Mattress Actress (17 page)

Now it was my turn to be furious, not at him but at myself, for my honesty. I had just given away $3500, which at the time was twenty-three weeks’ rent for me.

Before the night was out my client told me that he was getting over a very bad break-up so was on a self-destruct mission that would hopefully end with his demise by drink or suicide. He could no longer live knowing that his ex had had a termination without his knowledge because she had career and financial priorities. He no longer trusted women and he hated money. All I could do was commiserate as there was not going to be any changing his mind. So instead I helped him lose another $8000—$4000 found a new home in my bra.

By the age of twenty-one I was surrounded by family—all my brothers were a short drive from my house, or more specifically my fridge. Dad had a lovely apartment overlooking the ocean that he shared with his new bride, who I didn’t mind at all. The frost on our relationships had started to thaw. It wasn’t quite warm welcomes yet, but it was heading in the right direction. Every Friday my father and stepmother babysat Poppy so that I could go out and let off some steam. My favourite spot was a high-class disco that adjoined one of the major hotels on the Gold Coast strip. I had been going quite regularly for a while. I knew all the staff and management. Occasionally I ran into the odd client but it didn’t bother me, they seemed to respect that it was my night off and that I appreciated some discretion. Little did I know, however, that one client in particular had mentioned to the manager my occupation.

One Friday night I was dancing up a storm as I always did, when the manager, David, took me aside.

‘Annika, you certainly have a fan club. Men stand at the bar and ogle you dancing. I’m sure you already know this, but you are one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen. There is one punter in particular who wants to buy you a bottle of champagne, but he wants to drink it with you in his room.’

‘Look, I’m not a prostitute. Who does he think he is, propositioning me like that? And as for you, David, are you pimping for me now?’

‘Annika, darling, I know that you work under the name of Cleo in Sanctuary Cove. I’m trying to help you. This guy is very influential.’

I was temporarily gob-smacked. I felt small and violated. ‘Why who is he? The prime minister or something?’

‘Not yet, but the election is only around the corner.’

I was shocked, flattered and curious all at the same time. I sat there thinking for the longest time. ‘Well send him over, I want to talk to him first.’

‘He won’t, he’s asked me to find out your fees then escort you to a private room in the hotel.’

‘He’s pretty demanding and presumptuous, isn’t he? Well, you tell him the price is $350 per hour and it’s a two-hour minimum. Cash only.’

‘I’m sure that will be fine with him. Go have another dance. I’ll have a private word with our friend.’

Damn, I thought, that was too easy. I should have asked for more.

An hour later I was escorted by one of the bar staff to a room overlooking the lights of the coast. Inside the room was a bottle of champagne, chilling, and the leader of one of the opposition parties—let’s call him Craig. I had seen him on TV a number of times.

I was so nervous, it felt like it was my first time. I wasn’t sure what to say or, more importantly, what to call him. The door suddenly closed behind me and I was truly alone with this great, charismatic man. Then he spoke.

‘Thank you for coming. Now what would you like me to call you?’

‘You can call me Cleo. What do I call you?’

That threw him off guard, and he instantly assumed I was a complete political ignoramus, when I was only asking if he had a title.

‘Cleo, you may call me Craig. When David told me you were available I couldn’t believe my luck. From the moment I walked into the room you were all I saw. You dance like you’re telling the most intriguing, captivating story I’ve ever heard. I just couldn’t take my eyes off you or concentrate on what the other gentlemen were saying. Mind you, they were equally captivated.’

‘You must be a politician, you’re so smooth with your words. But go on, I’m enjoying listening.’

He poured champagne into a beautiful flute, and invited me to sit with him. I found myself getting aroused. He was very handsome, but the attraction I felt came from a different place altogether. He had a commanding presence, a relaxed but controlling personality, with a hint of chivalry. The power he gave off was almost tangible, I could taste it even in this small room away from cameras and speeches.

We both knew what we were there for, yet he made it a seduction.

Contrary to what you may think, not all politicians are as boring in bed as they are on TV. Craig was an attentive, generous and consummate lover. Yet he was also completely controlling. I was in awe.

Two hours became four. I thought my watch was wrong. It felt as though I had only been there for the briefest of time. The sun was peering through the curtains when I decided to shower and make my reluctant exit.

‘Thank you for the most delightful of evenings, I earnestly hope our paths cross again,’ said Craig.

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Should I volunteer my phone number? Should I ask him when he was next coming to town? Should I suggest that I could leave my number with the club manager so that he could get in touch with me? But I did none of that. As much as I would have loved to see him again I knew that I had no right to force myself upon him.

‘I had a lovely evening; it was truly my pleasure to have met you.’ I grabbed my coat and opened the door to leave.

He called from the bed: ‘Cleo, aren’t you forgetting something?’

