Times of Trouble (2 page)

I knew immediately
what I would do to get this money. That would at least keep the
bank from taking the house. I knew mum would feel bad about how I
was going to raise the funds. And I thought I might feel even
worse. So I decided to do it before I told her, and before I lost
the nerve to act. Then and there, I listed my piano for sale on
eBay. I set the reserve at $5,000 because similar looking baby
grand pianos seemed to be selling for about that much on the site
already. My plan was to pay back the debt, and then have enough
left over to keep paying the mortgage until we worked out how else
to pay it.

Mum and I named my
piano Picasso because we thought he was beautiful, even if he did
take up most of the space in our front room. I spent more time with
him than any other creature on the planet, other than mum of
course. And, sad to admit, I thought of him as my friend. Sometimes
I talked to him, telling him how I was feeling, or got angry at him
when I was mad. I won him in a young performers’ competition when I
was 17. I was absolutely sure I‘d won as soon as I finished my
final piece, Schubert’s
Sonata
in B-flat major, D. 960
. I
must have practiced that sonata hundreds of times in the weeks
leading up to the competition. Mum knew every single note. She
would sit and listen to me practising, wincing when my finger
missed a beat or when a flat turned into a sharp. As I played the
final triumphant bars that night at the competition, I risked
looking out over the audience, and saw her with her chin resting on
her clasped hands, willing me to play it perfectly. I wasn’t
surprised when the judges announced me as the winner. I was so sure
of myself back then. I thought I was destined to win every prize.
Destined to win scholarships, get prestigious recording contracts
and perform with famous orchestras. That’s why it took so long for
my faith to waiver, and eventually come crashing down around my
ears.

I didn’t get out of
bed for a month after I finally came to terms with the fact I
wasn’t going to be a solo pianist. I might be good, but there were
always people who were better, or luckier, or in the right place at
the right time. The final realisation came when I was eliminated in
the semi finals of the
Sydney
International
Piano
Competition
. I knew the great
concert pianists had already made it by the time they were my age.
I got close, but not close enough. The adjudicator’s critique of my
performance was the final blow to an already flimsy hope. I
remembered her words like it was yesterday: ‘Miss Goddard obviously
has an impressive talent. Her recital was very well executed, and
technically brilliant. However, it lacked a certain quality, a
heart, you may say.’ I didn’t even have time to hate her, because I
was too busy hating myself. Mum and I spent days discussing what
she meant, how I could manufacture a solution for this ‘heartless’
problem. You see, people had said this to me before. Did I need to
look like I was enjoying myself more? Or try to connect with the
audience better? But no matter how much I practised playing with
‘heart’, I couldn't convince myself anything changed. So I gave
up.

It was the darkest
time of my life, those first few days after realising there was no
point going on. I woke up every night at 3:00 am and spent hours
trying to get back to sleep, my mind full of hatred and hurt at my
ruined dreams. It wasn’t like someone I loved died. It was worse
than that. I felt like I had died. The person I planned to be had
died, and with that realisation, my will to live disappeared. The
weeks that followed were like a muddy dream, filled with days of
tears, the occasional meal, sleep, and sulking. Mum put up with all
this. I lost a lot of weight, and sure, I wasn’t exactly looking
after myself. Showering and brushing my teeth were completely lost
from my daily routine. But the thing that worried mum most was my
lack of speech. The day she demanded I go to the doctor with her,
she claimed I hadn’t said a word for three days. The doctor put me
on HP’s. My prescription was for anti depressants but I hated the
word ‘depressed’ so I called them Happy Pills.

After a while, the
HP’s started to work a bit. It wasn't that I felt happy, but the
deep, hollow misery was blunted. One day I got out of bed, and said
to mum that I had to do something with my life. I couldn’t become
an invalid at the age of 24. So I made do with the only career
choice I had left - piano teacher. When I finally felt brave enough
to leave the house, and people asked me how my piano playing was
going, I brought out the old line ‘those who can do, those who
can’t teach’, so as to give them a laugh, and show I was coping
fine. But I wasn’t fine and I’m still not fine.

