Fireworks launch in my stomach as the reality of what I’ve agreed to settles in my mind. I feel a confusing combination of excitement, nervousness, joy, and worry at the prospect of nannying Imogen Beck.
This is going to be so much fun.
This is going to hurt.
I can’t believe I’m doing this.
4. Anders Smells Something
Day one of filming. It’s a little before eight in the morning. I take a swig from my huge, insulated water bottle—this dry desert air is no joke—and I’m ready to go to make-up. Oliver and the new nanny should be here any minute. I only ever beat Oliver out the door on the first day of shooting, because I’m always so antsy on day one. The rest of the time, he’ll be pounding on my door and driving me crazy while I’m still in the bathroom. But I’m pacing in front of the couch in my suite, humming the words to my usual Mariah Carey song.
This is my calming routine when I have the first day jitters. I get my Mariah on. My mom raised me on her songs, so they ground me. I can sing most of them by heart, and this one is her particular favorite. It’s an intense, vocally-challenging pop number (is her music anything but vocally-challenging?) about the sweet, sweet fantasy Mariah has about a boyfriend. It shouldn’t be calming—in fact, it should be deeply embarrassing—but whatever. It’s my process. I don’t question the process that has led to Academy Award nominations. I give in to the urge to sing, belting out the final chorus.
There’s a soft knock at the door and I jump.
“One second!” I holler, swiping my water bottle, ready to get a move on.
When I open the door, the breath gets sucked right out of my lungs. The suites at this resort have exterior doors facing the open desert, so there’s a stone walkway, orange sand, and mint green sagebrush trailing up to sheer, sandstone cliffs for a backdrop. The sun is coming up over the distant mountains and beams of yellow light shine around the figure who knocked on the door.
It’s Sunny. Of course she would arrive in an actual halo of sunlight. And she’s wearing those dang glasses again. She’s also wearing a pair of jeans that make her hips look extra squeezable, and a little white t-shirt. The corners of her full lips are turned up, like she knows something I don’t. I can’t breathe right.
“Come in,” I say on a shaky exhale. The last functioning part of my brain instructs me to open the door for her, so I do—about ten inches. She’ll only just be able to squeeze past me. The little devil on my shoulder gives me a high five.
Her eyebrows furrow behind her glasses and she scoots past me into the suite. I feel her warmth and try to catch a whiff of her hair.
Oh no.
I expected her to smell like coconut or pink lemonade or something sunny—anything but whatever this funk is.
“Ugh. What is that?” The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them. The odor is that jarring. I try breathing only through my mouth, but I don’t want to taste it. I pull my shirt up over my nose.
She darts away from me. “I’m sorry!” She stands against the opposite wall, as far from me as she can get. Her face is flushed red. “I got skunked on my run this morning! It wasn’t a direct hit, but I think I ran right through it. I washed my hairfour times!” She lifts a strand of her long, chestnut hair and makes a confused face. “I thought it was gone! How bad is it?” The panic in her voice is adorable.
I cough into my shirt. My mom raised a gentleman, but not a liar. “It smells like you boiled a few pounds of ground beef in a pot of bleach.”
“Geez, okay!” she complains.
“And left it out in the sun for a week—”
“All right!” she snaps.
“Then used the bleachy beef juice like perfume.” I can’t stop smiling. She’s as fun to mess with as Oliver. This was just the distraction I needed from my Day One nerves.
“You—” she starts, but she’s interrupted by the man himself walking through the open door.
Oliver’s face screws up. “What on earth is that smell?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. I smell like a hot pile of garbage," she snaps. Her glasses slide down her nose and she shoves them back into place.
Oliver gives her his version of side-eye, which is probably terrifying for someone who doesn't know him.
Immy chooses this moment to stumble out of her room, with Hairy hot on her heels as always. She stops so fast it’s like she walked into a glass door.
“Ew! Why’s it so stinky in here?” She’s not a morning person. “Daaaad!” she grouches at me, "You smell so bad!"
Even Hairy whines.
“It’s not me! It’s Sunny,” I don’t feel bad about blaming her for the smell. Mother Teresa wouldn’t take the fall for that stench. “Your new nanny got sprayed by a skunk,” I say through my shirt, gesturing to Sunny, who is plastered against the furthest wall away from everyone. Look, don't touch? Not going to be a problem today.