By the time I had turned to his direction he was walking naked to his wallet.

‘Let’s just call it an even thousand, shall we, as long as you promise to give me your number.’

That was the first and last time I ever forgot to get my cash. With my number logged away in his phone I closed the door and floated all the way home.

We caught up every time he came to town and sometimes he would fly me down to see him. I felt like Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
. But despite all the money he gave me, he never got my vote.

On the days I wasn’t working, I would get together with my neighbours for coffee. They were mainly single mothers trying to live on a budget like me. Occasionally we would go out together but mostly we would lie by the communal pool and talk while we watched our children swim.

Every time they came over they would notice a new appliance or piece of furniture. I would always volunteer, ‘Oh look what my dad just bought me.’ Or, ‘Mum bought a new one so she gave me her old one, isn’t it lovely? Why on earth would she need to replace this?’ Then of course there was the ever faithful line about my uncanny luck on the Melbourne Cup. To my face they bought every story I fed them, while behind my back they were discussing me vehemently. They knew what I was up to, and quite frankly did not approve. Not for any moral reason, but purely out of envy.

One afternoon we were sunbathing by the pool when one of the ladies expressed how unhappy with her lot she was. She was starting to regret her discussion to break up with her husband.

‘I am so sick of living hand-to-mouth, begging Tom for every penny he gives me. Compromising on my personal style for lack of funds, driving a car that should have been put out to pasture five years ago. There are so many things I never thought about when we were together. Like having a $25 pedicure. Now $25 is three days’ groceries.

‘I’d never seen a Visa bill, nor an insurance bill, nor a car repayment bill before. I have never paid house repayments. My only job was to care for the children and keep the house. Tom never questioned my spending and for that matter, neither did I. So why was I so unhappy? I haven’t worked since before the kids were born. I have no sellable skills. Tom wasn’t so bad, in fact I never saw him often enough for him to get on my nerves in the first place. I had it so easy! Free rein on my spending, all in return for one evening of sex on a Sunday, and that only ever lasted four and a half minutes at the most.’ All the women laughed.

She went on: ‘Sometimes I would give him a bit during the week as well, he was so agreeable just after a bit on the couch. If I wanted something particular all I needed to do was put on the charm and a particular nightdress and he was putty in my hands.’

All the women were nodding in agreement. I wanted to ask why had she left him, but thought it better to stay schtum. She was describing my profession: sex in return for financial gain. When I pointed out to her that I had seen a job advertised in the back of the paper in Tweed Heads that I felt she would be qualified for, she did not see the humour in it. I have to admit I was only half joking.

One of the other ladies chimed in. ‘What you need is a night on the town. Sue and I went out the other night to a club in Main Beach, between us we had $35 dollars, cover charge was $5 each and the taxi home was $12. Mind you, we never had to part with taxi money—we managed to con some poor desperate sod to drive us home. What a delusionoid! He honestly believed he was in. He was not a happy chappy when we jumped out of the car with not so much as a kiss or a phone number. Somehow the next morning I still had $15 left.’

I asked her how she managed to get completely smashed for the entire evening and still have money left in her purse.

‘Men paid for everything! We didn’t even know them, or care to get to know them. All you need to do, Annika, is sit beside the man with the biggest, fanciest watch. Give him a sexy little smile, show a bit of charm, laugh at everything he says, and you won’t have to buy another drink all night!’

‘What if he is boring or ugly or not even the slightest bit amusing?’ I knew the answer all too well, I just wanted to hear her say it.

‘What difference does that make? You don’t want to marry the guy, you just want him to buy you drinks.’ They all laughed and agreed. They seemed to think it was a big joke to take advantage of a man’s generous nature. To lead him on all night, then make fun of his physical flaws behind his back after the event.

‘So let me get this right . . . It’s OK to prostitute yourself for alcohol but not for upfront cash?’

They didn’t answer me, but it was clear to me they felt their actions were justified. And prostitution was never acceptable—except in its most subtle form.

A cold breeze moved in. We all gathered our towels and moved to our respective homes. I felt that we had simply had a difference of opinion, and all would be fine come the new day but that wasn’t so: I was an outcast from then on, as was Poppy.

The ladies I started referring to as the gin and tonic hookers organised a birthday party for one of their children who was six months older than Poppy. Everyone in the complex received an invitation except for us. I was furious! To take out your anger on an innocent three-year-old was going too far.

One evening the manager of the complex, Phil, came to my house to inform me that he was fully aware of my ‘comings and goings’. He assured me that he had no personal problem with what I was doing or any moral objection. He told me that the neighbours had orchestrated an around-the-clock monitoring schedule. They had even gone to the trouble of keeping a tally of the number of visitors as well as their licence plate numbers. He warned me that my eviction was imminent.

