You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny (33 page)

How could anyone be so cruel?

The third-wheel feeling grew, and eventually I couldn’t ignore the fact that Debra didn’t need me at all. Once I accepted that, I started feeling really guilty about the great salary I’d negotiated. Just when I’d decided to say something, Debra came to me and said that she realized that she didn’t really need help with Nolan, especially full-time. She said she just wasn’t the kind of mom who would give time with her child away to someone else just because she was paying for it. Relieved, I confessed how awful I felt for taking so much money for so little work. Debra said not to worry about it, but she thought it would be best if she went to visit Tim in Baton Rouge with the housekeeper, who could serve as a backup babysitter if needed. No entourage of trainer, makeup artist, psychic, chef, masseuse, and hairstylist for this movie-star mom.

“I liked you as soon as I met you, Suzy,” Debra said. “The karma of living with yet another castoff was great. Don’t worry; I’ll be happy to give you a good reference. Actually, why don’t you stay here while I’m visiting Tim in Louisiana? You can take the time to find a new job.”

So I did, luxuriating in the quiet of the house for two full weeks. I checked in with Tammy, perhaps the happiest woman to ever hold the title of nanny. Every single time we chatted, she told me how great it was to be working for Sally and Alan. During our last conversation, she’d been all excited because her name was going to appear in
Cosmopolitan
magazine, in an article on Sally. When I wasn’t overwhelmed with envy, I loved her upbeat attitude.

“Hi, Tammy, what’s the latest with you? Go on, share with me your latest tale of nanny bliss,” I joked. “I can take it.” I braced myself, anyway.

“I got to fly on the Concorde,” she said joyfully. “I brought some pictures back for you.”

“Of what?”

“I took a whole roll of film of the interior of the plane. Every time Sally and Goldie turned their backs, I took a picture. I wanted to send some to my mom to show her what it looked like. I even took a photo of the hors d’oeuvres. I’ve never seen butter in the shape of a swan!”

“Silly girl, don’t feel bad. In Hawaii I took a picture of my room-service cart. I felt like a knight at the round table; there were so many silver serving trays. Even my pizza had one of those huge covers you see in the movies, and it came with cloth napkins.” We both laughed.

“Yeah, our idea of fancy dining was hanging out at Pinocchio’s pizza parlor after football games,” Tammy said. “I miss the times we had there.”

“And I really miss the pizza,” I said wistfully.

“Oops, gotta go,” Tammy said abruptly. “Sally and I are off to go shopping.”

“Great! Have a wonderful time!” I replied with forced cheer. It was time to hang up, anyway. As much as I hated to admit it, her experience grated on my nerves. If I had to hear one more thing about Tammy’s wonderful life, I was going to have to borrow one of Nolan’s pacifiers to soothe myself.

By the time Debra and Nolan flew back to LA, I still hadn’t decided what the next episode of my Hollywood career would be. I wasn’t sure I even wanted another role as a nanny. But I had to go somewhere, so I moved back to my sister’s Brentwood box. Five, sometimes six of us, crammed ourselves and our stuff into that tiny five-hundred-square-foot space. She didn’t have a closet big enough for me to fit in, so I just used a sleeping bag.

I was confused and lonely and instinctively reached out for Ryan. We’d been talking frequently since we’d gotten “back together,” and I finally asked him if he wanted to come for a visit. He was more than happy to come to LA to lend moral support. He got the couch.

Living like a sardine motivated me to get serious about finding a new job, pronto. I quickly revised my résumé to reflect my stint at Debra’s. I couldn’t stop the nagging voice in my head, though. What if Michael still wouldn’t give me a good reference? For most people in this town, Debra’s word wouldn’t trump his.

I called the placement coordinator at Malibu Mommies, but the openings they had were farther away from Cindy. I wanted to be close to her in case I did get some evenings off, so I decided to keep searching. Driving to a new placement agency I’d found in the phone book, I tried to stay positive. Ryan, who had thus far spent his days soaking up the California sunshine, rode along.

