One Way or Another (18 page)

Two days later I heard that I'd been cast in a Yoplait commercial. I was to play a Moulin Rouge dancer in a sequinned blue leotard with a massive feather headdress. That made Billy and me laugh.

‘Good thing you're hardly showing. They might not like a pregnant can-can girl, hey?'

The commercial was filmed in a big warehouse and I felt like a croquembouche, strutting around in my sequins with a monstrous great peacock on my head. There was a man in a gorilla suit who had it worse than I did; he had to arrive on-screen by flying fox. The Yoplait man was famous for his line, ‘Yoplait … it's French for yoghurt.' I had seen him on TV countless times and was surprised to find he was a real Frenchman who had been flown to Australia especially for the shoot. In one take the gorilla collided with him and sent him flying. He was briefly unconscious but soldiered on through the afternoon, saying ‘Ze show must go on' in his thick French accent.

My scene saw me in a jail cell, bending the bars to accept a tub of yoghurt. I spooned a dollop into my mouth seductively as the French gendarme said, ‘Stay as sweet as you are, Simone.' Just one problem: I hated yoghurt. Particularly warm yoghurt. Particularly as I felt nauseous with hormones. Between takes a crew member passed me a bucket into which to spit the crap. But the commercial paid well, which was lucky: I would surely be showing soon and there weren't too many roles for pregnant women about.

My stomach started popping over my belt not long after the Yoplait shoot. Shirley from Bedford and Pearce was congratulatory, but warned me not to tell any of the casting directors. At my age, this could put the brakes on my career with a rubbery squeal. I promised myself that I'd get back into shape fast once the baby arrived. Pregnancy would be only a brief pause in my journey toward Oscar.

Billy and I packed up our belongings and said goodbye to Boystown. Joey had recently fallen in love with an American girl and was leaving the country. Virgil had also fallen in love. So with a small celebration and little fanfare, Boystown closed its door to rock and roll and retired, becoming just another stately terrace house in Goodhope Street, Paddington.

We were moving to a two-bedroom flat, clean and renovated, on the top floor of a large brick block in Victoria Road, Bellevue Hill. My fee for the AIDS commercial paid for a collection of second-hand furniture and while Billy toured with Icehouse, I spent my days pottering around the neighbourhood thrift shops in search of little treasures. It became my new addiction; I could hardly go a day without a fix of Lifeline or St Vincent de Paul.

Jackie and Brian and our myriad of other acquaintances would drop in for tea or coffee now and again, but without the high of cocaine we had little in common. One afternoon Jackie invited us over for lunch. As I applied my lipstick and climbed into yet another outfit that resembled pyjamas, I sulked.

‘I don't feel like going out. You guys will drink and they'll probably offer you some coke.'

‘Don't be like that. They're our friends. I'll take you to the movies after lunch, how about that?'

By three o'clock he was wired off his dial and he and Brian were onto their second six pack of beer. Jackie was making no sense and was showing me her famed centrefold spread, which only made me feel like a deformed whale.

‘Movies,' I whispered to Billy, elbowing him in the side.

‘Boring.' He made a face at me.

I pushed myself up from the couch and stormed out, slamming the door behind me. Walking down William Street from Kings Cross, I got two wolf whistles and three horn honks. Some people were perverse! Checking my handbag, I found that I had enough cash to go to a movie myself. I had never ever gone to the cinema alone.

The cinema on Pitt Street offered little that appealed to me. I opted for
Malcolm
, a small Australian film. One of the actors was a regular at Benny's and I'd shared a couple of drinks with him. The flick made me completely forget my anger at Billy and I laughed out loud. The baby kicked in my belly and I realised that I was not alone after all. I'd just taken my son or daughter to the movies.

Out in the foyer after the film, I stopped in front of a poster advertising the opening the following week of
Dead End Drive-In
. My small headshot appeared in the lower left-hand corner. Billy might have missed
Malcolm
, but he wouldn't be getting out of a trip to the movies the following week.

*

After the final credits rolled and my name had flashed quickly by, we walked down George Street, looking for somewhere to have dinner. Ten minutes passed wordlessly until Billy finally spoke.

‘I'm sorry, Nik, but that was truly awful.'

