Mattress Actress (16 page)

The early nineties were a bad time for most Queenslanders. Cutbacks were seen everywhere; even in the music industry expense accounts were seriously curtailed. Entertainment accounts and staff were no longer deemed a necessity. I lost my job and once again I found myself in survival mode.

It didn’t take long for something else to go wrong. I received a bill from Diners Club to the tune of $8000. Positive it was an error, I contacted them, but it was no error. Someone had been billing airline trips to my account. By phoning up and quoting my Qantas Frequent Flyer number over the phone, they were able to obtain tickets at the counter without showing any ID. It had to be someone I knew who had access to my details, and there were only a few possibilities—and I didn’t want to drag any of them through the courts.

I was able to prove beyond a doubt that I had not flown with Qantas on any of their flights—on a number of occasions I was in a different state when I was supposedly in mid-air. But they didn’t care, I was responsible unless I wanted to press fraud charges. I had to decide whether to fight the bill or simply pay the damn thing. I reluctantly decided on the latter. But it was near impossible seeing I was now jobless, uneducated and on a single mother’s benefit. With the last of the little I had left, I bought a car and rented a unit in a Gold Coast suburb.

I arranged to have a removalist take my furniture out of storage in Sydney and bring it to my new unit. On the day I moved in, I waited patiently for my furniture to arrive, but by four o’clock I was still sitting in an empty apartment. I called the company to have them inform me that they had gone to the storage facility and discovered a break in. My furniture, saucepans, dishes, blankets and beds—my entire life—was gone.

Thanks to St Vincent de Paul and the kindness of a few friends, we were donated a blow-up mattress, two sheets, one pot, an old fridge, two plates and bowls, some cutlery and a box of groceries that would last two weeks as long as I didn’t eat. I put the mattress in front of the gas heater that came with the house and bundled us in clothes just to keep warm. We had no pillows or towels.

Slowly I bought the things I needed for the house. I will never forget having to steal vegetables from the next-door neighbours to make soup. Many nights and days I simply didn’t eat so that Poppy would have enough until next pension day.

I began stealing from major department stores. I was truly out of my mind at the time, but felt no guilt. One day I pushed Poppy into Grace Brothers in her pram, grabbed a bra off a rack then walked over to the counter and politely asked for a refund. The saleswoman gladly handed over $60. I then asked her if I could trouble her for a bag under the guise that Poppy had wet her pants. With an understanding smile she handed me two bags. I thanked her then made my way to the manchester department, where I stuffed nearly a thousand dollars’ worth of sheets, towels and pillows into the donated bags. The bags were so full I was struggling to carry them and push the stroller.

Thankfully, a shop assistant offered some helpful advice: ‘Excuse me, madam, have you finished your shopping for the day? Because if you haven’t, Grace Brothers have a counter where you can leave your purchases while you shop.’ So I took this helpful young staff member’s advice, and deposited my bags at the courtesy storage counter, leaving my hands free to pick up some more household items.

Another day I even had a man come up to me asking if I needed assistance with my bags and pram as I left the store. I gave him a frightened look, thinking that he was busting me for stealing.

‘No need to be frightened, madam, I’m store security, not a weirdo. You just look like you could use some help.’

What an idiot! If only the manager knew that store security helped me leave the store with stolen property.

I wasn’t always so lucky. One time I did get caught and I hadn’t even intended to steal the items I got caught with. It was Christmas time and the ladies’ toilets were so crowded there was a long line. Poppy was toilet training so I bolted to the McDonald’s toilet directly opposite the store. It was at that point I was grabbed and taken to the manager’s office and later charged with theft.

The incident tipped the scales of my sanity. When I left the police station, I pushed the pram straight onto a busy road, causing an accident. I hadn’t even looked. Luckily, apart from shock, we were both in one piece. After that I sat on the side of the road and sobbed until a police officer came over to me. I could hear him talking but I didn’t have the strength to respond. Some of his questions were too hard for me to answer, including: ‘Where do you live?’

