Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (25 page)

Paul and I were running out of money as the numerous court appearances drained our finances. We still had the car lease to service and we both desperately needed straight jobs. Paul managed to get us an interview at the electronics retailer, Brashs. Over the years, we had been regular customers—buying video cameras, VCRs and televisions—so the staff knew us personally. We were given jobs on the spot: I was to assist with the video courses the company was offering, and Paul was hired as a salesman.

Life stabilised. Relations with Dory thawed and I overcame my disappointment with her. I realised that at her age, she would probably never recover from the shock of what we’d put her through. Shoshanna was in a new creche, again spending Saturdays with her grandmother. I had still not totally forgiven Dory for her abandonment of us, but she was, she said, doing what she could to help. Generously, she contributed significantly to our legal bills, which ran into tens of thousands of dollars.

As it happened, Paul had a natural flair for sales. With his first-hand knowledge of video equipment, he was able to talk with authority, his charm and sincerity convincing customers of the wisdom of their purchases. Within weeks, he became one of the retail giant’s top salesmen nationwide. I enjoyed organising video courses, as well as doing part-time sales. My boss was most accommodating, and at least Paul and I were getting to see each other during the day.

As the months passed, however, our life at Brashs became a daily grind. We were working long hours for little reward and our social life was non-existent. Occasionally, we received random visits from the police doing spot checks to see that we were being fit and proper parents.

Paul said he didn’t know how long he could keep being a retail salesman, even though he was good at it—he was finding it totally soul destroying. He thought we should consider moving to Canberra, at least for a while. ‘You know what’s the most frustrating part of all this?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘The fact that if we’d been in the Australian Capital Territory, all the porn offences we’ve been charged with would’ve been fully legal. No wonder all the big porn operators are in Canberra.’

‘What worries me most is that the police may decide to remove Shoshanna again,’ he added. ‘We’re totally broke now, so I don’t know how we’d manage.’

‘But we’re not doing anything illegal,’ I said. ‘We’ve had nothing to do with porn since our bust.’ Indeed, there was not a skerrick of anything obscene in the house, so theoretically we couldn’t be accused of being unfit parents any more. And we’d purged the house, even hurling the bug bag into the Yarra River by the Warrandyte Bridge.

‘But they might try. Imagine if they took her again,’ he said.

‘Listen—we’re finally out of porn, and it’s a great feeling.’ I didn’t want to go back to that lifestyle. The police were absolutely right—it wasn’t a fit environment for a child.

‘But this job is killing me inside.’

‘Well, you should’ve got an education—gone to night school. You could still be a graphic designer.’

‘Bullshit, it’s too late to study,’ he said.

I knew Paul well enough to realise that, once an idea seeded in his mind, his tenacity wouldn’t allow him to let go. We argued frequently.

‘You seem to think you can just move house every time the going gets tough,’ I said.

‘But we don’t have any ties here. You’ve only got Dory, and we both know what a hateful witch she is.’

‘That’s not true,’ I retorted.

Paul pointed out that I couldn’t even count on her for moral support. ‘We’ll see if she comes to court.’

The court case was still hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles. I hadn’t asked Dory yet, but I knew full well that it was highly unlikely she would attend.

‘Sooner or later, they’ll remove Shoshanna. They’re out to get us.’ Paul was sounding a touch paranoid.

Gradually he talked me round to the possibility of moving. He proposed that it would only be temporary and we would return to Melbourne as soon as we thought it was safe. It would destroy me to leave my beautiful house but, if it meant we could live with Shoshanna in safety and make a living, I would do it. Nothing else mattered besides being with her.

Around this time we learnt that the head of Brashs had been sent some of our pornographic photos, with an explanatory note identifying us. We could only assume it was one of our work colleagues, with whom Paul had fought a long-running battle for sales supremacy. We had no idea how he obtained the photos, although of course there were thousands floating around. It seemed our days at Brashs were numbered whether we wanted to stay or not.

In the weeks leading up to our court case, I was constantly sick with worry. I lost so much weight, I was skeletal. Paul was a chain-smoking bundle of nerves. Predictably, Dory again refused to attend court with us, although another of her friends—whom I barely knew—kindly offered.

Thankfully, our legal team succeeded in having all the more serious charges dropped. Just over half of our combined 25 charges were struck out: the convictions were only in relation to the possession and manufacture of objectionable films, keeping obscene articles for gain and cultivating cannabis. The fines totalled over seven thousand dollars and we would have convictions recorded against us; but all the charges we pleaded guilty to were summary and not indictable offences.

Lloyd’s estimation of the situation was that our sentence was overly harsh. He pointed out they were victimless crimes, and that society’s standards were changing. There did seem to be a certain hypocrisy inherent in laws that allowed us to be convicted for several counts of ‘possession of objectionable film for sale’, while the clients who purchased them were not criminals in the eyes of the law. Frankly, though, we were just relieved that the ordeal was over. I vowed never to break the law again.

