The Varnished Untruth (35 page)

My heart was beating terribly fast, yet there was an inner calm. ‘Open your eyes,’ he said.

What I saw before me was the whole, magnificent, red and purple valley hundreds of feet below, shimmering in the blazing sun. I was on the very edge of a long, thin rocky ledge, just half a step away from certain death. But I felt his breath close to me and his calm energy was soothing. ‘You’re OK . . . You’re OK . . . Just breathe,’ he said. I stayed there for what seemed like hours. An eagle soared above, while warm wind whispered in my hair. Suffering from vertigo – as I surely did – I could never have imagined doing this. ‘Trust,’ I thought to myself, ‘what an amazing thing it is. I’d like to experience it more . . .’ There were, I decided, more types of blind trust than one. And between the massage table and the Red Rock experience, I knew which one was right for me: I had to listen more to my intuition.

Most years, Sharon threw me a birthday party, and it always had a theme. One year it was the White Trash Party. She served Doritos as hors-d’oeuvre, and white bread hot dogs for the main course. Of course, we drank beer and Coke floats and my tummy never forgave me. Another time it was the ‘Come as your favourite sexual fantasy’ party. Everyone else was done up in latex and corsets, but I went in a pair of flannel PJs with a teddy bear; after all, I’d spent many months that year working on a large psychological study of people who have an erotic interest in consensual bondage, domination and sadomasochism (BDSM), so I was well ready for something very, very simple. The study showed that members of the BDSM community are not particularly different from the general population, apart from being slightly more intelligent and narcissistic. They are certainly not ‘sick’ like many people think; in my view, they just enjoy a rather advanced sexual style that’s not for everyone.

I was lucky to be alive for my ‘Stones’ theme party in 1999. Earlier that year I had fallen extremely ill with impacted kidney stones. I was working so hard I had not noticed that my health had deteriorated to the point where I was in a life-threatening situation. I remember being at a meeting in Santa Monica, pleading with a social worker to place a teenage boy with severe mental health problems in an appropriate facility, and thinking, ‘I’m unusually hot, and I may faint’ but doing nothing about it. I went to my next appointment, where all I could do was lie on the floor – until it finally dawned on me that I was in serious trouble. At that point, I called Cara who drove me to the hospital. She probably saved my life. The kidney stones had to be zapped and removed, my kidneys had to heal, my gall bladder had to be removed, and my whole body had to recover from its crisis; I was in hospital for months. Billy was marvellous. He and Martine took care of the children. But the experience truly scared me. How had I become so dangerously ill without realizing it? I had been taking care of everybody except myself. Was my particular style of . . . narcissism perhaps . . . so acute that I didn’t believe such a thing could happen to me?

Interesting. There is a brand of narcissism where one believes one can, with impunity, be all things to all people . . . Had you again internalized parental expectations to the point where you became somewhat delusional?

It certainly seemed that, in becoming a healer, I had completely denied my own needs, which was clearly not healthy, either physically or mentally. Yeah, getting sick was a real wake-up call.

Are you familiar with the concept of the ‘creative illness’ – a state in which the unconscious mind sometimes triggers physical chaos in order for the psyche to pay attention to something it previously ignored?

Hmm. That certainly rings a few bells.

You had done so well to heal – psychologically. But it seems this lesson – about not over-giving to the detriment of yourself – had to be learned through physical, rather than mental, illness. Hopefully it was your last creative illness – your final ‘dark night of the soul’ . . .

Ahh yes. I really needed to understand how dangerous self-sacrifice can be. I suppose our culture supports the idea that prioritizing others is a noble, desirable thing – at any rate, always an act of love. But I learned from John Bradshaw and other important writers that it can actually be an act of selfishness, a kind of grandiosity. I’d probably been over-giving to people most of my life in order to feel loveable. That was a tough one. It made me re-examine every relationship in my life – personal and professional. Yet again I had to change.

