The Varnished Untruth (34 page)

We went roller-skating and biking down in Venice Beach, dressed in red, white and blue for beach barbeques in Malibu on the Fourth of July, and attended Superbowl parties, even though we knew nothing about American football. We went on road trips to some of the fantastic outdoorsy-type places that America has to offer – Yosemite, Red Rock Country in Arizona, and Lake Powell. I was never quite able to bring myself to camp in the woods like other Californians, though – Billy was never available to accompany us, I didn’t trust myself to manage the tent and, well, two words will suffice: grizzly bears! I heard those beasts can behead you with one swipe from OUTSIDE your tent! Once I agreed to go on a family camping trip arranged by the school, but my children were mortified when I brought along a portable loo. Talk about being prepared. I really would have been a superb girl scout.

Most people we knew in LA really went to town throwing birthday parties for their children. This was new for me and Billy – his birthday was barely celebrated and I never had a party until I was an adult, so I suppose I tended to go a bit overboard when it came to my own children, too. And there is a huge Jewish population in LA, so when the children became teenagers there seemed to be a bar mitzvah or bat mitzvah every weekend. I was absolutely amazed by those events – and terribly envious. I simply could not imagine being so appreciated and celebrated for coming of age. In the synagogue I was always so moved it was impossible not to cry.

California has amazing and varied resources. When I bought two utterly wayward Labrador puppies for the children, it was a no-brainer to call the dog trainer. But I remained absolutely hopeless at managing those animals and my kids were not much better. The animals were draining my energy and straining my benevolence. ‘I recommend Prozac,’ said the trainer. ‘Well,’ I replied, a little surprised, ‘my therapist and I have discussed that possibility but, well, we decided against it for now.’ ‘Oh, not for you,’ the trainer said quickly, ‘for the puppies.’

Occasionally, my mother visited us in LA, and I was usually quite nervous about her arrival. But I was glad for the chance to learn more about my relationship with her – always hoping it would improve. In some ways it had; my feelings were relatively benign towards her at this point. But I guess I held on to a crazy longing that things between us could eventually become warm and fuzzy.

A part of you still believed that could happen?

Yeah. Fat chance. Once I even took her to Las Vegas with Cara (what was I thinking?), and it was truly weird to see her loping along the Strip past hookers, touts and drag queens. She didn’t say much. All right. It was probably my dark side that dragged her there. I took her to some show at Caesar’s Palace – I can’t remember what it was, but I like to imagine it involved gyrating male strippers and a woman smoking with her fanny. No – I wouldn’t dare; it was probably . . . I don’t know . . . Celine Dion. Cara, at least, thought it was all a hoot. She’s such an original young woman, with a fine sense of irony.

I was impressed, though, by the way my mother became so independent after my father died. In 1997 she published a book about Fijian history after Western contact – told through postcards that had been sent home over many years, mainly to the UK. She called it
Fiji’s Past on Picture Postcards
and, as one would expect from my intelligent and focused mother, it’s an excellent and thoroughly researched book. My sister Claire and I accompanied her to Suva for the launch, which was held at the museum. This was a novel experience. We’d never done anything together like that before. Thankfully, my wonderfully pragmatic sister played her usual role of buffer against any flare-ups. I seem to remember that they laughed at me rather a lot, especially when I tried to drive the rental car – it had been many years since I was confronted with a stick shift – and I found myself growing emotionally younger and younger. I remember asking for jelly and ice cream for dessert and thinking, ‘What am I, five again?’ But Mum without Dad was interesting to observe. She seemed to have gained strength of self-determination – and an increased level of stubbornness. Yes, she was formidable. But I respected her achievement – the book was a labour of love for her, although one I’d had no idea she was undertaking. I should mention that it was around this time that she said one remarkably heartfelt thing to me – the only comment of its kind I ever remember her saying my whole life. It was in Los Angeles and came out of nowhere – and there was a little choke on the end of the sentence. She said: ‘I’m sorry for being such . . . a . . . bad mother.’

