One Way or Another (8 page)

As the end of the year approached, the mounting pressure of final exams and the NIDA audition began to compete for my attention. When it came time to apply for tertiary places, my parents insisted I fill my wish list with teacher's colleges. They assumed I would become a drama teacher – but if NIDA offered me a place, they would not stand in my way. Even they understood the prestige it would confer.

The audition intake officer had warned me that I would be unlikely to secure a place straight out of school. Thousands of auditions were held all over Australia to fill the coveted forty places, which were usually awarded to more mature actors with some life experience behind them. Unperturbed, I recited my monologues in front of the mirror and resolved to give the performance of my short life. A spot at NIDA was a golden ticket for Aussie actors. Mel Gibson. Steve Bisley. Judy Davis. I was determined to be next.

The auditions began one Saturday morning in October. Dad drove me to Brisbane and left me on a bleak corner in the heart of the city, where a gaggle of trendy folk clutched steaming takeaway coffees. A small placard reading ‘NIDA HOPEFULS' was tacked crookedly above a warehouse door. My belly was alive with crawling creatures and my mouth was dry. Every word of my monologues had flown from my brain.

My confidence deflated further as I surveyed the vibrant, older,
very
theatrical, darling
crowd. Some of the girls were Hollywood gorgeous. There were some raving queens and a few plain Janes, intense, beatnik types who looked like mime might be their forte. Introductions were restrained: seething distrust held us all back. Feeling like a stupid yokel schoolgirl, I fought the desire to turn and run after Dad's car like a puppy with separation anxiety.

At last we were called inside and divided into groups. The warehouse was hollow and cold with high, security-wired windows and an expanse of well-worn timber floors. The assessors flashed predatory smiles, welcoming us into their dramatic slaughterhouse. Like cattle in leg warmers we shuffled in, trying to focus on the demands being barked at us.

The auditions consisted of an elimination process: two hundred or so hopefuls went in and over the course of the day we would be reduced to thirty, who would return the following morning for a second round. My childhood ballet classes came in handy in the dance set, when we had to follow a series of quick routines. Lots of uncoordinated Marlon Brando types looked close to tears as they fell about the place like drunken clowns. My memory recovered and I delivered Lady Macbeth without a hiccup, much to my relief.

Soon morning tea-time arrived and a list of names was read out. My name was not called. Those whose were filed into another room and a pair of heavy doors closed behind them; the rest of us exchanged nervous glances. A perky blonde, vaguely familiar from a television commercial, arrived to speak to us and I prepared myself for a let-down. But she grinned and gave us a victory salute.

‘Congratulations, artistes. You are through to the afternoon callback. We'll break now and have some morning tea.'

There were hugs and high fives and I felt a blush of confidence colour my cheeks.

As the day proceeded the tasks became more and more gruelling. I enjoyed the improvisations and managed to survive the other culls until I found myself on the list of thirty callbacks for the next day. I flew into Dad's car flush with hope and promise. I felt sure my future as an actress was secure.

Sunday was masochistically wonderful. They tortured us with more song and dance routines. They ripped my Puck to pieces and forced me to perform the entire scene again without words. I must have done something right because I was still on my feet at the end of the day, facing the assessment panel.

The esteemed John Clarke and Nick Enright gave me ego-fattening praise before breaking the bad news. I was too young. It wasn't an absolute no. They said they'd need to look at the numbers before making their final decision, but they braced me for the possibility of rejection. But the decision would hinge on my age, not my talent. They validated me as an actress and I could have kissed them. In fact, I think I did. It was the most wonderful rejection I ever experienced.

*

That hurdle behind me, I was left with the more painful obstacle of my final exams. I didn't succumb to the pressure that threatened to engulf some of my friends; being able to bullshit on cue was an advantage. When the afternoon of our last exam finally arrived, the school simmered with tense excitement. After thirteen years we were getting nearer and nearer to the real world. The final call of ‘pens down' sparked a howl of adolescent release.