After I recovered from the illness, I vowed to manage my life better, to achieve a healthier balance between work, family and finding time for myself. I forced myself to start exercising again and began to lose some of the weight I’d piled on through sitting down so much. My birthday ‘Stones’ party was a tribute to those removed kidney stones. Sharon, of course, came as Sharon Stone, there were several Mick Jaggers, and Billy and I turned up as the Elgin Marbles.

As the twenty-first century dawned I was organizing fireworks and a Scottish ceilidh to be held at Candacraig, our Highland retreat not far from Aberdeen. I absolutely adore Scottish Highland dancing. Ever since we acquired Candacraig we have enjoyed inviting a few people over, pushing aside the furniture, and letting rip with reels like The Gay Gordons and Strip the Willow. I read somewhere that someone who did a study of Scottish dancing found it makes people very happy – or at least it triggers a massive release of endorphins, the ‘feel-good’ hormones. Well, duh! And if anything helped me reach the
Strictly
finals, it wasn’t my baby-years ballet lessons, it was the number of times I’ve romped through a brisk round of The Dashing White Sergeant while both me and my dance partner were intoxicated on Tomintoul single malt. Let me tell you, staying upright under such conditions, fighting the centrifugal force perpetrated by men who believe the faster they can fling a woman around them the more manly they are – and all that in a long dress and high heels – it’s not for the faint-hearted!

For us, most ceilidh dancing took place when family and friends from all over the world managed to gather at Candacraig. The famous and historic Lonach March – a proud display of colour, regalia and pipe music from a band of Highland men and women that always puts a lump in my throat – takes place in August, and so do the Lonach Highland Games. I just love to watch the Scottish dancing competitions, the running races for people of all ages, the ‘heavies’ tossing cabers and hammers, and the ‘hill race’ in which competitors bound straight up a steep gradient and back down again (it’s a wonder anyone in the area has functional knees).

Attending those wonderfully special Highland events would make anyone loath to leave Scotland, but we could never stay long because Californian schools started early in September. However, one September had a distinctly different flavour from all others. September 11 2001 seemed like the end of innocence. Just prior to that, we’d had the most blessed Indian summer at Candacraig. It was as hot as hot, and hazy, too. I remember playing croquet, having tea, dancing on the lawn in a white dress with lots of pals and thinking, ‘This is magical. It’s a dream. It’s
Brigadoon
.’ Two weeks later, and back in the States, the world was in turmoil. Billy called me from New Zealand. ‘Wake up, Pamela, and turn on the TV. It’s big.’ Next weekend the Candacraig mob were huddling together at Eric Idle’s place in LA, whispering conspiracy theories and wondering if we should get out of the USA, while a New York-based Candacraig guest, actor Steve Buscemi, was returning to his old job as fire-fighter – helping out at Ground Zero.

The national – and international – mourning, panic and paranoia that followed the events on September 11 are well documented. I had many feelings about it all, and so did the people I helped in therapy who were from diverse cultural and religious backgrounds. With such fear, chaos and appalling images around us, it was something of a relief to focus on a new personal challenge. When Val Hudson from HarperCollins approached me about writing my husband’s biography I told her: ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ The only popular writings I had published were my scant contributions to the
Not The Nine O’Clock News
books and a weighty tome called
How to be a Complete Bitch
. The thought of penning an entire book by myself – and to have the enormous responsibility of accurately and engagingly telling the precious story of Billy’s life – was far too daunting. ‘You’ll never guess what?’ I said to Billy. ‘Someone just asked me to write the story of your life – terrible idea, don’t you think?’ I was shocked when he actually gave the prospect some consideration. ‘If you want to do it, go for it! But if you don’t, some other prick will and they’ll make an arse of it. I’d rather be fucked and burned.’