I laughed, but inside I was devastated. My film debut might just go down in history as the worst performance of all time. I saw my Oscar evaporating before my tear-blind eyes. I'd looked awful. I was playing a terrible stereotype – the gum-chewing slut – and I didn't even do that well. My dialogue was wooden and my facial expressions suggested constipation. The final scene was impressive but the rest of the movie was all tits, punks and car crashes. I wondered why I should bother ever acting again.

As my belly grew, Billy began going out on the town more and more without me. I had no desire to go clubbing or gigging. More often than not he didn't come home until the first light of morning. One night I sat for hours in the laundry basket in a corner of the darkened bedroom, listening to Crowded House on my walkman. In the morning Billy straggled in, looking like the wild man of Borneo.

‘I walked home through Cooper Park, but I was trashed and must have passed out. I woke up under a tree because some kid was kicking me, yelling, “Mister, are you alive?” ' Billy thought it was hilarious. I was worried and hurt.

I read every book on pregnancy I could get my hands on. I learned about Braxton Hicks contractions and stretch marks and haemorrhoids. It was a messy-sounding business, but fascinating. Being short with a small build meant that very soon I was a walking belly. The baby wriggled and kicked all night, keeping me awake. I talked to him or her and collected singlets and stretchy jumpsuits in neutral yellow or white. I rolled through summer like a hot, throbbing bunion.

We had a huge window in our bedroom, overlooking busy Victoria Road and Cooper Park beyond. Billy would catch the early morning bus to the city and then another to Pyrmont, where he was working in a factory, making props for film and television and rock clips. Every weekday morning I would sit on the bed and wave out the window to him, using sign language to express our love or whatever else was racing through our minds.

One morning, much to his consternation and the amusement of others at the bus stop, I stood up in just my knickers and pressed my eight-month belly and gigantic mammary glands against the glass.

‘That was funny,' Billy said through a mouthful of pizza that night. ‘Just don't do it again.' I began attending antenatal classes at St Margaret's Hospital in Darlinghurst. Most of the women were accompanied by their partners but Billy was often away and if he was at home, he slept for much of the day.

‘It's not really my cup of tea,' he said when I asked him to come along.

At the first class I was dubious. I was prepared to give it a go but didn't see why I couldn't learn whatever I needed to know from a book. People had been having babies forever. It was a natural process, like sex – and we hadn't needed lessons for that.

We sat on the floor in a circle, four couples and one other single woman and me. She and I were paired up as a makeshift duo. She was a beautiful blonde Englishwoman with the creamy complexion that comes from living in a climate of drizzle. Ever a sucker for an accent, I got goosebumps when she spoke. We introduced ourselves and exchanged quick resumes. She was nearly thirty and had lived in London, New York and Athens. This was fascinating in itself, but then I learned she was an artist. A painter. Her work hung in galleries around the world. I shared the meagre details of my acting career.

‘I'll have to see
Dead End Drive-In
,' she smiled, revealing gorgeous teeth with a wide gap between the top two. I had always hated the gaps in my teeth but on the Artist, it was striking. Her smile shone like a proud frame around it.

‘Please don't,' I laughed. ‘I think it shut down after the first week, anyway.'

After we'd practised panting and breathing and watched a horribly graphic film, the Artist invited me for coffee at the hospital cafeteria.

‘I let myself have one coffee a day,' she told me as we waddled together through the sterile corridors.

‘Where's your husband or partner or whatever?' I asked.

‘I'm doing this on my own,' she said. ‘I asked a friend for his sperm and he gave it to me, no strings attached.'

‘Oh, right …' I nodded. ‘Will your friend be a part of the whole parenting thing?'

We sat down and ordered coffees.

‘No. He doesn't want to be involved and that's fine. If he changes his mind, I'll be happy to share the experience with him, but he's gay and heavily into the New York art scene.'

We enjoyed each other's company and decided to commit to the six-week course as partners and coffee pals.

*

That same afternoon, Shirley Pearce called me.

‘Ken Cameron wants to meet with you to discuss a role in a telemovie. What should I tell him?'