This agency was named after the founder, Beatrice Dart. It occurred to me that the same woman who greeted me had probably opened the original doors sometime back in the sixties. The room smelled as musty as she looked. I introduced myself and sat down, sliding my résumé over to Beatrice, who peered at it over a pair of granny glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“Hmm,” she muttered after giving it only a cursory glance. “I think I might have someone for you right away. Sit down over there,” she said,
motioning to a waiting area without ever looking at me. She buried her nose in a Rolodex and dialed an ancient black rotary phone, which had probably been installed the same day she opened.

“Hello. This is Beatrice down at Beatrice Dart’s,” she said.

Silence.

“I think I have someone for that position you called me about.… Yes, uh … let me check.” She stood up, scrutinized me, and went back to the phone. “Yes, she’s attractive. What? Oh, can you hold a moment?” she said, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece.

What was she going to say now?
On second thought, she’s
not
drop-dead gorgeous, so your husband probably won’t make a pass at her like he did with the last girl I sent you
.

“Can you go over to Paramount Studios right now, dear?”

“Uh, yes … yes,” I stammered. “I suppose so. How far away is it?” She didn’t answer me.

“Okay then, right away.” With that she banged the phone down.

She handed me a slip of paper with directions and a name.
R something, something, Pe something, something, something. Set of chairs
. Poor old Beatrice’s handwriting reminded me of a doctor scrawling out prescriptions. Completely illegible. Was I going to be a nanny or a furniture mover? Maybe Beatrice hadn’t spent enough time reading my résumé. She did look nearly eighty. Perhaps she was placing me as a domestic house manager?

“Ms. Dart,” I ventured. “Uh, I can’t quite read what you’ve written. Does this say set of chairs?”

“No, dear.” She laughed and coughed. “It says, set of
Cheers
—you know,
Cheers
the TV show.”

Cheers? Oh,
Cheers!

“You’re going to talk to Rhea Perlman, my dear. Don’t worry. The studio isn’t far. I’ll show you how to get there.”

Oooh. I’d never been on a studio lot or on a sitcom set. (Well, except for the time Cindy and I got tickets to a Dolly Parton special and we got to wait in the green room with Patti LaBelle’s family.) Sure, I knew that it was probably a waste of time. Beatrice hadn’t even checked my references, and obviously the person whom she was talking to hadn’t asked. Once I mentioned my little problem, I knew I wouldn’t get a second
interview. But maybe I’d try to enjoy the Hollywood glamour for what it was.

Suddenly I remembered the hayseed sitting in my car. Who would have known that Beatrice would send me on an interview
that day?
There was no way I was going to drive onto the Paramount lot with Ryan in the car. To be honest, he was the kind of guy who looks a lot better in his own habitat. Did I mention that he was a fourth-generation lumberjack? His rugged good looks and casual style belonged in a small logging town, not Southern California. Ryan truly believed that
ain’t
was an actual word, because they used it on his favorite show,
The Dukes of Hazzard
. (He prided himself that people often remarked that he looked just like Bo Duke.) This—and many other things—drove me crazy. I always wanted to change him. This is what happened every time we got back together. I realized I loved him in a “can’t live with ’em but how am I ever going to get over him” kind of way. Why I didn’t just leave the poor guy alone, let him live his life and forget about things like trying to convince him that the WWF wasn’t real, I will never know.

Ryan’s entire wardrobe consisted of T-shirts, faded 501s, tennis shoes, and several baseball caps in various colors. Occasionally he topped the ensemble with a pullover zip-up “hickory shirt” (if you don’t know what that is, don’t ask). But his signature accessory was a faded circle on his back left jean pocket: Copenhagen chewing tobacco. He had been dipping snuff for so long that even when the can found its way to his left front shirt pocket, the ring remained.

I hurried to my car but made the mistake of telling him that I was going for an interview. I should have just taken him back to the apartment in silence.

“Hell no, I don’t want to go back to the apartment,” he argued. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. I’m here in Hollywood; I want to see some movie stars.”