It is possible that she knew then that she was dying of cancer. I had arranged for her to see my doctor, ostensibly for a ‘general check-up’, and she may have learned something she did not wish to divulge. Apparently, she had once worked in a laboratory next to a man who chain-smoked strong Turkish cigarettes, and she was convinced that was how she contracted lung cancer. I never knew she was ill until much later; in fact the only time she directly referred to it was when I happened to be at her house in Epsom and noticed she had a bulk order of toilet rolls sitting in the garage. ‘Why on earth . . .’ I asked without thinking, and she answered with the driest, funniest line I’d ever heard emerge from her mouth. ‘Well, Pamela,’ she replied acidly, ‘I wasn’t expecting to have such a truncated life.’ There were several mysteries to Mum’s life since Dad died. For one, she seemed to have become a type of counsellor. To this day, I’m not even sure exactly what she did, but she was a kind of lay Christian guidance counsellor for clergy and people who were following some kind of spiritual path. Her work was based on St Ignatius’s teachings. Strange that a couple of years later she died on that saint’s own Feast Day.

This new path of my mother’s – as a nurturer of other people – only fuelled my sadness and sense of mystery about our relationship. From time to time – in public, usually at a book-signing or something – strangers approach me with words along the lines of: ‘I knew your mother. She was a truly wonderful woman. She guided me when I was seeking help at a crucial time in my spiritual journey.’ I look at them and nod blankly, suddenly imbued with a mixture of envy and pain. Well, what am I supposed to say? ‘Bully for you!’

Pamela, of course it takes as long as it takes, but you have held on to your bitterness towards your mother for such a long time – do you ever think about what it would be like for you to let go of that?

If only I could! If only I could have more compassion for her. Even the realization – after she went sneakily through all the drawers in my LA house and neatly labelled and alphabetized everything – that she suffered from obsessive compulsive disorder, did not soften my feelings towards her. That’s when I took her to Universal and stuck her on the Jurassic Park ride – ‘It’s a gentle, sightseeing tour . . .’ I lied. ‘There’ll just be a few fake dinosaurs.’ A fast-cornering, neck-whipping roller-coaster ride later – ending in a stomach-in-mouth plunge into cold water that soaked the front-seat passengers (I had made sure she was one of those) – she turned to me with a wry, defiant smile. ‘Thank you for that, Pamela,’ was all she said. Oh, yes, my shadow side was well and truly out that day. And I have no remorse. To be honest, it still makes me chuckle.

‘Pay me more, lady, or I’ll make the camel dance . . .’

Ah! Wow, I never thought of that. Hmm. It was a replay, I suppose. In Egypt all those years ago, I learned that to control my mother physically was the ultimate payback . . .

So, do you like me now?

Chapter Thirteen

F
ROWN
L
INES
, F
ARTING AND
F
RECKLES

It was a horrid, horrid thought: Sharon and I were about to turn fifty. Quite a milestone for anyone. In the El Torrito Mexican restaurant in Beverly Hills, where we frequently solved the problems of the world, we looked at each other resignedly over large strawberry daiquiris and plotted. ‘We’re going to have to decide,’ said Sharon, half-serious, half-mischievous, ‘on where we’re going to put our energy. Over the next decade, are we gonna work on becoming smarter or cuter?’ ‘Agreed,’ I said. ‘There’s just no time to do both.’ ‘I vote for cuter,’ we both said, simultaneously. That was it.

We planned beauty appointments, make-up advisory services, a spot of surgery and a jolly shopping trip to Neiman Marcus, a Beverly Hills department store we all preferred to call ‘Needless Mark-up’. I was definitely feeling like I was approaching a very unpleasant threshold, and that’s putting it mildly. To be honest, I was panicking. I was about to become invisible, unwanted, on the dumpster. From now on it would just be frown lines, farting and brown spots. Call the latter ‘freckles’, if you will, but, either way, if you want them gone in the interests of youthfulness, they require laser skin therapy from a machine called Fraxel that inflicts a ridiculously high level of pain. I’m talking serious torture.

Anyway, to cheer me up, Sharon suggested we go to a lovely resort in Sedona, Arizona, for my birthday and take all our kids. Billy was on the road, touring. That’s the reality of a comedian’s life, especially a successful one – and thank God he falls into that category. Anyway, the idea was to explore the Sedona region, which is known for a kind of New Age spiritualism. It’s also thought to be a place with an unusual kind of ‘energy’ and I was curious about it. I respected Native American shamans – many of whom lived in this region – and I was hoping for a kind of philosophical or spiritual insight. And the fact that UFO sightings are believed to be common in the Sedona environment only made the place more intriguing. Oh stop it. No, I don’t really believe in alien abductions, crop circles, past lives regression, or any of that woo-woo stuff, but it’s fun to imagine! Perhaps some benevolent alien creature could beam me up to the planet of everlasting youth . . . Wait, wasn’t that a
Star Trek
episode?