Ken was the director of
The Umbrella Woman
, which I'd worked on as a stand-in reader during auditions. I remembered him as a lovely, genuine man and felt sure that he could handle the truth. Perhaps filming was more than four weeks away.

‘Just tell him the truth and see what he has to say.'

I met with Ken the following week. On my way in, I passed a girl on the stairs with rich, brown hair and pretty eyes. She looked familiar. And then she smiled at me with a mouthful of lovely teeth.

‘Gia Carides,' I said out loud, and felt instantly embarrassed.

‘Have we met?' She smiled again.

‘No,' I mumbled.

‘Good luck with the baby,' she said, nodding to my stomach.

‘You have lovely teeth.' I couldn't help it. It escaped from my lips like a sneaky burp.

‘Thank you!'

‘And I thought you were great in
Bliss
.'

She was lovely. As I continued up the stairs, I couldn't help but jealously mouth the word ‘bitch'.

‘That's some belly,' Ken laughed as I was shown into the room. ‘And the million-dollar question is, when are you due?'

‘Three weeks.'

‘Perfect,' he clapped his hands together. ‘We start shooting in five. Here's a script. It's a piece on police corruption called
The Clean Machine
.'

‘Do you want me to read for you?' I asked.

‘Not necessary. It's only a small role and I'm sure you'll be perfect for it.'

I was over the moon.

‘You'll be working closely with Grigor Taylor,' he continued.

I stared at him. I had suffered from a massive crush on Grigor when he'd starred in the television series
Glenview High
.

‘That's great. Grigor is great.'

And then Ken added, nonchalantly: ‘Oh, and are you okay with nude scenes?'

Time froze like a pause button had been hit.

All my thoughts were now focused on our due date of 8 February. For days on end I played with Tarot cards, trying to determine when my baby would be born. The tail end of summer was ruthless and I lolled on the couch, bathed in sweat.

On 25 January, Billy and I attended a secret gig by INXS at the Tivoli. ‘This will be my last night out for a while,' I warned him. It was nice to put on make-up and dress up for a change, and I swathed my grossly swollen frame in a full-length red jacket. As we lined up to get in, a couple of young guys sauntered up behind me, singing the Stevie Wonder hit ‘The Woman in Red'. When I turned and flashed my rotund gut at them, they reeled back in surprise.

*

The Artist and I continued to enjoy our classes together and after our fourth lesson, she asked me back to her flat in Bondi for tea. We struggled into her little MGB and drove down to the ocean. She lived in a ground-floor unit, rich with colour and character. The walls were painted white and the floor was covered in mosaic tiles, blues and purples and silvers. It was a shimmering wonderland. Her paintings lined the walls and her sculptures adorned the mantelpiece. I followed her into the kitchen.

‘Iced tea?' she asked. ‘We'll sit in the garden.'

Outside, her courtyard was overflowing with plants and herbs and impossibly vibrant flowers. We sat on a hand-woven South American rug.

‘Here, I'd like you to read this. It really changed my life.' She handed me a book.
My Mother / My Self
, by Nancy Friday. ‘I think it will change your life too. It's a gift. For a new mother.'

She leaned across the rug and kissed me on the lips. As gentle as a cat's whisker, the kiss lingered two seconds longer than a friendly peck should last. She looked into my eyes and I could see my wide-eyed reflection in them. A milky little me swimming in her sea-blue irises.

‘Thank you,' I smiled. Not embarrassed. Not guilty. Just flattered and grateful.

She lifted her white cheesecloth shirt and lay back, letting the sunlight bathe her extended belly. The silvery stretch marks ran in concentric patterns around her lower abdomen like a large rosette. I reached out instinctively and touched it. Warm and hard. I felt her baby stir beneath my hand.

‘So beautiful,' I murmured and lay down beside her.

We lay there watching the clouds swirl and dance across the pale blue sky. A gust of wind sent a sprinkle of leaves over our bellies and we laughed. A few seconds later a sudden sunshower began to fall. We ran inside like lumbering white elephants and settled in the living room.

‘Music,' she laughed. ‘We should dance. The dance of the fertility goddesses.'

