Esther McCarthy: Trump, tequila and terrible parents in New York
Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn
“And that’s the living room, Mr W is in there right now. You know who’s in there with him?” the maid stops her tour and looks at me expectantly. “No clue,” says I.
“Donald Trump,” she says, (almost triumphantly). “Oh, right,” says I, peeking in. Two ould businessmen in an all-white lounge, big deal. My mind is on loftier affairs.
I have it on good authority there is a bar downtown that has a ‘ladies drink for free on Thursdays’ policy. It is Thursday. I am no lady, but they aren’t to know that. Yet.
I’m 20-years-old and it’s my first day working in New York City. The family live in a penthouse suite on Park Avenue, it’s across the road from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, there’s a doorman and all, it’s swank.
They have ‘staff’. The family has two live-in maids, another one who comes in every day to do laundry, two chefs, drivers, and now me.
I’m there to be the 12-year-old girl’s nanny. I look back on it, picturing myself that close to an unguarded Trump, and I ponder the Baby Hitler problem — that ethical dilemma of deciding whether to eliminate a future tyrant, thus potentially altering the course of history, or allowing them to grow into a monstrous dictator.
Basically, would you be OK crushing a defenceless orange slug with a quiff if you know it would one day turn into a despot in a bad suit?
If I could do like, a Terminator buzz, and send myself back from the future, would I burst into the living room and try to change the course of history?
Instead of shrugging and checking out my bedroom, and figuring out what does one wear to neck free tequila in NYC?
On paper, the nanny gig seems like a dream job. $100 a day, free food, and accommodation (in their penthouse in NYC, and later their mansion in Long Island).
And not even a nappy to change. The job description is to hang out with the kid, bring her to playdates (by private chauffeur, no subway for us) and make sure she turns up for her summer tutor on time.
These guys were next level loaded. Private plane to Montauk, yacht tied up at a jetty, and garage full of vintage cars loaded. They were insist-their-nanny-sign-an-NDA rich.
But like all dreams, it had the potential to turn into a nightmare. My first day, after my tour, I meet the Mother, Mrs W.
Our contract is me working 8am to 5pm but the first week, there’s no sign of them in the evenings, so I hang out with the kid pretty much 24/7.
She’s a dote, but suffering from severe lack of parental attention. Her mother has a printed out itinerary for me every morning, down to the minute.
- 8am: Kid cleans retainer.
- 8.03am: Kid eats breakfast (different options listed.)
- 8.15am: Kid takes pills — A LOT.
The first time I am handed one of these by the maid, I scan it and ask, “What time does she take a shit?”
The maid says, “You better not use that potty mouth in front of Mrs W.” Chance would be a fine thing. She’s never around.
It’s designed so the kid is out of their way for maximum amount of time. I used to hug her putting her to bed, and she’d cling on for as long as she could.
She has a walk in wardrobe, wears makeup, has the best of everything, but her parents are outsourcing physical displays of affection. My sober heart used to break for her.
Soon it was Thursday again and I am not letting ladies’ night get wasted, so some lovely Galway boys bring me and my fake ID to the bar and we get wasted instead.
When I get back, still mumbling “I’m a ladeeeee”, I find Mrs W had locked me out (to be fair, I was informed midnight was my curfew, but if I’m no lady, I’m certainly no Cinderella, have you seen the size of my feet?) so I end up having to sleep on a bench in the fancy lobby.
I am woken by the doorman on the phone. “Yesssir, I got your morning papers here, Mr W, and your nanny. She came in last night stinking of alcohol.”
“Ya dirty fecking snitch,” I hiss at him, as I totter over to the lift. I stumble up the penthouse with a dry mouth, a sore head, and a crumpled dress.
The mother goes ballistic, like full on screaming in my face. I am concentrating on not projectile vomiting in hers.
To be fair, I wasn’t a very good nanny, I brought the kid to Central Park that morning and fell asleep on a bench for a good 20 minutes, like a hobo.
But the parents were awful human beings. I was spoiled by American TV, I thought it was going to be like Fran Drescher or ALF — part of the family.
Instead I am eating in the staff quarters, working twice the hours we agreed, and outrageously am not allowed have my bedroom door closed.
If I could go back, I think I’d ask The Donald for a job. Catchphrase gold — You’re Hired!
Part two in Montauk next week!