Right. I wasn’t really one for confrontation. He stayed in the car. When we pulled into the parking lot, past the big wrought-iron gates with “Paramount Studios” emblazoned across the top, he started fidgeting like a kid on his first trip to Wally World.

“Do not move!” I ordered emphatically, pointing my finger at him like I was his mother. “I’ll be back as soon as I’m through.”

“Who’re you gonna see?” he said, not moving an inch.

“Some people on
Cheers,”
I answered. “Now promise me, Ryan, that you will not get out of this car.”

“Oh my God,” he said, holding his hand over his mouth. “You’re gonna see Sam Malone? I gotta come!”

“No,”
I commanded. “If you move from this car, I will never speak to you again. Just sit here and look out the window. Sooner or later some movie star is bound to walk by.” I checked my hair, pulled and smoothed my skirt, and began looking for the
Cheers
set. I wandered around the lot and watched employees whiz by in golf carts. All the stages had numbers painted ten feet high on their sides, so it was easy to find the right set.

I could feel the energy the minute I walked onto the huge sound-stage. People scurried about impatiently, pointing, huddling. Just before I stepped through the door marked
QUIET. CHEERS TAPING
, I glanced over my shoulder to see Michael J. Fox. The one and only Alex P. Keaton! I’d had such a crush on him when I was younger. And there in front of me on a cavernous stage was the familiar bar scene.

I’d never been a big
Cheers
fan, though I was familiar with the players. I did know that Rhea played a waitress. I asked someone who looked vaguely official where I could find Ms. Perlman. He pointed to a set of bleachers, which I learned held the audience during the show’s taping. That day, Ted Danson, Kelsey Grammer, and the others sat scattered throughout the stands, rehearsing. I looked into the uppermost row of seats and there, sitting by herself, apparently going over lines in a script, was Rhea. I clambered up and introduced myself, and she smiled pleasantly, giving me a quick head-to-toe scan. She told me that she and her husband had two daughters, who were three and six, and the girls already had a nanny. They were hiring someone for their infant son. Then she asked me if I wanted to meet her husband.

I liked Rhea immediately. She had the same qualities I admired in Debra; down-to-earth, easy to talk to. I could just tell that she would be a wonderful boss. Could lightning really strike twice? But then, as we walked up the stairs behind the set, I remembered I would have to tell her—and her husband—about my employment with Michael. Debra would give me a good word, but I knew that Michael would be my downfall.

Rhea led me into a modest room with some banged-up couches and
chairs. Good God, Danny DeVito was her husband! It would have been nice if Miss Senile Beatrice had been less worried about me winning a beauty pageant and more concerned about informing me who Rhea was married to! I’m sure I was gawking, but I tried to use some of the composure I had learned at the Ovitzes’.

I could tell right away that Mr. DeVito was as pleasant and kind as he seemed on-screen. I had always liked him, even when he played the villain. Somehow you could see that underneath it all he was a good guy, mellow, laid-back. I extended my hand, told him my name, and then started in. “Mr. DeVito, I have to tell you about Michael Ovitz,” I said before he’d even had a chance to take his hand back.

“Michael? What about Michael?” he said, smiling. “He’s our agent.”

Oh great. The worst-case scenario. I might as well get up and leave right now. Let’s stop wasting our time
.

“Uh, he’s pretty upset with me,” I blurted again, wanting to grab the words back.

“Why, were you fired?” he asked.

I paused. “Well, technically I quit. I gave him a month’s notice, but he wouldn’t take it. When he asked me to stay longer, I said no, and he wasn’t really very happy about it.”

Mr. DeVito smiled, and then he laughed. “Oh, I can see that. I know that Michael does not like anyone telling him no,” he said as he wagged his finger back and forth in warning. “I’m not worried about Michael, so don’t you be. We will decide for ourselves.”

What? Isn’t everyone worried about Michael?

“We’re about done here, so why don’t you just follow us over to our house?” he suggested. Still in shock over his lack of concern about Michael, I couldn’t keep up. Didn’t he need to see my references?