It was true – there were already several unauthorized and inaccurate books about him. I started thinking, ‘If HarperCollins wants to publish a book about Billy, they must believe there’s a market for it, so they’re probably going to do it no matter what. I’d better think carefully before I give a definite “No”.’ I knew the real story about Billy’s life, I reasoned, and could probably tell it with compassion; but could I do so with the right level of objectivity? Wouldn’t it be particularly difficult to maintain appropriate distance at the point when I came into the story? My biggest concern was doing justice to Billy’s remarkable and traumatic life. If I did it well I would be protecting him; if not, I could be causing him more pain. It was a huge responsibility.

I really didn’t know if I could write a biography – write anything, actually – but, in the end, I said ‘yes’ and began to talk to Billy about his life in chronological order – not something many married people ever manage to do. It was painful for both of us, and many tears were shed. The writing of
Billy
became an all-consuming task – a far more profound process than simply recording his life. I learned a great deal more about him, and Billy, in turn, gleaned a new sense of his own life, and that seemed to be healing. I did not perform psychotherapy – that would have been inappropriate – but the conversations we had were profound, and often exhausting.

Just prior to the publication date, I was very worried. So was my husband. Would people still accept Billy when they knew about his childhood abuse and trauma? I believed people would respond well to his triumph over that dark past and, naturally, I tried to emphasize that in the book. Thankfully, readers responded with a massive outpouring of support and appreciation – not only for Billy, but for the book itself. ‘Wow!’ I finally allowed myself to be satisfied. But Book of the Year at the British Book Awards plus millions of copies sold paled in comparison to a happy camper of a husband – job done.

I had become an ‘author’ – and a successful one – with my first book (I hadn’t even known that a person was merely a ‘writer’ until they were published). It was my third career.
Billy
had been hard to write but, when I was asked to produce a follow up, I agreed to keep focusing on my husband for a bit longer. Honestly, whenever we have a row I feel like reminding him about those three years when I absolutely orbited him. It wasn’t easy, although, as an Australian, I could put it in perspective and say it was better than a poke in the eye with a blunt instrument. Yes, sometimes I have to remind myself how lucky I really am.

But what was it like to put your own needs and interests on hold and prioritize writing about him at that point?

Mmm, well I did have a lot of other commitments. And, in 2002, when Billy was about to turn sixty, I planned not one, but two big celebrations for him – one party at Candacraig, plus a trip back to the Fijian island where we’d been married with a gang of friends.
Bravemouth
, which was published a year later, chronicled that celebratory year. But after that I’d had enough. ‘I’m sick of writing about you,’ I told my husband. ‘You’re in my head far too much.’

How did he take that?

I think he thought I was joking but, as they say in California, I needed some space. I had really been working much too hard generally – writing, travelling on book tours, seeing patients, teaching, organizing conferences – as well as looking after the family. Something had to give. In Auckland to promote
Bravemouth
, I suddenly had an epiphany. ‘I need the sea,’ I decided. I’ll get a boat and take off into the wide, blue yonder. Well, it was a bit more complicated than that. I had to find a suitable vessel, slowly start closing my practice, and make sure the family would be properly looked after. Regarding the latter, it was pretty good timing. Daisy had just found a place in a wonderful, residential college for young people with special needs, so for the first time in our lives she would no longer require one-on-one care. Amy had developed a passion for mortuary science and was considering a course that would lead her to a career as a funeral director.

Unusual . . . How did you feel about that?

I wondered about it (‘Where, oh where did I go wrong?’) but actually it’s a very good career. She shared some of the course material with me and I found it fascinating – a mixture of medicine, psychology, law and ethnographic anthropology! But it was weird to have your daughter come home and say, ‘What I really want is to get my embalming licence.’ I’ve put her on notice to ‘improve’ my face when I die. ‘I want false eyelashes,’ I said, ‘and a sexy smile.’ ‘Got that, Mom,’ she winced. Have I convinced you yet that we’re quite a few steps away from your average family?

Anyway, back in 2002 it was decided that Scarlett – the only one of our kids who had not finished school – would come with me on the boat and do her last year by correspondence course. She had not been enjoying her school, so it was a good plan for her. My other children were happily making their own way in the world – oh, all except Billy, who feared I was abandoning him.