You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny Read Online Free PDF

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 introductionof 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