One Way or Another (9 page)

I'd come a long way since my nervous debut with the Initiator. The shy schoolgirl was gone, replaced by a consummate huntress. Rock stars were fairly easy game and it was simple to reel one in if you used the right bait. I had learned fast that leopard-skin tights and spun-sugar hair might get you past the security guards, but more class than arse would get you between the sheets. Competition was intense and to win the rock star you had to be different. You had to stand out, one way or another.

This particular night, my black-widow garb worked in my favour. I looked sophisticated but innocent, unlike the mole patrol around us. The trick was to look and act like this was your first rock and roll party.

Leatherpants reminded me of a debauched Oscar Wilde. Pale and pretty, he seemed hyperactive and the reason became obvious when he offered me a line of cocaine.

‘I've never done it before,' I confessed. Now I could be genuinely naïve.

He hooted with glee.

‘Fabulous! A snow virgin. Allow me to introduce you.'

He tipped a tiny hill of white powder onto the glass coffee table. Suddenly partygoers swarmed around us, eager to be offered a snort. I'd seen plenty of cocaine before but I'd never had the courage to partake. People seemed happier and more talkative on it and I'd long since stopped believing all the horror stories we were told at school about drugs. A little upper here and a little smoko there didn't seem to pose too many problems; like guns, the real danger was in the user, not the instrument. Heroin scared me. I'd heard the rumours about some Australian musicians being junkies but I'd never seen it up close.

Leatherpants squealed as he bent down and chopped the powder into five long lines with a cardboard card. Pulling a plastic straw out of his jacket pocket, he offered me the first sniff.

Modelling what I'd witnessed at parties, I blocked one nostril with my finger and bent to the table with the straw to my other. I inhaled sharply and felt the coke hit my adenoids with a slap. A mildly unpleasant burning sensation travelled into my sinuses and an acrid taste arrived at the back of my mouth. Sitting back, my eyes watering, I waited while Leatherpants knocked back two lines in a snap and offered the other two to a heavyset fellow dressed in overalls – clearly one of the road crew.

The cocaine felt wonderful. I was sailing through a colourful dream like the figurehead on a runaway ship. Becoming bolder in my coquetry, I all but begged my rock star to bed me. I wanted to seal the deal before he was distracted by one of the lanky blonde wannabes.

I didn't need to worry. Leatherpants had hands like an octopus. When he kissed me, he tasted like a make-up palette. The man had more rouge and lipstick on his face than I did. After a few lingering wet kisses, he dragged me by the hand to the bathroom. We opened the door to find a man seated on the closed toilet with a woman's head bobbing up and down in his lap. Another girl was snorting coke from the marble bench top.

‘Good work,' Leatherpants encouraged before shutting the door. ‘Listen, love,' he whispered to me. ‘I've got something for you and I am just about ready to take you on the bed, in front of the whole bloody circus.'

I was up for most things and I was throbbing for his affections, but sex in front of a roomful of people was not ever going to be on my agenda.

‘Hang about,' he went on. ‘Hey!' he called across the room to a rather weedy fellow in his early forties who was dressed in a crumpled suit. ‘We need you.'

I frowned, hoping the wrinkled man was not going to be invited to join us.

‘Come on, we're going for a drive.' My English rock prince kissed me on the forehead.

*

Ten minutes later, we were exploring each other's mouths in the back of a luxurious limousine. The chauffeur tried to keep his eyes on the road while I tugged at Leatherpants's pirate shirt, unwrapping my graduation present to myself. Leatherpants was all bones and his skin was deathly white. Without the fancy threads he seemed childlike and vulnerable. The strange thought struck me that this was someone's son. Not a god at all – just a boy, frail and breakable. I found the thought romantic. Pulling up for air and breathing heavily, I asked an inspired question.

‘Hey, how about you drive me home? It's an hour away and we can cover a lot of ground in that time.'

Leatherpants poured two glasses of champagne and leaned forward to talk to the driver.