Because I was unresponsive, he drove me to the hospital. There I saw a psychologist and a psychiatrist. I was shaking by now and my tears showed no signs of relenting. I still didn’t speak until they informed me that I would need to be admitted and Poppy would need to go to foster care until I was released. Those words shook me back to reality.

After a long talk, they sent me home with some anti-depressants and an appointment slip to see a counsellor in a week’s time.

That night I had a good, long talk to myself. The following day I wrote a cheque to a mobile phone leasing company and placed an ad in the personal column with my new mobile phone number. On the Gold Coast, advertising was limited to a name and a number, no suburb or description permitted. It fell under the heading of Introduction Services. The name I settled on was Cleo, short for Cleopatra, who, after all, was the original and quintessential temptress.

I was as nervous as hell because it meant that I had to put Poppy to bed then work from my own home while she slept. Come eight o’clock I turned the phone on and it rang constantly. By eight thirty, I had my first customer handing me $150. By three am I had amassed $640. To my surprise my mummy nipples were a big hit. All I could think was that they weren’t easily hidden any more. Even with a bra and a T-shirt on some days I still felt like I needed to hang flags off them to warn oncoming pedestrians. But yet again I was wrong about the male psyche, presuming they think like we do.

I put most of my first night’s takings in the bank so that the cheque for the mobile wouldn’t bounce. With the rest I bought groceries and paid rent.

After about a week I employed a girl who was also on the solo mum’s pension to sit with me and answer my phones when I was busy. Her job was also to keep an eye on Poppy if she woke up, but luckily this never happened.

Some nights I earnt $400 but on average it was around $500 a night. On a good night I made $800 or $900. Poppy was now three, so I put her in day care three days a week so that I could work during the day instead. It didn’t take long before I had purchased a bed each for Poppy and me, a fridge, a TV, a stereo, washing machine, dryer and a video. A few months later I bought a nice lounge suite, a microwave and a few rugs and kitchen appliances. My brothers were starting to wonder where all my money was coming from, so obviously I lied about the price of each item and told them that I had gotten lucky with the Melbourne Cup. I think they were also under the impression that I had substantial savings from my work with Gala Records.

My dad and I were starting to heal our differences. One Sunday he invited Poppy and me to lunch in Byron Bay, and cautiously I agreed to go. I thought it was just going to be him and I but he had invited his latest girlfriend to come along. I sat quietly in the back of the car and even faked sleep to avoid talking to them. Occasionally I would give my opinion but only if it was asked for. My demeanour was obviously sour. During lunch I made some callous crack about Dad’s past, and Dad responded by saying something that would change my whole life forever and my relationship with him for the better: ‘Annika lives in the past and refuses to let bygones be bygones.’

He was right, I carried a chip on my shoulder the size of Uluru. I didn’t have to respect him or his history. I didn’t have to impress him or punish him. Whether I liked it or not he was my father, and that would never change. I felt like a huge weight had been taken off. I felt my future opening up. Dad had overlooked my indiscretions and still loved me but I hadn’t done the same for him. From now on I would.

The following week, Dad phoned me to ask if I wanted to get together. I told him the next day would be fine and that I looked forward to seeing him. We arranged that he would come over at six pm. At five thirty I jumped in the shower, and missed his call to tell me he was running late and would be over by eight pm. I didn’t think anything of it when he hadn’t shown up and at seven thirty I put Poppy to bed and turned my phone on. I took an appointment for eight thirty with a client named John. At five past eight, Dad turned up—to my surprise.

‘Didn’t you get my message? Sorry I couldn’t make it for dinner but how about a coffee? Why are you so dressed up? Are you expecting a date?’

‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact I am. He will be here at eight thirty.’

‘Oh good. I can’t wait to meet him, now how’s my coffee going?’

I was stressing, my heart was racing. How could I kick my father out when this was the first time he had been to my home? At eight twenty-five, John knocked on my door. He turned out to be about forty-three years old, OK looking and obviously dripping in money.