I slowly realised I
had spent most of my life hiding behind my piano playing. It was
like my talent was such an important part of me, I never bothered
to become anyone except ‘Ellen the amazing pianist’. And without
that, who was I? I’d never been very sociable. I’d never been
extroverted, or even what one might call friendly. But I could wow
people by playing beautiful music, which made me happy. I pictured
people who knew me listening to me play, and feeling proud they
were part of my life. But why would anyone want to know me if I
wasn’t a pianist? What else did I have to offer them apart from
that? And now I didn’t see anyone. Except mum and my students. I
guess my students couldn't come anymore, now I was losing Picasso.
But that was tomorrow’s problem. Today mum’s problem took centre
stage. It had been hanging over her all this time, and I was too
self centred even to notice. It was amazing how the sudden threat
of homelessness put life into perspective.

I felt a bit better
for knowing how much we owed. But I still had absolutely no idea
how we came to owe it in the first place. And it dawned on me that
mum didn't tell me what the money was for, because whatever it was,
she knew I wasn’t going to like it.

Chapter 2

When she left her
family, she told them she was going to find a better life. Her
mother was devastated to see her leave so young, but she had no way
of stopping her. There wasn’t enough money to keep her at school,
and her younger brothers and sisters needed mothering more than she
did. She could hardly believe her luck when the man came to their
house, and offered her a job as a nanny in London. Was it really as
easy as that to move to another country? With a job in England, she
would send them as much money as she possibly could. Her friends
were so jealous she was going to London. That’s where the
celebrities lived; that’s where people had a chance to make it big.
But when she arrived, the job wasn’t what she thought at all. She
told him she'd never done anything like it before. He didn’t seem
to mind though, and was hardly listening when she checked to make
sure he knew how old she was.

‘
You are beautiful,
Veronica. You are going to be a huge star,’ was all he
said.

The first scene they
shot wasn’t as bad as she thought it might be. There was only one
man, and it didn’t last long. They told her what they wanted her to
say, and what they wanted her to do. It almost was like acting,
sort of. Her English wasn't great, but luckily they didn't care.
They seemed pleased it was the first time she had had sex. She
would never admit to her family she lost her virginity this way.
But you had to lose it somehow, and wasn’t this quite an exciting
way to do it? It hurt a lot, but she knew it probably would; a
friend told her the first time was always like that. The man was
experienced at least, and he didn’t make her feel uncomfortable.
She even felt proud of herself at the end, when he told her how
well she had done, how many great shots they got. It gave her
enough confidence to feel she could get through the second scene
only two days later. Different hotel room, same crew, different
actors.

These men weren’t as
nice as the first man. They were rough, and hardly said anything to
her. One threw her all over the bed, changing positions every few
seconds, making the sex disjointed and painful. And the takes all
seemed to last forever too, much longer than she was comfortable
with. There were at least three men in each scene, each one with
more energy than the last. She tried to make it look like she was
enjoying herself. She tried to ignore the pain searing up her
thighs, and making her stomach hurt. She didn’t want to make them
angry if she didn’t perform.

She felt sad at the
end of that day, and the sadness hadn’t gone away since. The man
who hired her let her stay in his
apartment,
and
sometimes took her out to bars. But he also expected something in
return. She thought he might have liked her to begin with, but it
soon became clear he was only interested in sex. Whenever he
wanted. Sometimes he told her she was doing well in the films, but
she felt something wasn’t right. Why did he let the men be so
rough? Not just rough, but cruel. One slapped her really hard in
the face and the crew didn't even react. Another one tied her
wrists behind her back and threw her on the floor. She almost cried
out in pain, but managed to stay professional, even though her leg
was bruised and sore. Then the man she was staying with
disappeared, but luckily she had a key to his place, so she stayed
there alone. No one ever said where he’d gone, but the work kept
going. Other men were organised to deliver her to the set. She
hated it more and more each time.