‘Hey, man,' he growled. ‘We're off to …?' He raised an eyebrow at me.

‘Surfers Paradise,' I called.

We knocked back the champagne and he tipped some between my breasts, licking it off while I struggled out of my little black dress. The idea that the chauffeur could hear everything and was possibly taking the odd peek in the rear-vision mirror I found very exciting. A whole roomful of people was one thing, but a solitary voyeur turned me on. I let myself be covered in kisses and lay back, my face pressed into the leather seat, as my new friend filled my blood with fire.

I had learned, in the previous two years, how to find my way around a rock star. They truly thought they were gods and it was important to worship. Preferably on your knees. Sweat glistened on my brow as we worked up a frenetic rhythm. Between shudders and sighs we did more cocaine and drank more champagne. The drug was a powerful aphrodisiac and I rode waves of ecstasy as a light rain began to fall against the tinted windows. Leatherpants pushed me and guided me to places I had never been and the pleasure was all the more intense with the thrill of being watched. I felt so very naughty.

He was an excellent lover, obviously well practised. He boasted of having bedded hundreds of women.

‘Old. Young. Fat. Thin. Black. White. Four at a time!' he laughed.

‘Well, practice makes perfect,' I giggled as I wiggled and bounced, shaking my hair and growling and howling like the proverbial hungry wolf. It was all about the performance, of course. An act. A vaudeville show. Rock stars liked theatrics. I looked down at this man who adorned the bedroom walls of girls all over the world. His eyes were spinning, his make-up was melting and he had the goofiest grin on his handsome face. This was what the Vulture Club was about. This was fun. This was as rock and roll as it got. All lingering sentimental thoughts of the Poet were blown out the window. I was hammering this rock god on behalf of every teenage girl who had rolled about in bed imagining doing exactly this – and it felt fantastic. The vulture had landed!

*

As we cruised down the Pacific Highway through the weary glitter of Surfers Paradise, I peeled my sticky, sweaty skin from the leather upholstery and gulped some more champagne before struggling awkwardly back into my dress.

‘This is the life!' my lover said, raising his glass. ‘Did I catch your name?'

‘Nikki,' I laughed, knowing he'd forget it as soon as I was out of sight.

I warned him to tell the driver to turn left at the next set of lights and the limousine snaked down Monaco Street.

‘Well … thanks for that, love,' Leatherpants sighed, his trousers manacling his ankles together. He kissed me deeply before bidding me farewell as we pulled up outside my house.

‘I'll be lonely now,' he pouted. ‘I might have to sit up front and get the driver to play with my gearstick,' he laughed, pulling his clothes back over his skeleton.

‘I can't imagine you'd ever be lonely,' I teased.

Looking up into his doe-like eyes as I climbed out of the car, I reconsidered. Maybe he did feel alone in his crazy world.

‘Have a nice life,' I grinned, throwing the chauffeur a cheeky wink.

As the long car stalked back into the darkness, I shuffled into the house, my muscles already twanging with glorious pain, to find Mum awake with a cup of tea. It was four-thirty in the morning and she looked like she'd been crying.

‘Did you have a nice time?' she asked flatly.

‘I had a great time.' I smiled.

‘That was very considerate of Paul to organise a lift home. Must have cost a bit. Was it nice in the back of the limousine?'

‘Ohh ... it was very nice,' I said, licking my faintly bruised lips.

Mum had obviously peered through the front curtains and seen the car but not the date. I floated to bed, completely careless. School was over. I was set for Kelvin Grove Teacher's College and I had fulfilled my childhood fantasy to bed a fabulously famous, wealthy and gorgeous rock star. Life was definitely worth hanging around for.

My celebrating done, the anticlimax hit me like a sledgehammer. Most of my friends were busy, away on holidays or drowning in family festivities. For a week I wallowed in domestic malaise. My littlest sister and brother, seven and five now, ran about me in manic circles. I played my guitar for them, making up nonsensical tunes about shark attacks. My chord progressions had come along nicely. Bob would have been proud.