Phil was one of the sweetest men around. He backed me to the hilt, but to no avail. In fact, his support of me cost him his job.

I had found a new home in the same suburb. It wasn’t as nice but it was the only home I could get as I now had a reputation and my previous landlady hindered every application I put in. The only way I could secure a lease was to say that my previous residence was with my ex-husband, explaining my lack of lease references. I gave them the name and number of a client who agreed to help.

My mother was in town visiting for Christmas. We were still not really on speaking terms but I agreed to show a little Christmas spirit and be nice. I invited her to spend Christmas in my home. I knew she didn’t have enough money for a hotel. She did her best to show a little tact. She was most impressed with my home and a little curious as to how I was managing to gather such nice furnishings with only a pension for income. Knowing that she refused to talk with Dad I told her that Dad had helped me out. I threw in a few stories about the Melbourne Cup and John, my older boyfriend. I don’t think she really believed me but she wasn’t prepared to take it any further.

Christmas became New Year and Mum showed no signs of leaving. When I finally broached the subject, she was a bit embarrassed.

‘I don’t want to go back to Sydney, I want to stay here with you kids, I miss you all so much. Can you please give me another week? I promise that I will find my own apartment.’

How could I turn my mother out onto the kerb? But at the same time I hadn’t really worked the whole time she was visiting and was starting to feel the financial pinch. In order to stay afloat I was calling regulars and visiting them at their homes or at hotels.

I had stopped advertising my mobile number in the paper. I didn’t even let my mother know that I had a mobile because there is no way I could justify the necessity of owning one or the expense of purchasing one. I kept it hidden in my purse so that when I left the house I could turn it on in case any regulars wanted to reach me.

One evening I went out with a client for dinner, donned a lovely dress and took my formal handbag. Mum stayed at home with Poppy. She decided to order a pizza, and when it arrived the driver didn’t have change for $100, so she decided to go through my handbag, which was still sitting on the kitchen table. She grabbed $20 and my mobile—having never seen one before she was most curious and her motives for playing with it were more than likely innocent. She was intrigued by the workings of all modern gadgets.

The phone I had purchased was very basic: on/off and numbers zero to nine. In those days there was no such thing as a pin code to lock your phone. At some point in the evening she turned it on, and within minutes it rang.

‘Cleo, is that you, sweetie, I am feeling particularly horny tonight, any chance of popping in? Are you still in Long Beach Road?’ To incriminate me further he asked if my daughter was still suffering from her cold.

I knew from the moment my foot entered my home that something was up. Mum had a look in her eye that could have turned me to stone.

‘How was your night? Where did you meet him? Where did you go?’

I was given no time to answer. She didn’t even expect an answer, and when she ran out of questions, she ran to bed, crying. I was dumbfounded! She moved out the following day, there was no goodbye, no thanks for having me, there was nothing. Silence. Which I have learnt is deadlier than a slap in the face.

The following week my brothers and my father were gathered to discuss my new occupation. Of course, I was omitted from this family meeting. Mum was rallying for support to gain custody of Poppy, until I gave up my whoring ways.

Thankfully my brothers and my father disagreed with Mum, but she wouldn’t give up. She contacted child welfare, who wrote to me asking for an interview at my home.

I was petrified, not to mention totally humiliated and betrayed. I was in a corner, or so I felt. My brothers had started making random unannounced visits to my home. Some days all three of them would turn up independently of each other, under the guise of just popping in to say hi.

I couldn’t work under these circumstances. I would be upstairs bonking some guy old enough to be my father, when knock, knock, knock: ‘Annika, are you home?’ They honestly believed that by hindering my ability to work I would be forced to stop. I didn’t need hindrances, I needed their help and support.

I had to do something, so I decided a major move was in order. Within a week of receiving the dreaded letter from child welfare, I was on a plane to Perth to set up a new life for myself and Poppy. I couldn’t think of anywhere further from my family to move to.

The move was not on a whim. I was fully informed by clients that Perth had a great economy, mostly thanks to the mining industry. Miners are renowned for having a high income equalled only by their sex drive. I also learnt from extensive research that Perth had much cheaper housing than the Gold Coast. I even had a client phone half-a-dozen personal ads from
The West Australian
newspaper he had stolen from the Qantas Club to find out the going rate in Perth for a sex worker. They were making considerably more than I was. That clinched the deal.

The night before I left, my brothers went to a concert that, they said, ‘may never come to the coast again’. My dad spent the evening locked in his office because of far too much paperwork. I have no idea where Mum was—I hadn’t seen or heard from her since she left my house. On the other hand, I spent the night being consoled by a Life Line volunteer on one of those 1800 support numbers.

I was scared to go into the great unknown but equally scared to stay. The only thing that dragged me onto that plane was the thought of my precious Poppy being taken away from me. With all my heart and soul I loved her.