Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (39 page)

‘Fuckin’ hell—I reckon this guy is SAS,’ said Paul, peering over Tanya’s shoulder. Even Paul was shocked. I was shaking my head in disbelief.

‘And look at the other photo,’ said Tanya. He was holding his erection while wearing a red military dinner jacket. ‘Rather smart, actually—the red waistcoat and jacket with white lapels and black bow tie,’ said Tanya, who had a sense of the sartorial. ‘And look at all his medals.’

‘Show me.’ Paul studied the photo. ‘What a shitload of gongs he’s got. World War II, Korea, Vietnam . . . actually, I think one of them is some kind of Vietnam bravery medal.’ Paul was a minor militaria expert.

‘At least it’s not as bad as the guy who sent us piccies of a size-nine knitting needle shoved up his penis,’ observed Tanya.

I cringed—I couldn’t help thinking about that whenever I knitted. ‘But the Major . . .’ I was literally at a loss for words. ‘I actually think it’s very disturbed and demeaning to the army—he could probably be court-martialled for this.’

‘Well, just as well he’s retired,’ said Paul.

‘And just as well I’ve retired,’ I joked, then turned serious. ‘I worry sometimes: we’re only seeing the perverted side of human nature. I mean, I’m trying to see the funny side, but . . .’

‘Well, I’d better not show you the apple pie piccies,’ said Tanya.

Paul smirked, obviously knowing what she was referring to.

‘What apple pie piccies?’ I asked.

‘Oh, they’re just a series of six photos of a guy shoving an apple up his arse. Kind of time-lapse photography.’

‘Oh, no! I don’t wanna see them,’ I wailed. Then curiosity got the better of me. ‘Granny Smith or Red Delicious?’

‘Those green ones.’ Tanya, who was not au fait with apple varieties, cracked up.

‘You realise you have to show me now,’ I said jokingly.

Tanya quickly flashed the final photo of the sequence in the air.

‘Oh, my God—I’m never going to be able to eat a green apple again without thinking of that.’

‘Any apple . . .’ added Paul.

We laughed hysterically until Tanya said to me, ‘Oh, one last thing. You’ll wanna hear this—it’s kinda sweet. This guy’s written you a poem. I promise you’ll like it. He’s called it “Ode to Nikki”.’ She read aloud:

Nikki fills my nightly dreams

Sheer perfection, so it seems.

She doth glow like bounteous treasure,

Made for men’s enduring pleasure.

Abundant fantasies, erotic scenes,

Alas sweet Goddess, I’ve creamed my jeans.

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘It’s sorta sweet—rhyming couplets and all.’

In the winter of 1992, I was in the final stages of pregnancy when Saskia announced that she and Paul’s half-brother Rudi, now aged sixteen, were coming to visit. Apparently she would lose her frequent flyer points if she didn’t use them soon. Putting them up at our new house was seriously inconvenient: I was heavily pregnant and the entire contents of Dory’s house had recently arrived from Melbourne, after I had emptied it out for rental. Worst of all, it meant that they would occupy the second master bedroom, and Paul and I would be forced to sleep together in what had become my boudoir.

It took a full week to clean and sterilise Paul’s quarters. The room was riddled with porn magazines, videos, sex aids and transvestite gear. As well, there were the leaking baby oil containers, the dirty anal toys, the enema kits, the used tissues and dozens of empty wine casks. There were also small shards of glass in the ensuite, left over from when he’d recently slipped in a drunken stupor, accidentally putting his foot through a window. I felt sick to my stomach, especially because he left it to me to sanitise his den of iniquity.

Saskia breezed into our home wearing her bespoke clothes and expensive perfume with an air of arrogance. She told us how, with the recent Velvet Revolution in Czechoslovakia, Vlad was now entitled to reclaim the vast tracts of real estate confiscated by the communists. They’d received several properties back already and had begun legal proceedings to establish him as rightful heir to the remainder of the family fortune. Apparently she, or rather Vlad, was now worth many tens of millions of dollars. Meanwhile, she still cried poor and we were expected to foot the bills for her visit.

In what was perhaps a moment of weakness, Saskia told Paul a new version of the events surrounding his birth. While she’d always maintained Paul’s father, Brian Demaine, had ‘shot through to Mexico’ at the news of her pregnancy, she now admitted that he had in fact offered to marry her. It was
she
who rejected
him
, thus condemning Paul to a fatherless future.

Having always been fed the demonised version of his father, this was a major revelation for Paul. It explained why she had always been so reluctant to reveal his identity: she feared her lies would be exposed. Over the years, I had come to expect only half-truths from Saskia, but this was cruel. Poor Paul had grown up believing that his father, whoever he may be, was a monster. Yet despite reeling from the shock, he immediately forgave her, forever craving his mother’s love.

