal equivalent of italics and exclamation marks. He did not seem much interested in my answers. My heart sank when he asked about my driving record and my ability to drive in the snow (apparently, the family frequently found itself in Aspen). For now let’s just say that driving is not my strong suit. I stumbled a bit over that answer, but he didn’t seem to care that my reply was not what you would want to hear from a prospective employee, especially one who would be entrusted with the safe transport of your precious children. He seemed most interested in his next question. We talked for several minutes about nanny school, as he had never heard of such a thing. He seemed to find the whole idea amusing. “What exactly do they teach you in nanny school?” he asked, becoming even more amused when I attempted to answer him. Once more I fumbled for words while he watched, grinning slightly. Later I came to believe that Michael was most comfortable when others were not. He seemed to enjoy seeing people crumble into nervous
wrecks in his presence. So my terror during the interview must have just made his day.

Of course, when he invited me for a follow-up interview at his home, he made mine.

I would soon learn that CAA was one of the largest talent agencies in Hollywood. I didn’t really know what agents did, but I quickly discovered that they negotiated with the studios in exchange for a percentage of their clients’ earnings. As I had glimpsed at the office, their clients were the most well-known actors, directors, screenwriters, musicians, and authors in the industry. Martin Scorsese. Demi Moore. Julia Roberts. It was widely known that CAA had enough pull to get clients the most lucrative contracts.

Cofounder and president of the agency, Michael had the most pull of all. He had invented an entirely new kind of agency, one that relied on packaging—putting together stars, writers, and directors into one bundle and offering it to a studio as a whole take-it-or-leave-it proposition. He had enough leverage that most studios were forced to take it.

He was also credited with pioneering a new way of doing business. Poaching, or stealing other agencies’ clients, had been rare before he came upon the scene, but Michael made it commonplace. (Legend has it that Michael had lured Dustin Hoffman over to CAA by offering to work for free.) He and his black-suited cohorts, who worked tirelessly and tended to be business school graduates and lawyers, were both dedicated to their clients and quite ruthless in getting what they wanted. I would later hear that one of his prized clients, screenwriter Joe Eszterhas—who earned millions for screenplays like
Flashdance
and
Basic Instinct—
claimed that when he was moving to a rival agency (ICM), Michael told him, “You’re not going anywhere. You’re not leaving this agency. If you do, my foot soldiers who go up and down Wilshire Boulevard each day will blow your brains out.”