Mattress Actress (26 page)

He tapped the bed and I followed his direction. I did feel a bit out of sorts, as this was not my domain, and my mind whirred with questions: Where are the condoms kept? Was this the prince with HIV? Where and when do I ask for cash, or is that covered by the money we were already given? We were not allowed to carry a purse in the house so I prayed that he had condoms in one of the bedside tables. He started kissing me, which is an absolute no-no in every sex worker’s manual. I just kept telling myself, ‘Tennis bracelet, string of pearls,’ with every forbidden kiss.

He did have condoms and thankfully insisted on wearing one even while I gave him fellatio. Whoever he really was, he had obviously had some practice in the bedroom. He had me in positions that would have put a gymnast to shame. We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

In the morning, breakfast was delivered to his room. He thanked me for a wonderful evening then presented me with a gift and an envelope. I chose not to open the envelope in front of him, but I ripped that bow and paper off the package with lightning speed. Inside was a glistening gold brand-new Tag Heuer watch. I kissed and thanked him, and he told me that I should leave my clothes here and put on a robe, and he would see to it that my dress was cleaned. He wished me a safe trip home. I donned my robe and returned to my room, escorted by a man who had been waiting for me outside. The envelope was screaming at me to be opened, but I ignored it until my door was safely shut behind me—US$3000, thankyouverymuch.

Many of the clients I met in Singapore stayed in touch with me upon my return to Australia. Often they would still send for me to visit in their country. Or we would meet at some halfway point. One of my clients was an American businessman who was very socially isolated. He claimed to have set up companies in over one hundred different nations, but only ever saw the airport, a hotel and an office. He invited me to join him on as many trips as I could. He understood my dilemma with Poppy, so often he would send us two tickets.

By this stage we had become friends rather than individuals exchanging commodities. I could not share a bed with a client if Poppy was there, so it was understood that there was not to be even so much as hand holding in her presence, nor would I be sneaking out in the middle of the night. To his credit, he never even tried. He was simply rapt to finally be seeing more than an airport and hotel. He paid and I made the plans, where we would go, what we would do. His life was all about show: he owned a yacht but didn’t know how to sail. We were both happy with the arrangement, and Poppy loved parasailing, Disney World, dancing and limbo in the Bahamas, skiing in the Alps, tennis finals in Melbourne—we had a hoot!

There was never an exchange of envelopes on these forays; I gave my time freely in return for a holiday I could never have afforded, but I was still conscious that while I was living it up there was no income coming in to cover the expenses that continued in my absence. Often I would have to decline an extravagant invitation because I had to work to cover one thing or another.

Rarely did a day go by that I didn't think about how Ben was faring. Even if I chose not to think of him, Poppy was at the age when she needed to know every detail of her history. I had stopped flying over to visit him once I met Austin. I had stopped calling him, and I rarely wrote. I still received letters from him most of which were pleading for financial assistance for his new music career or for a piece of gym equipment.

He had absconded from the clinic twice but had very quickly been returned—one time he had made it as far as Sydney. That time they only caught him because he had enrolled in a mental health program in order to get his much needed medication.

It had been too long since I had heard from Ben so I decided to write him a letter and send him some recent pictures. To my surprise they were returned: Unknown at this address.

I freaked out.
How could he not be known there
? I got on the phone to the hospital. Due to privacy restrictions they couldn’t tell me anything, except that although he was still a patient, he no longer lived there. I was furious! I was his next of kin and they had not even thought to inform me that they had released a potentially homicidal schizophrenic back into society? Just by chance I rang directory assistance to see if they had a number for Ben registered in Brisbane. As luck would have it there was only one.

I immediately called the number. To my surprise there was a familiar voice on the line. ‘Ben is that you?’

‘Yes, is that you Annika?’ We talked for another two hours, like we had never been apart. He was reborn! He seemed sane again. He was happy, and had a new found maturity and optimism about him. He wanted to know all about Poppy. And then came the question I had been dreading.