Paul had absented himself from the office, determined to show Saskia and Rudi the sights of Canberra. While his mother must have had an inkling about the nature of our business, he attempted to hide it from the two of them.

By the end of the visit, I was exhausted by Saskia’s constant demands and breathed a huge sigh of relief when Paul took them to the airport.

Almost immediately, I went into labour.

Our precious son, Ben, was born six weeks premature. Being hugely underweight, he spent time in an intensive-care humidicrib. I could not help thinking that Saskia’s visit had exacerbated my condition.

Paul took further time off work while I was in hospital, and hired a nanny to help with the housework and take care of Shoshanna and Ya’el. During a quiet moment I wrote to Trudie, imploring her to be honest with me: if she didn’t want a meeting I would understand, but I would like to know the identity of my father.

A few months later, we learnt the result of John’s legal challenge to the video franchise fee: under the constitution, the ACT government was not empowered to impose an excise. Although a victory for the porn industry, this was only the first stage in the lengthy legal battle. Now the High Court had to determine whether the 40 per cent franchise fee was in fact an excise.

One spring morning, Saskia phoned Paul to say that his grandmother’s health had drastically deteriorated; Omoe was apparently close to death. Immediately, he began making plans to travel to San Diego, where Omoe was staying with one of her sons, a padre in the US military.

I was uneasy about travelling with baby Ben who, although now doing well, was only a few months old. But Paul’s powers of persuasion prevailed and our whole family embarked on a trip to the United States, the purpose of which was twofold: to see Omoe one last time, and to allow her to see her great-grandchildren.

We also took the opportunity to see Brian, who was holidaying in Los Angeles. Saskia’s revelations had cast him in a new light and Paul now realised that his father had perhaps been unfairly vilified. Nevertheless, Brian’s constant flippancy discouraged any kind of deep discussion of the issues surrounding Saskia’s original pregnancy.

We returned to Canberra exhausted and jet lagged. Nothing prepared us, however, for the phone call we received that very day: after returning to Montreal, Brian had died. Only in his fifties, he had suffered a fatal heart attack.

Immediately Paul made arrangements to attend the funeral. We hadn’t even unpacked and yet here he was, about to fly to Canada. His grief was compounded by anger that Brian had consistently refused to acknowledge Paul to anyone other than his wife and two sons. Being his father’s spitting image, Paul relished the prospect of turning up at the funeral and carrying the coffin down the aisle for all to see.

Paul returned from Canada in a meditative mood. We sat on the balcony overlooking our view as he pondered life, with a Heineken in one hand and a joint in the other.

‘You know, pet, I loved it: you should have seen the look on everyone’s face.’ To their credit, Paul’s half-brothers had included him in the funeral notice, although no-one was prepared for how much they looked alike. ‘I’m his clone.’

I knew it would have been an amazing experience, which Paul saw as a giant ‘fuck you’.

‘Not that he was a bad person, but he didn’t do right by me, really.’

‘True . . . but at least you got to meet him.’

‘Yeah, three times—four, if you count him lying in his coffin.’ Paul said I shouldn’t worry. ‘One day, you’ll get to meet your mother, even if I have to drag her down here myself.’

‘I’ve practically given up on her,’ I sighed, but he warned me not to leave it too long.

‘Sometimes, I think my life is like a soap opera.’ He’d often said this but perhaps, lately, it seemed truer. ‘I wanna write about us someday. You and me . . . we
are
the amateur porn industry and that makes us part of social history. Our life—it’s unique. We’re meant to be together. I know I’m not much of a husband or father, but I try in my own bumbling way.’

‘Well, we could write our memoir,’ I said. I’d always enjoyed writing and had kept voluminous diaries as a teenager. It was a pity I hadn’t kept one recently, although I’d always had an excellent memory. I remembered Mae West saying something about keeping a diary, and then one day it would keep you.

Paul was already excited. ‘It wouldn’t be the standard porn-star memoir with the usual deprived childhood and drug addiction dross.’ He wanted our book to be about contrasts: my childhood, mixing with the doyens of the cultural world, and then the sex, sleaze and smut. ‘Ours is an extraordinary love story that needs to be told . . . for posterity.’

‘You’ve got a lot of talent—you could definitely be a memoirist . . . or a novelist. Why don’t we quit all the porn shit and go back to Melbourne and live in Dory’s house . . . and write.’

‘No way.’

‘But we could retire on my trust income. We don’t need to be doing the porn.’

But Paul wouldn’t hear of it. Part of him thrived on the adrenalin rush of living on the societal fringe, although I’d long tired of the lifestyle.