Free Hollywood Confessions by Gemma Halliday

suits with fake tans across a stage for a panel of adult judges (something they clearly did believe in). The family had become overnight household names, going from John and Jane Everyman thrown into mega-parenting to celebrity status. During their separation, Deb’s face had graced the cover of People no less than five times. And I was pretty sure Don had his own TMZ cameraman assigned to him 24/7.
    Besides fame, the other thing the show had brought Don and Deb was cash. Lots of it, I decided as I pulled up to the heavy iron gates surrounding the dozen’s compound. Beyond the gates a lush, manicured lawn yawned up to the large brick house, bordering on castle in both size and shape. To the right was a grove of trees, where twelve little play houses sat. It looked eerily like a scene from the seven dwarfs. If all the dwarves had a thing for purple and unicorns.
    I pulled over to the curb at the bottom of the road and made a quick wardrobe decision. I grabbed my faux Christian Diors again, popping them up on my head, and added an extra layer of lipstick, going ruby red. I puckered in the mirror, wishing I’d put a little more eyeshadow on this morning. I smudged what I had as high into my eyebrows as I could. Not perfect, but it would do. I drove my Bug up to the security talk box installed at the gate and hit the button to speak, waiting a moment before a voice came on the other end.
    “ May I help you?” it asked in a prim British accent. I instantly recognize it from the show—Nellie McGregor, the dozen’s nanny.
    “ Allie Quick,” I said, looking down at my fingernails in a bored manner for the benefit of the security camera mounted at the corner of the gate.
    There was a pause on the other end. Then Nanny McGregor came back. “I’m sorry. I don’t have an Allie Quick on my schedule,” she said, annunciating the word shed-duel in British fashion.
    I pulled my glasses down, rolled my eyes, did some more looking bored. “I’m the new pageant coach? For Donna, Deirdre and Daria?” I said, quoting the names of the oldest triplets who were, as of last season, slipping in their ranking as they grew from chubby little toddlers to awkward little preteens.
    Again, I waited while Nanny McGregor checked her schedule. I mentally crossed my fingers that a household with a dozen little girls in tiaras was as disorganized as I’d hoped.
    Luck must have been with me today, as Nanny McGregor came back on the line a moment later. “Fine. Come up. I’ll meet you at the front.”
    Yes!
    A second later the system buzzed and the big iron gates parted, leaving me a clear path to the diva castle. I wound my car up the road, following the big circular driveway and parking just to the left of the front door. True to her word, Nanny McGregor was waiting for me out front.
    I made a big show of grabbing everything I could from the back of my Bug and shoving it a tote bag (Honestly I had no idea what a pageant coach would do with a pair of gym shoes, a roadside kit and a handful of used Starbucks cards, but I figured they’d have a bunch of “stuff,” right?). Then I wrapped a silk scarf around my neck, slid my sunglasses up onto my head and “floated” the way I’d seen Miss America do up the front steps to meet Nanny.
    While the words “British Nanny” conjured up images of sensible shoes, starched informs and white hair worn in a no-nonsense bun, Nanny McGregor was about as far as away from that as possible. For one thing, she was young—at least a couple of years younger than I was. For another, she was hot. Like, scorching. She had long, thick brown hair that hung loose over her shoulders, slim legs a petite girl like myself instantly coveted, and curves that while not the waif look currently in vogue among runway models, spelled voluptuous and sexy to any man. I figured it was a good thing the dozen were all girls.
    “ Miss McGregor,” Nanny said by way of introduction as I approached, offering her hand.
    I gave it a