‘When can I speak to her?’

How could I tell him that she thought he was dead? I felt torn between the love of my life and my flesh and blood. I told him that I would talk to her and we would take things slowly at first. He agreed. We discussed what to tell her about his absence, and felt the truth was best.

All this time I had lied to her. I had done it to protect her, but I knew I was going to have to beg her for her understanding and forgiveness. I was so scared and ashamed of myself. The three hours before she came home from school seemed to go so quickly. I wanted to never have to have this discussion, I wanted the clock to slow down, to put off the inevitable for just that little bit longer. I knew this day would come but I expected Poppy to be in her teens by then. I just didn't think that eight years of age was old enough to absorb the complexities of her father’s condition. But the truth needed to come from me rather than for her to answer the phone one day and hear her ‘dead’ father on the line.

I ordered a pizza to butter her up. Her pretty little face lit up when she saw the pizza box, which only made me feel more guilty. I didn't waste any time beating around the bush. With her first bite I told her the true story of her father’s illness. How he had abandoned us in my time of need because he had concerns about his own health. How his trip overseas hadn’t helped and how he had ended up in the hospital, diagnosed with schizophrenia. Finally I told her how he had been discharged and that I’d been in touch with him.

Poppy walked away from me and my confidence was shattered. But she returned within seconds holding our cordless phone in her hand. ‘Mum, call him now I want to talk to him.’

‘Poppy do you understand how serious a condition that your father has, do you understand that he does not function like you and me? You’ll have to go slow with him, darling.’

‘Mum, call him!’

I dialled Ben's number, all the while praying that he wouldn’t answer. I needed to spend more time talking to Poppy, I needed to re-acquaint myself with Ben. I wanted to see with my own eyes that he was better before I let him loose on our daughter. There was so much hurt that could come of this, and I knew that I’d be the one mopping up the mess if and when that hurt came.

‘Hello.’ Ben had answered the phone.

‘Hi, Ben, it's me, Annika. I just finished speaking to Poppy. She’s so happy that you’re well and is dying to speak to you so when you’re ready you just tell me and I’ll let you talk to her.’

‘Sure put her on.’

Reluctantly I handed the phone to my daughter. ‘Hello? Ben? Dad? This is Poppy!’

I walked away. I poured myself a wine and went out the back to light up a Winfield. Before I could reach the back door I could hear laughter. It was the happiest day in Poppy's life. But how was she going to treat me?

As I drank my wine and then another to the background noise of laughter and singing I contemplated what was going to happen next. I knew that eventually he would want to come over, but was that what I wanted? And would it make a difference what I wanted? I was frightened. I still believed he was capable of harming us as he had his own father. But was I just being overly protective?

When I finally returned inside it was late and Poppy was still talking to Ben. I told her to finish up and took the phone.

‘Annika, thank you so much for calling. She is an absolute delight. You have done a marvellous job raising her.’

‘So what did you guys talk about?’

‘Anything and everything. Her gymnastics, my childhood, her favorite subjects. Please let her call me again. I promise to do everything I can to make you proud of me.’

I wanted to say so much to that statement. I searched my library of emotions. Had I ever been ashamed of him? The answer was no, but I simply didn't have the energy to go into it now. I had a child upstairs waiting to be tucked in.

‘Ben, I would never stop her from calling you, if that would make you feel good. And I want you to pick up the phone and call us whenever you feel the need.’

By the time I went in to the bedroom Poppy was curled up in my bed smiling from ear to ear.

For six months, Poppy would be delivered to the door at five thirty pm by her nanny only to run past me like a gust of wind, straight to the phone and to her father. Every conversation ended with ‘see you soon’ and those words chilled me to the bone.

On one occasion Poppy passed the phone to me with a sentence that brought goose-bumps to my skin. ‘Mum, Dad needs to give you his flight details so that you can pick him up from the airport.’