I had done it. Somehow, between abortions, sex romps and drug experimentation, I had finished. Even better, my every cell told me I had done well. I was sure my folks would be thrilled with my results. My father, beaming, had given me permission to party, but insisted he would come and collect me from wherever I ended up; he didn't want some drunken hoon driving me home. I suppose he was entitled to be nervous. Southport High had just released a whole new class of hoons into an unsuspecting society.

We spilled out of the auditorium. Hugs and kisses. Textbook bonfires in the garbage bins. The mood was electric. I racked my brain for some way to celebrate. Most kids just got paralytically drunk. My theatre friend Berzerko was taking circus classes and had mastered the art of firebreathing, which he demonstrated by searing all the paintwork off a teacher's Volkswagen. But I wanted something more. I needed a celebration to remember. Six days later, fate threw an opportunity to me like a juicy bone to a hungry dog.

*

Our school formal was fairly tame. Speeches. Non-alcoholic toasts. Drunk teachers. Synthetic music. The official party ended at eleven o'clock, when we all climbed into taxis to Surfers. Our childhoods were coming to a close and we wanted to assault the sand and surf in a closing tribute. A few southern revellers made their way to our sunny playground but in 1983, local schoolies still ruled the Surfers dunes. We sat on the beach and drank cheap flagon wine from little plastic cups we had begged from McDonald's, the sand cool and gritty beneath our feet.

The next day, through a soggy head, I received a phone call from a boy I knew vaguely from amateur theatre. Who? What? It took me a few minutes to unravel his words. He was desperately trying to find a date for his own school formal after his volatile relationship with a St Hilda's girl had soured. Paul was an unremarkable boy with pale skin, pale hair and a pale personality. Polite to a fault and the perfect gentleman. Not qualities that got me excited. But he was a nice private-school boy and my mother, of course, urged me to accept the invitation. Hoping for a top-notch affair and with luck some good food, I told Paul I would be his date.

I had donned my green pants-suit for my own formal, shunning the regulation taffeta and tulle, but I needed to up the ante for a private-school shindig. A little black cocktail dress did the trick, paired with tiny black pumps with a low heel. Hair pulled up into a loose bun. Quite classy, I thought. Kind of Audrey Hepburn at the end of a long day.

Paul collected me in a sleek white limousine and pinned a purple orchid above my breast. We crawled through the glittering metropolis of downtown Surfers, sipping champagne. The formal was at Sea World, which sat perched on the Spit, arrogant with fame and popularity. Just a giant aquarium, really. We dined on unpronounceable delights against a backdrop of fishes, sharks and stingrays, and then a group of us climbed to the top of the shark tank. My fingers grazed a fin as it swam past and a thrill of adrenalin tickled me. The dark skin felt like a cross between sandpaper and cold leather. A girl who had arrived with her date by helicopter threw her corsage into the black water and some creature from the deep swished past and gobbled it up. We laughed until tears ran down our cheeks.

Paul and his friends had rented a motel room and we went back there for a few Sambuca and lemonades after the speeches. When the roof of my mouth began to taste like toffee – not as pleasant as it sounds – I thanked Paul for the evening before making my way on foot back to Surfers. It had been a nice enough night, but I could feel that old tingle of boredom, urging me to seek out greater adventures.

As I stumbled through the well-lit mall I caught sight of Kirsty, my Australian Crawl groupie mate. She was loitering outside a late-night coffee shop with a gaggle of beautiful people. Kirsty and I had forged a shallow friendship based solely on our backstage pursuits. We exchanged sordid stories like trading cards whenever we crossed paths at gigs. Standing there now with her sprayed-on clothes, tight perm, beaming smile and the promise of trouble in her eyes, she looked like my lifeline to a more interesting night. When she gave me a wave, I walked over.

She grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, ‘Are you ready to party? Guess where we're off to?'

I shrugged.

‘There's room for one more. We're going to Brisbane.'

Brisbane. I hesitated. I'd have to find a way home. It wouldn't do to be stranded in the city. Mum and Dad would flip. But I'd finished school. I was only a couple of months off eighteen – almost officially adult. What could they do? Kids were expected to let loose at the end of the year.

‘What's happening in Brisbane?'

She leaned in close.

‘Duran Duran.' She gave me a nudge. ‘I've wrangled an invite to the after-party.'