She didn’t know who
to turn to about how she felt. Nearly everyone she met in England
seemed wrapped up in themselves, and not at all interested in her.
She managed to make one friend, a girl she overheard speaking her
language at the grocery store. She didn't tell her what she did for
a living though; she was too embarrassed to explain. Then there was
a girl on the set of the film one afternoon, to whom she spoke for
a little while, admitting she wasn’t enjoying herself. The girl,
Molly was her name, was getting her makeup done at the same time
for filming in another room. She was older, and seemed really
friendly, motherly almost. She wished she could talk to her again
now. But she hadn’t seen her since then, and that was months ago.
At the time she told herself if this girl was ok with the filming,
maybe she was just immature. Maybe this was what it was like to be
a real actress.

Today she overheard
them say it was the final scene, so at least she could look forward
to having a break for a while. She had been brought to a different
hotel as usual, but something seemed strange. There were usually a
crew of three or four on the cameras and the lights, a lady doing
makeup and a couple of younger guys who ran errands and bossed her
around. But today there were only two men whom she'd never seen
before. They told her to do her own makeup, and didn’t even give
her anything to wear. Usually they gave her lingerie; expensive
lacy pieces that made her feel grown up. But she was only wearing
plain white briefs and a black bra today. Was this ok for the film?
When she went into the bedroom, she could see Big Ben from the
window. Maybe she could do a tour of London once she was paid, and
explore this city she was living in.

While one of the men
was organising the lights, the door opened and another man strolled
into the room. Unlike the other two, he was wearing a suit; she
thought he was perhaps the boss. She had never seen him
before.

The man with the
lights said: ‘We’re almost ready to go, Jared.’

The newcomer had a
smile on his face as he opened the mini bar, and took out a bottle
of champagne.
‘We’ve nearly finished.
Let’s celebrate before we start. Lance, Ian, do you want some
bubbly?’ He poured four glasses of champagne.

Then he said to her: ‘I’ve got a special treat for
you. It will make this one better than the others.’

She didn’t know what he meant by this, but could
sense it was not a good idea to disagree. He handed her three small
tablets, and watched closely as she obediently put them in her
mouth and took a small sip of champagne. She hated the taste of
alcohol, and hardly noticed the bitter taste of the pills as they
slid down her throat. The three men gulped their champagne, and
then got down to business.

The scene started
much like the other scenes. Jared stood in the corner, and watched
as one of the men filmed. The third man positioned her on the bed,
and then striped down to his underpants. Usually there were lines
to say, but she hadn't been given any today, and the man seemed to
want to get started with the sex straight away. She tried to look
pleased as he started to rub her breasts and put his fingers inside
her. But unlike other times, she was finding it hard to concentrate
on how she was performing. A dark cloud seemed to be forming in her
mind, making the room more muted; everything seemed slow and grey.
Just as she felt her eyelids close, she was shocked awake by the
man tearing her underwear off in a violent rip. He used one hand to
hold her down, and the other to pull on the cotton. The elastic
burnt her skin as it snapped. His fumbling hand tore at her bra,
breaking the straps, and leaving red marks on her shoulders. Tears
welled in her eyes. She had hoped this scene wouldn’t be as rough
as the others, but it looked like it was going to be even
rougher.

She knew she
shouldn’t struggle, but she couldn’t help it when he forced her
legs apart, and started pushing himself inside her. He drove in
hard and deep, with more force than she could bear. The pain was
worse than it had ever been before. And even though her head felt
fuzzy and dazed, this didn’t stop her feeling like her insides were
being torn apart. He thrust so hard her head was slamming into the
backboard of the bed. She cried out in pain, no longer caring what
they thought of her performance. She just wanted it to end. She
could see Jared standing in the corner behind the camera man,
completely ignoring her eyes pleading with him to make it stop. The
man started clawing at her breasts, leaving scratches down her
chest and stomach. No one seemed to mind her crying and pleading.
Even with her mind jumbled, she could tell they wanted her to be
desperate. They wanted her to look like she was trying to get
away.