‘John, come in, my father has just popped in to say hello.’ I was so grateful when he went along with the charade. ‘John please meet my father James Cleeve.’

They shook hands and sat opposite one another. The tension was too great for me so I distracted myself with the coffee making.

‘So what do you do for a living, John?’ my father asked.

‘I build boats, mainly for the export market.’

With every word a new pearl of perspiration would form on my forehead.

‘How did you meet Annika, John?’

‘At the gym, we’re both members at Sanctuary Cove,’ I blurted out.

‘Oh, how nice.’

Finally we got on to a subject that suited everyone, particularly my dad: we talked about Dad’s accomplishments. He had stories about being engaged to a Tahitian princess and how he had lectured at Harvard University. About having seven degrees and numerous doctorates. I will never understand why he bothered—the real Dad had accomplished a great many things, so why exaggerate?

After John had heard Dad’s life history, he stood and said, ‘Well, maybe we can do this another time, I seem to have interrupted a family gathering.’

‘No, John, I’ll leave, I’m two hours late, I’ve interrupted. You guys have a good night and I hope to meet you again soon, John. Thanks for the coffee, Annika, give my granddaughter a kiss for me. Goodnight.’

When I finally shut the door I was speechless. I just stared at John, then said, ‘I am so sorry.’

We both had a good laugh about the evening then he paid me and we had sex. I gave him a little extra time by way of apology.

John proved to be a magnet for family members. The next time he came over, my twin brothers arrived to say hello. So the next time my family all got together, John was the topic of conversation. They were all under the belief that I was dating a rich older man and that my future was set. It became the subject of many jokes, but it also worked to my advantage when explaining every new household item or evening dress: ‘That John is so good to me.’ And in a way it was the truth, every client is named John.

Life for Poppy and me was settling down nicely. I had a home to be proud of, family around me and money coming in. Work on the Gold Coast was unique because of the casino—men from all over Australia and Asia would visit just for the privilege of losing huge amounts of money. I, of course, was always happy to help. So it was not uncommon to receive a phone call from a punter wanting me to visit them at the casino. While I hated doing call outs, debt dictates the day’s events, so often I would throw caution to the wind and visit for a two-hour minimum at $600.

Gamblers are funny creatures. I imagine it is much like other addicts, you’d be sitting and chatting with a client, then you’d see the restlessness stir within them. Their ears pricked up and their spine stiffened as though the tables are calling their names. All of a sudden their sexual urges were gone and their need to throw money away overrode their hormones. Gambling bored me, but I was happy to hang around, provided I was being paid. I can honestly say that of all the casino clients I’ve visited over the years, I have never spent more than twenty minutes in the client’s room.

Often if they started losing, they’d even ask me to disappear for a while under the guise that I was bringing them bad luck. When the winds were blowing luck, they’d throw me fifty- or hundred-dollar chips as a reward. Some were even stupid enough to ask me to hold their winnings for fear they might be tempted to blow it. Obviously my bra absorbed the odd chip or two, much like a dryer does with socks. They never got back the same amount as they deposited. Let’s face it, it would have been nothing to slip off to the ladies and never return, so it was a small price to pay for keeping their chips warm.

I remember one sorry gambler, just sitting at the bar and every now and then giving me a $500 chip, saying, ‘Go play red for me.’ What would possess him to trust me? But I would wander off obediently, knowing that I was fighting a losing battle; if I played red and it lost I would come back empty-handed, while on the other hand if I played red and it won, I may also come back empty-handed. It was a no-win situation. So I pocketed the chip, watched a table and sure enough, that little thief of a ball landed on black. So I returned and told him he’d lost, but he didn’t care one iota. This went on for ages, back and forth. After about an hour, he told me he was out of chips. I felt so sorry for him that I handed him all his chips back and asked him to retire for the evening with his savings. I assumed he would be happy and thankful at my honesty and money management, but he was furious. He marched right past me and put the lot on zero and lost, then he returned to his barstool, content.