I could only imagine how she'd wrangled something like that.

‘Count me in,' I grinned. Any amount of grounding was worth a chance to hang out with one of the most famous bands in the world. I'd suffer the consequences later. Life was just a party and parties weren't meant to last.

*

With Kirsty and four girls I'd never seen before I squeezed into the back of a Jaguar, settling into the soft leather seat and admiring the classy wooden inlay on the dashboard. A seatbelt was not forthcoming but I held on as tightly as I could. The man in the driver's seat turned up the stereo and we shouted over the radio for the entire trip.

The other girls looked like friends of Hugh Hefner's and spent the next hour peering into impossibly small mirrors, applying lipstick and fiddling with false eyelashes. Tiny sequinned blouses were pulled open as the girls compared boob jobs. Condoms were passed around and intellectual critiques offered as to their various merits. These were seasoned vultures and they knew every trick in the book. The stench of exotic perfume hung in the air-conditioned atmosphere. Hair was bouffed and sprayed into masses of golden fairy floss and every female mouth but mine chewed on minty chewing gum. Give those jaws a work out, girls, I thought. You'll need it.

*

Our trip came to an abrupt end when we pulled into a very flash hotel in the heart of Brisbane. A hoard of screaming girls stood out the front. Apparently the band had just made their glittering return from the gig at Festival Hall. My sister Annie had attended the concert with her schoolmates, chaperoned by a group of mothers. The thought that hers might be one of the voices in the screaming throng thrilled me down to my neatly manicured toes.

The blonde cartel spilled out onto the footpath and the Jaguar disappeared into the night in search of a park. I was a good foot shorter than the stilettoed goddesses around me. In my sombre black dress and comparatively sensible shoes, my hair piled demurely onto my head, I could have been their parole officer.

Kirsty talked us through the security brigade in the foyer and we shuffled nervously into a lift. When the doors parted we fell into a party that snaked all the way down a hallway. The band had the entire floor to themselves and every room was full of revellers. Excitement hummed in the air. My pulse revved.

The crowd was not so different from the usual. There were plenty of familiar faces from the Gold Coast. But Duran Duran was the first supergroup launched by the revolutionary entity that was MTV. People had tried extra hard to look extra glamorous and were talking extra loudly, with histrionic head tosses and wild gesticulations. We were all showing off, vying for attention.

The vultures melted into the throng and I found myself alone and searching for a drink. I felt drab and depressing in my black dress; the other guests had embraced the spirit of Rio. Pushing through the crush of colour like a black widow, I came upon the welcome sight of a bucket of ice, the green neck of a champagne bottle emerging from it. As I searched for a glass, a voice beside me asked in a thick British accent, ‘Are you after a drink, then?'

I looked up and did a double take. It was Simon Le Bon, one of the planet's most eligible men. Feeling like a terrified librarian, I nodded mutely, drinking in his smooth cheeks and full, pouting lips. He conjured up a glass, poured me some bubbly and, somewhat unnecessarily, introduced himself. I was captivated. I longed to stay glued to his side but we were soon joined by other hangers-on and, reluctantly, I moved back as the feeding frenzy consumed him.

The three Taylors of the band were being orbited by skimpily dressed satellites and the very androgynous Nick was holding court in his luxury suite at the end of the hallway. Like a visitor to an art gallery I wandered between the rooms, looking for a comfortable niche to settle into. Surrounded by hot-pink pumps and off-the-shoulder blouses, I felt unpleasantly conspicuous in this sea of glittering starfish.

Three or four champagnes later, I had taken my hair out, the bun leaving a nice wave. Like a heat-seeking missile, I had found my rock-star target and was in hot pursuit. Mr Leatherpants tantalised me with his chiselled cheekbones and feathered hair and honey-glaze accent. He was dressed in a three-quarter cream linen coat, skin-tight maroon leather pants that left little to the imagination and a puffy white pirate shirt. Furtive glances became knowing smiles and finally conversation. He was the archetypal rock god. Flashy and trashy, with all the confidence of a brightly burning star. He played with my hair and told me dirty jokes. His voice was divine and I was completely dazzled by this strange, exotic creature from the motherland.