This time the newspapers named us, together with our street name and our convictions. A police spokesman said ‘it was the first time in ten to twelve years anyone had been charged with the manufacture of obscene films’.

I tried to talk to Dory about my disappointment that she hadn’t attended court, but she consistently recoiled from even discussing it. I maintained she was out of touch with community standards, but she wouldn’t be swayed. Then I broached the subject of us moving to Canberra, saying we might trial it for a while. ‘You could rent out the house and start getting a regular income from it. And we can get away from all this crap.’ I knew though that, if our Canberra move didn’t work out, I couldn’t expect Dory to let us move back in. ‘We’re terrified the police might return,’ I said.

Thankfully, she hadn’t made the connection between our proposed move and the legalities of pornography. ‘But where will you live? . . . And how will you get work?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure, but I definitely don’t want to be in Melbourne right now.’

‘But you don’t know anyone there.’

‘We’ll manage.’

‘I’ll call Margaret and Otto and tell them you’re coming.’

‘I can’t stay with them,’ I said indignantly.

‘Why not?’ she queried, reminding me it was where she always stayed in Canberra. ‘They’d love to have you and Shoshanna.’ Presumably, Paul wasn’t welcome.

It was true. I remembered our frequent visits to Sir Otto and Lady Frankel’s house when I was a child, and how they’d stayed with us when in Melbourne. Sir Otto was a CSIRO plant geneticist of international renown; he and his wife, a well-known potter, had been among Dory and Egon’s dearest friends. He had recently had a large CSIRO building named in his honour. The thought of staying with them while pursuing our porn career was too bizarre to contemplate.

‘Look,’ I said. ‘I’ll take their number, but I wouldn’t want to impose on them; I just don’t know if we’ll be moving in the same circles.’

So the car was packed with our most essential possessions; once established, we would return to pack up the house. The three of us then drove to Canberra, full of optimism for a new beginning.

It was New Year’s Eve 1989 when we arrived. As we hugged on the forecourt of Parliament House, we felt that the new decade would herald a fresh start in our lives.

14

Anzac Parade runs south-west from the Australian War Memorial, creating a visual link to Parliament House across Lake Burley Griffin. It was on the service road of this stately thoroughfare that we rented our 1920s house. Its separate office and spare bedroom made it ideal for our purposes.

Not only were we stony broke, but we still owed large sums of money to our lawyers and our fines would have to be paid. Our financial position was so dire that we were struggling to pay our bills and service our huge monthly lease payments, which were already in arrears. There was a constant stream of overdue notices and letters from debt collectors threatening legal action. We were desperate, but I was too proud to ask Dory for a loan.

Paul put me under continuous, but subtle, pressure. Prostitution. I knew instinctively what I needed to do; he didn’t have to say anything directly. He had raised it many times over the years, always pointing out how lucky I was that, as a female, it was a viable option. I had always resisted, seeing it as that last scrap of unexplored sexual territory. Yet I knew I could disconnect emotionally, and it wouldn’t be that different to what I’d been doing already. And so it was understood between us that it would be through my efforts alone that we’d survive.

I wondered why I didn’t resent him for my further descent into depravity but, since I viewed this as ‘our joint mess’, I rationalised that under different circumstances it could just as easily have been
him
supporting
me
. Still, I did ask myself some stern questions. Had all my education come to
this
? Is
this
what I was reduced to? Or all I was capable of? Oh God, I could hear Dory’s despairing voice echoing in my mind:
Nikki-le, Nikki-le, you’re such a clever
girl, so attractive—what has become of you?
And what would Egon have thought of the apple-of-his-eye turning tricks? I tried not to think about that—it was too painful.

The porn had always had a veneer of glamour, or at least that’s what I could tell myself. One had only to look at the porn stars who had become household names. But hookers . . . the only respectable one I could think of was Xaviera Hollander. Still, there was just one solution, as I saw it: I would have to find work in a brothel to tide us over.

I started work almost immediately at Canberra’s premier establishment, Touch of Class. Their premises, more akin to a five-star hotel, were impressive, with original artworks adorning their parlour walls. Suzanne, the owner-madam, had appeared on ABC TV’s
Chequerboard
program and was well known for her vociferous views in favour of the decriminalisation of prostitution. She explained that we would be introduced to the clients, who would then choose. As a new girl, I was likely to be popular; however, if I found a patron distasteful, I was at liberty to make myself unavailable.

There were half-hour and hour bookings, and I was told the procedure: the receptionist would take care of the finances and I, once in the room, was to inspect the client’s genitals, checking for any sexually transmitted diseases. Each room had a shower recess and he was expected to cleanse before any sexual activity. My payment would be by cheque, not cash; apparently, the tax office had a special code known only to their employees and this, rather than the word prostitute, would appear on my tax summary under ‘Occupation’.