Annie had started tweenie-dating and I teased her about her convent vow, asking for my hundred-dollar payout. All in good time, she promised. She was just assessing the alternatives first. We were getting along better as she inched into the world of boys. Her halo was slipping and it gave us something in common to laugh about. I knew she was thinking about my window-hopping and eyeing her own portal, which opened straight onto the front lawn.

Flicking through the newspaper for want of something better to do one morning, I stopped chewing my mouthful of toast and stared.

The Poet was back in town, performing at Bombay. One night only. My blood ran cold. I'd heard not a word from him – nothing since our briny encounter. The memories of the mess he'd helped me make prickled uncomfortably. I decided – masochistically, maybe – to go. If he didn't want to see me again, he could tell me to my face.

With six days to go, I began my campaign of beautification. My plan was to look as goddess-like as possible. The Poet and his band were not into the ‘dolly-bird' set. Blonde was crass and suntanned cleavages the pits. I needed to look dangerous.

I put a darker rinse through my mousey hair.
Cleo
informed me that a fruit and veggie detox would ensure a flat stomach, perfect skin and clear eyes within a week. My peepers looked all right already but my skin needed whatever help it could get. I had been plagued with spots, which I aggravated by picking, ever since puberty. I had taken to using concealer like putty filler and in summer my face melted like a messy Diane sauce. Now I gorged myself on apples, bananas, kiwi fruit and mangoes. My parents didn't stock a lot of vegetables; carrots and beans were the extent of it, so that was my dinner all week. Mum couldn't understand why I was turning down bangers and mash and roast chicken. Pimples, I explained.

Secretly I harboured a delusion that the Poet had lost my phone number and spent the last eight months pining for me, crying into his sauerkraut and schnapps for his lost Persephone. He was probably only doing a gig in Surfers Paradise to lure me out of hiding for a tender reunion, I mused. Delusions, delusions.

When my big night arrived, the truth was painfully clear. She was Nordic. Beautiful. A European study in perfection. And the Poet was head over heels, according to his bandmate, who chatted to me after the gig.

I'd seen her at the front of the stage during their lacklustre performance. Everyone had seen her. The woman was a model. A real model. Next to her I looked like a gypsy hobbit in mourning. The bandmate broke the news to me as gently as possible but warned me off heading backstage.

Speechless, disoriented, I wondered at my foolishness. The venue was emptying fast and I had no money for another drink, or for the fare home. Optimistic brand-new underpants had left me cash-strapped. I had assured my parents I was meeting up with friends and begged Dad not to collect me. I leant against a wall, took a deep breath and evaluated my options. Watching the road crew disassemble the amps and mikes on stage was like watching ghouls dissect my dreams. But then somebody behind me called my name. For a millisecond I thought it was
him
– but when I span around, I gasped. The last film I'd seen at the cinema was
An Officer and a Gentleman
… Oohhh, my God, what a sexy, romanced-off-your-feet flick that had been. And in that instant, it was real. Hollywood meets Bombay Rock. Walking toward me, with a blinding grin and the laughing confidence of a court jester, was my Rod Stewart look-alike. I had stuck the stolen photograph of him in the back of my diary and scribbled the word ‘HUSBAND' underneath, and now here he was.

He seized me by the shoulders. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I was ... watching the band ... breaking up with someone ... you know, just another night. Where's your girlfriend?' I regretted the question as soon as it dribbled from my lips.

‘Who cares? Let's go back to my place.'

I frowned curiously, happily. Did I look that easy? Was it my cleavage, my slash of dark lipstick or the glint in my eye?

‘Sure,' I laughed.

*

We caught a cab home to the house with the sauna. What seduced me most about Rod – Billy, I mean – was that he was so incredibly funny. A born comedian on long, long legs. He had sun-bronzed hair spiked into what was later referred to as a mullet, sharp blue eyes and an Etruscan nose, all atop a tall, brown body, toned by professional windsurfing. Like giggling mice we crept into his bedroom and enjoyed one another. I had more scintillating conversation, more laughter and more sex in one night than I had had with any one male in my life. We lay awake and talked until the early hours of the morning. We were fascinated by one another. So many men have so little to say. Silent, muscled bodies. Billy was the opposite. There was a connection that transcended the physical. As sure as I was that the sun would rise, I was sure that I was going to marry Billy.