Anyway, my first experience in Sedona was of a more corporeal nature. On my dreaded birthday, 4 December, I booked a Swedish massage. In fact, several of us did – Jamie, who had been driving the minibus we’d hired for our road trip, needed a Shiatsu work over so he went before me. I sat in the waiting room for a couple of minutes before my appointed hour arrived, feeling old and unattractive. Suddenly, the inner door opened and an absolute love-god peeked out. ‘Dr Connolly?’ he said. ‘I’m your masseur. Follow me, please.’ This hunk led me into a darkened massage room, then instructed me to remove my clothing and lie down. He didn’t have to ask twice.

I hadn’t requested a male massage therapist, but I certainly had no objection. I sneaked a look at him. He was gorgeous. ‘I think I just massaged your brother,’ he said, looking at my name in the book. I was about to correct him, when I stopped myself. ‘Ah, yes . . .’ I murmured, thinking, ‘Sweet! He actually thinks Jamie was my brother! I wonder how old he thinks I am . . .’ I closed my eyes and felt his warm, practised hands roaming soothingly all over my back. Perhaps I drifted off, luxuriating in the sensuality of his touch. It felt a little . . . naughty, dangerous, but I didn’t care. Pretty soon he was asking me to turn over so my naked front was exposed. I complied and was dozing again when something entered my mind, a little . . . question.

Now he was massaging my arm. He had extended it out towards his body and, it was strange, but the back of my hand seemed to be making contact with something. Something warm and hard . . . Something inside his clothing. ‘Don’t panic, Pamela,’ I told myself. ‘Think very, very carefully about your next move.’ Being the curious, adventurous person I am, I considered going along with it – but then he made a move to touch me in places he shouldn’t. Oh, stop it! Men have relief massages – why shouldn’t a woman have a ‘Happy Ending’, as well? But it was a little too sleazy and, anyway, I wasn’t that desperate. ‘Sharon put you up to this, didn’t she?’ I giggled. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘Listen, beautiful, can I come to your room tonight?’

Of course that was the last I saw of him, but it was a powerful and timely affirmation that I wasn’t entirely ‘over the hill’. I never asked Sharon if she set it up or not. It’s the kind of thing she’s capable of but, actually, I don’t want to know. I’m lucky to have such a wonderful BF.

That story about the masseur was just a prelude to the most important thing that happened while we were in Arizona. The area is considered to have special vortices and portals and, I have to admit, I did feel a kind of ‘special energy’ there. Some have explained the vortex as a ‘magnetic energy field’ and warn visitors that they might experience the phenomenon known as
déjà vu
. Others go out on a limb and say it’s the Headquarters for Earth-based Command, and that – even by day – it’s common to spot so-called ‘lenticular cloudships’ and other alien craft playing a game of cat and mouse with the US military fighter jets. Alrighty then.

But since Sedona is a New Age Mecca, it seemed fun to explore that side of things, so Sharon, the kids and I took off in a jeep with a Native American guide and headed for the Red Rock mountain tops. The whole place was magnificent, especially Bell Rock, Cathedral Rock and Boynton Canyon. I felt very uplifted, although I couldn’t understand why. Perhaps it was the masseur – or my new Neimans bra. Anyway, at one point, we were near a high cliff and I mentioned to our guide that I didn’t like looking over the edge. ‘Come,’ he smiled, walking towards a sheer drop. I shook my head. The rest of the gang encouraged me to follow him (‘Don’t be a “fraidy-cat”, Mom!’) so I took a few, tentative steps. He walked back to me and said, ‘Close your eyes.’ Now, everything inside me wanted to scream: ‘Not on your Nellie!’ But, for some reason, I obeyed. His voice was calm, authoritative, kind. Cradling my shoulders from behind, he gently pushed me forward. Under his guidance, I took a couple of steps, then one or two more. The rest of our group fell silent. ‘Stretch your arms out to the side,’ he instructed me. I did, and then very slowly I took six or seven more steps.