I wanted to vomit. Sure enough he had booked a flight to Perth for Poppy’s 9th birthday. He assumed he’d be coming to stay with us—but he’d have to still be insane if he thought that was happening. I told Ben I’d call him tomorrow for all the details. Translation: when Poppy was out of earshot.

The following day I called Ben bright and early, and my eyes felt like sandpaper from a completely sleepless night. I hated being stern with him, but I told him that under no circumstances was he to stay with us, that he would need to find a backpacker’s or some other option. He was hurt and surprised, but reluctantly agreed.

About three weeks before Poppy’s birthday Ben called late in the afternoon. I was juggling preparations for a complicated dinner party and was resting the cordless phone precariously on my shoulder.

‘Annika,’ he said, ‘they took all my money.’

‘Who did?’

‘The Casino! I gave them six hundred dollars in cash, then they gave me some chips to play with, and by the end of the night they had all their chips back, but they won’t return my money.’

What do you say to that?

‘I’m sorry to hear that Ben. You win some, you lose some. That’s life.’

‘But that was my money to come and see Poppy with,’ he said.

‘Look, Ben, I am up to my eyeballs in cooking at the moment, can I call you later and we can discuss our options?’

There was the longest silence on the other end. ‘Sure. Goodbye, I love you.’

I felt an ominous feeling come upon me, like the world had suddenly stopped and I was the only one moving. I shook it off and got on with my dinner party.

As usual, Poppy tried to call her dad the moment she walked in the door to no avail. My mind was reeling, I knew something was wrong.

I tried to call Ben all the next day, but there was still no answer. Then the next day, even in the middle of the night knowing he’d be home sleeping. But they all went unanswered. By the second week of being unable to reach him, I started to call the police and the hospitals.

By the third week I called the morgue. They had no record of Ben, but somehow I knew he was there.

I described him and explained his history of mental health issues. ‘Please find him for me?’

The following day two police officers arrived at my door. I know what I should have felt—sad, lost, grief stricken—but all I felt was relief. The officers soon told me what part of me already expected to hear. Ben had taken his own life.

It wasn’t a surprise that when I later went to clean out his flat I found a suicide note he had left for me. When Ben had called me he had come to a realisation. He was incurably insane. He couldn’t live like that, but more importantly he couldn’t burden us.

I didn’t cry. For me my Ben had died when Poppy was two, not when she was nearly nine. I had had seven years accepting that I would never see that school boy again, the champion swimmer, the professional pilot, the handsome, sexy smooth talker, great dancer, chef and the life of every party. He was long dead. Ben couldn’t live in the shadow of that man.

I was brought back to the moment with the dreadful reality. I would have to tell Poppy that her dad was dead—again.

Without thinking I looked at one of the police officers and said, ‘How do I tell my daughter?’

I knew they couldn’t answer that question. There was nothing the police could do for me so I showed them to the door.

Poppy would be home soon, but I didn’t want to delay the inevitable, so I called her nanny and explained the situation and asked her to bring Poppy home.

The nanny was already in tears when I opened the door to greet Poppy, so I’m sure my daughter knew something was up.

‘Poppy, come sit down, darling. I have some bad news.’

She came to sit beside me.

‘One of our loved ones has died,’ I said.

Before I could go on, she started firing names at me. ‘Nonnie?’

‘No, sweetheart, Nonnie’s fine.’

‘Uncle Dieter?’ I knew this could go on all night, so I swiftly brought her questioning to an end. ‘It’s your dad, sweetheart. He committed suicide.’

‘But he was all better now, he was cured, he was going to be a rock star and take me on tour and we were already writing songs together!’

What do I say to an ever optimistic, father loving, nine year old who has now lost her father twice?

‘Babe, I know you are hurting, I know, and more importantly he knew you loved him, but he made his choice and now we have to live with it. He was just tired of being sick. He couldn’t live with it anymore.’