He was almost four years my senior and was something of a larrikin. He'd left school in year ten, which would horrify my schoolteacher parents. He had an earring – another black mark. And he had spent a few years playing bass guitar for a small-time three-piece punk band called the Wormz. Three strikes.

On my way to school I had often walked past a redbrick wall with the words ‘The Wormz Are Coming' graffitied in huge letters. Billy told me they did a rad version of the Monkees' ‘I'm a Believer' and promised to play me a tape some time. They'd supported the Sunnyboys and Jimmy and the Boys, a Sydney punk outfit notorious for their outrageous stage antics, led by the shockmeister Ignatius Jones. Jimmy and the Boys were unlike any other act in the country. Jones was supported on keyboards by the outrageous Joylene Thornbird Hairmouth, an over-the-top drag queen, and the band was infamous for staging violent shows. I'd seen them live and they were something else; they were one band I was never going backstage to visit! They had only recently disbanded.

‘What were they like?' I asked Billy.

‘Lovely. Really lovely chaps. Apart from the blood and the obscenities and the dismembered baby dolls … they were really very nice.'

Billy's crazy tales of backstage escapades fascinated me and, inspired, I volunteered a few of my own adventures. He was as star-struck as I was and I felt no need to censor. The Wormz had dissolved when the drummer was decapitated during an ill-fated drive up Mount Tamborine.

We were so comfortable together. Some people are so guarded that complete intimacy is impossible, but Billy was the most open book I'd ever read and I felt safe being honest with him. In almost every part of my life, I hid behind masks of my own making. To my parents, I presented a conservative, studious, polite if rebellious young virgin. To my friends I was a wild, slightly insane tangle of hormones. To lovers I was a willing nymphet with few inhibitions and not a Catholic bone in my body. With Billy I was all and none of those things. I was myself.

Who was I, really? A sad and uncertain young woman who had been looking for affection in all the wrong places. My self-esteem was a parched and damaged thing, a crack running below the surface. I sensed a similar crevasse beneath Billy's cocky charm. We both felt underappreciated by the world and dreamed of fame and fortune, believing our talents would be better recognised in a big city. Fools or visionaries? Probably a little of both.

Billy's girlfriend was an obstacle. Technically they were still dating, although he'd recently moved out of their shared unit and back in with his parents. He walked me the three kilometres home as the sun began to crawl over the horizon and swore he would sever their threadbare romantic ties that very day. They'd been together for years and he dreaded the encounter, but he knew he would be setting her free to find someone more compatible. They were chalk and cheese, he assured me.

To say I spent the day in a state of nervous paralysis would be an understatement. Cruel voices taunted me, telling me that Billy would realise his mistake and run back into the arms of his girlfriend. Why would he throw away a relationship of so many years for a girl he'd known for a matter of hours? But my guardian angel countered, whispering that magic had occurred and that an army of angels would move heaven and earth to align us. It had been my blind date with destiny. All would be well.

At eight o'clock that night, Billy rang to tell me it was a fait accompli. And so our courtship began in earnest.

Summer loving. Our affair smelled of salt and tasted spicy. Almost every night we walked or taxied to Billy's parents' yacht. We made love in the forward cabin, the gentle motion of the water accompanying us. Afterwards, soaked in brackish sweat, we would lie on the deck and sample his father's wine. Billy loved the fine things: good wine, good pot and good sex. He was bored with his job as a windsurfing instructor and wanted to do more with his life. He'd finished more than half of a shipwright's apprenticeship before giving it away and was now considering going back to it. His older brother was an engineer, his sister a radiographer and his younger brother a champion windsurfer. Billy felt like the black sheep of the family and was itching to prove them all wrong. Without ever saying it outright, both of us felt that our futures, as far as the eye could see, would be shared. Like ham and pineapple on a pizza, we belonged together.