I hadn't danced in ages. At gigs the most I ever did was bounce about rhythmically. A flutter of acoustic guitar filled the room and I imagined a dark, pony-tailed Spanish man fingering the fret board. I shut my eyes and let the music move through me. The child in my womb began to sway. My arms snaked through the air and my feet moved as if on water. Together we swirled and I felt the power of being pregnant.

‘I'd like to paint you,' she said after the music had stopped. ‘I'd do a self portrait but I can't find a mirror big enough.'

I nodded. Usually I was uncomfortable with my nakedness, but with a nude scene coming up I figured I could use a dress rehearsal. Or lack-of-dress rehearsal. In the telemovie, I would be sitting naked on a bed. Ken had promised to film the scene from behind to make it easier for me.

The Artist had me recline on her blue velvet couch and I felt quite Rubenesque. I was a little embarrassed by my appendectomy scar, which had grown into a purple welt, but I shut my eyes and let myself relax.

‘You're beautiful,' she said as she went to work at her easel. It had been a long time since Billy had told me I was beautiful. As I lay there, we talked of many things. She told me about the streets of New York, painted me a mental picture of a city that felt like home to me. She told me about her lovers in Greece, her parents in Coventry and her brush with breast cancer. I told her about my teenage deviance, my love of theatre and my dreams of fame and fortune.

‘Do you think I'm shallow for wanting to win an Oscar?' I asked.

‘No. Everyone should have one grand passion.' I opened my eyes and smiled. So long ago I had seen the same words on a bumper sticker and adopted them as my motto. Back then I had thought my grand passion was rock stars, but now I saw that they were just entertainment on my journey to a grander goal.

‘I will win an Oscar one day,' I announced, more sure than I'd ever been.

‘Of that I have no doubt.' She smiled. ‘But our passions don't always come to us in the form we expect. Remember that.'

*

The afternoon turned to dusk and I stood at her door.

‘You can see the painting after I've finished. I just have some shading to do. I'll hang it in New York for you one day. Some quirky little gallery.'

I smiled and leaned forward, kissing her deeply on the lips. We let our hands rest on each other's bellies. This wasn't sexual but sensual. I discovered that something physical could pass between two people that transcended sex.

‘See you in class,' I winked, and caught a cab back to Bellevue Hill.

*

That night I began reading
My Mother / My Self
while Billy was out constructing a stage for a gig at the Entertainment Centre. It was eye-opening stuff and I wondered how the Artist could possibly have known how apt Friday's book would be to my life.

My Mother / My Self
was subtitled ‘the daughter's search for identity', and it hit me like a slap across the face. This was what I had spent my youth doing – searching for my own identity, sorting through the various labels on offer: daughter, sister, schoolgirl, friend, lover. I had been born into a revolutionary world for women. The free-loving hippies had paved the way and the pill had liberated us (not that I was very good at remembering to take it). But growing up in a conservative Catholic household, I had no female sexual models to look up to besides Mary Magdalene. All I had were celebrities – movie stars and rock and rollers – to teach me about passion and sensuality. The only books about sex I had read were old anatomy texts like
Everywoman
. Nancy Friday's book showed me the missing link: she delved into the emotion and psychology of sex, pointing out that my generation was facing a new world and navigating a new sexual landscape. Instead of feeling like a freaky little slut, I realised, I could consider myself a revolutionary. A pioneer. I started actually liking myself.

I had been brought up to think of my sexuality as something shameful. It was a curse shared by many if not most of my gender. The Catholic Church had long decried the female sex and this message had been hammered home in every religion lesson I'd attended. When my hormones had struggled to life in my teens, I'd been wracked with shame, guilt and confusion. I'd thought I was a freak of nature, a disgrace. Perhaps I had targeted ‘idols' – iconic symbols of sexuality – thinking that if they could want and love me, then maybe I was a desirable, loveable creature. They validated me. Then again, perhaps I had sought out rock stars because they were considered sexual deviants; maybe I was seeking out my own kind.

I lay awake all night, tossing in a psychoanalytical haze. I swam back into my childhood, remembering the little girl who'd been so confused and had felt so alone in her confusion. I touched my belly and promised my baby that I would never judge, never condemn. I would always be there to listen to fears and I would never, ever reject or stifle the person he or she wanted to become.