*

My letter of acceptance into Kelvin Grove Teacher's College arrived in due course, prompting much parental celebration and no enthusiasm on my part. The campus was in Brisbane, an hour away from home and from Billy, and it was not yet clear where I would live. The options, as my parents saw it, were boarding with a family in town or renting a unit with a ‘suitable' flatmate. Needless to say, a boy would not be considered suitable. We inspected a few places and met a nice fellow who was renting out a room in his house, but he was a single middle-aged man and was vetoed instantly. The most agreeable solution, my parents finally decreed, would be for me to catch the bus to Brisbane every day, a round trip of more than three and a half hours.

By the third day of orientation, I had my doubts. In drama class we pranced about, pretending to be pineapples or floating like clouds, but my thoughts were with Billy and my desire to be a real actress. Did Debra Winger or Meryl Streep get to where they were with such nonsense, I wondered. I dreamed of New York. Broadway. Off-Broadway. Bacon and eggs at Tiffany's. But I had no money. I was completely reliant on my folks for pocket money, most of which I spent bribing Annie.

I began to feel claustrophobic. Surfers Paradise was being invaded by pensioners, attracted by the lack of death duties in Queensland. People were flocking to my hometown to die – and I needed to get away to live. I needed a bigger town and Brisbane was not it. It wasn't called Australia's biggest country town for nothing.

One sultry Monday evening on his parents' yacht, Billy planted the seeds of an idea.

‘My little brother just got two big pay cheques,' he smiled cunningly at me. ‘They're made out to cash.'

‘You're not suggesting ...?'

‘Just one ... he's overseas and he'd give it to me if I asked. It's just a loan. We'll pay him back when we hit the big time.'

‘How much?' I asked hesitantly.

‘Eight hundred and something. It's enough to get us to Sydney and keep us going for a couple of weeks. We'll get jobs. You could set me down in any city in the world with nothing but the clothes on my back and I'd land on my feet. I'll take good care of you.'

‘Sydney. It's a long way. My parents would kill me. They'd send the cops or private detectives or something to drag me back.' I was thrilled and terrified at the same time.

‘They couldn't,' he said. ‘You're only three weeks off turning eighteen. You're free, sweetheart, so let's fly away together. Start a whole new life.'

‘Sydney.' The word tasted good in my mouth. I rolled it about and savoured it. When I looked into his eyes, they were wide with suspense.

‘Let's do it,' I laughed. ‘Let's be mad and just run away.'

We walked all the way home from the darkened marina in the rain. Holding hands and barefoot, we hatched our crazy plan. Billy would cash his brother's cheque and book two one-way economy train tickets to Sydney. We would recruit a friend with a car to drive us to the train station, just over the border at Murwillumbah. And I would go quietly insane in the meantime, sure that my parents would find out and our plans would be thwarted.

Friday night was our moment. With the soundtrack of
Mission Impossible
ringing in my ears, I summoned all my acting skills, despite the gnawing stagefright in my bowels. I told Mum that Billy and I were off to see Max Bygraves in Tweed Heads, warning her that it might be a late night. The choice of Max Bygraves was bizarre and inspired. He was an ancient crooner and comedian who held not one iota of appeal for me. But I knew Mum would be pleased that my tastes were ‘maturing' and there could be no reason for her to withhold her permission. I had already smuggled an overnight bag to Billy, who had handed in his notice and taken the day off work. My bag contained three changes of clothes, my diary, make-up and some photos of the family.

Annie, of course, sensed that I was up to something. I caved in and confided in her, mainly because I wanted her to stick up for me once I'd gone.

‘You're pregnant, aren't you?' was her first question.

‘No! Really, I'm not. Make sure you tell them that tomorrow. I do love them, Annie, and I know this will make them angry, but I feel so trapped. I'm on their life path and I need to get off it.'