Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (28 page)

Paul was immensely proud of his work and I had to admit that his flair for marketing was superb. All that remained was to send it to our contact at the Attorney-General’s Department, where it would be officially classified.

I called my mate Mitch in Melbourne. We’d only ever met once, but had spent hours on the phone and formed a friendship. He would amuse me with stories of the workings of the Attorney-General’s censorship department: how the movies were classified with the use of a clinical spreadsheet with headings such as
Full-Frontal
Nudity
,
Erection Visible
,
Penetration
and so on. The classifier would record a series of ticks and crosses in the appropriate boxes, also documenting the rough duration of each event via the time code.

It was clear that our movie would be X-rated, because it showed erections and penetration. I also wanted to get our photos classified, even though this was voluntary. As Mitch explained, there was no such thing as X-rated photos; the photographic version of an X-rated movie would only ever be rated R category 2 (R category 1 being so-called soft porn). He promised he would issue the classifying X certificate immediately, and indeed we got the notification within days.

Paul’s plan was to offer another freebie photo via a group flyer John was about to send out. He’d already selected the image: shot by a professional, it featured me in black lingerie and manacles, staring down the barrel of the camera with a ‘fuck me’ expression. Most importantly, it had a clear view of Paul’s cock shoved way up my rear passage. It was the perfect shot: the lighting and colours all combined to produce an aesthetically pleasing photo that Paul assured me was erotic. But we would still need to find a film lab that would not have any moral objection to duplicating the negative in the anticipated vast quantities of prints we would need.

Our ad in the flyer would have simple text on a pink background. The other ads featured various video specials, with glossy photos and fancy text. Our ad would stand out through its sheer simplicity.

Paul read aloud from his computer screen the copy he had prepared for this ad: ‘Bored, horny housewife is sick of watching soapies—sex is much more fun. I’d love to send you a long, dirty letter and action photograph free of charge.’

Paul’s stroke of genius was to put in big bold letters:
DO NOT SEND MONEY
. He assured me the clients would love that and we’d be swamped. All he’d requested was that they send a large stamped, self-addressed envelope to our post-office box.

I didn’t want any trouble with minors getting unsolicited stuff, so he agreed to add a sentence or two. He read these additions out to me as he typed them. ‘Dear Nikki, please send me some sample goodies. I understand that they are not available to persons under eighteen years. The material may be offensive.’ Paul laughed. ‘They’ll love that: it’s a selling point.’ He continued, ‘I certify by my signature that I am over eighteen years.’

He planned to get stickers printed up, saying
Category 2
Restricted Warning: this material may cause offence
. In response to all the requests we got from this ad, he would wrap up the freebie photo inside his four-page freebie letter—most of which comprised the two new horny stories he’d written—and send this off, together with an order form, all sealed with the warning sticker.

This time we’d get the letter professionally printed—but I would personally sign each one. ‘It’s got the usual soft sell for the video,’ he assured me, ‘plus I thought we could sell photo sets . . . you know: anal, bi girl, threesome, whatever.’

In the weeks leading up to the flyer deadline, I left to Paul the intricacies of the mail-order business while I spent quality time with Shoshanna. I had all but ceased work at the brothel and had more spare time now. She was settling in beautifully at Ainslie Primary School and I often took her on short excursions. We would walk to the war memorial or along Anzac Parade, where she would play on the sculptures—her favourite was
The Rats of Tobruk
. I lived for these brief moments of intimacy with my child, when I could pretend that my life was normal.

Paul returned to the Shoe Box one day, very excited, saying he’d found a reliable professional photo processor—Fletchers Fotographics in Civic, run by some Dutchmen. Paul always gravitated towards his fellow countrymen, relishing the opportunity to speak
Nederlands.

‘Yeah, and naturally, being from Holland, they’ve got no problem with processing porn,’ he said. ‘And you’ll never guess what the funniest thing is?’

‘I have no idea.’ I sighed.

‘There’s a testimonial on the wall. It’s from none other than our dear prime minister, Paul Keating. He gets his photos developed there, too—maybe ’cos his wife’s Dutch. Anyway, I love the idea that we share a photo processor.’

The day prior to the mail-out, Paul picked up the four-page freebie letter from the printers. He was brimming with pride as he carried the boxes into our office.

‘Well, if it’s anything to go by, all the guys in the print shop read the letter and loved it. They wanted samples to take home.’ Paul had promised to put them on our mailing list—they’d said it was the sexiest stuff they’d ever done. It had caused quite a stir. ‘You’ve already got a little fan club,’ he said. ‘Anyway, what do you think?’

I looked at the pastel pink paper printed with its clunky typography. ‘It definitely looks amateurish.’ I laughed. I was thinking that we’d need to stock up on pretty pink pens and that I was going to get writer’s cramp signing all those letters.

So the flyer went out as planned and we sat back waiting for the influx of orders.

16

The phone’s persistent ring roused me from my morning slumber. It was Dory’s personal physician, who was also a friend of hers. I instantly guessed the reason for his call. She had died during the night.

I slumped to the floor as I tried to comprehend his words. When he had stopped by her house on his daily visit, there had been no answer, so he used his key to get in. He found her lying on the bathroom floor; she had suffered a coronary. But he assured me she had died quickly and painlessly.

I sat motionless; I was in shock. I told him I would come to Melbourne immediately.

Paul emerged from the spare room, having been woken by the phone. ‘Dory’s dead.’ I was in disbelief.

He paused a moment. ‘I guess we’ll have to go down for the funeral.’

‘I was only talking to her the other day. I think she died from all the stress we caused her.’

‘Hey, don’t blame me for this,’ he said angrily.

‘I’m not blaming you—I’m blaming both of us. You know how stressed she was—it killed her.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘But I should have been there for her. You could at least ask me how I’m feeling. I know you didn’t give a shit about her, but it’s polite to express sympathy when a loved one dies,’ I said sarcastically.

‘But she wasn’t really your mother.’

I had always been puzzled by Paul’s inability to grasp that, psychologically and emotionally, she was. How could it be otherwise? She was the only maternal figure I’d had. I was finding his lack of empathy disturbing. I knew he had detested her, but his callousness was disquieting.

I went to tell Shoshanna, who was inconsolable. She had never known anyone who’d died, and her five-year-old brain was having trouble absorbing the information.

I spent the day on the phone, booking flights and calling people. Friends in Melbourne were already organising the funeral. Despite my obvious distress, Paul broached the topic of Dory’s will. ‘Have you thought how you’ll feel when you realise she’s left everything to Francine?’ he suddenly asked me.

‘Don’t be crazy,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to discuss it.’ He didn’t seem to understand how upset I was.

‘Well, we’ll see,’ he said ominously, ‘but don’t be surprised if you don’t get a cent.’ He was convinced that, besides the two houses, she had piles of cash squirrelled away. ‘You’ll be lucky if you get anything.’

I was furious. I couldn’t believe he was saying such things at a time like this. I decided that I didn’t want him at the funeral—it somehow didn’t seem appropriate.

But he insisted. ‘I’m coming—for you and Shoshanna,’ he assured me.

We arrived in Melbourne that evening. After stopping by the doctor’s to get further details about Dory’s death, we went over to the house. Going in there, it looked so eerily empty and forlorn without her. It took all my courage to enter the bathroom where she’d lain dead just hours before.

But Paul was walking around the house, agitated. ‘Where’s the will?’ he asked, as he marched into Dory’s study. ‘We have to find it. I bet it’s in her filing cabinet, under “W”.’ At this, he pulled on its handle. ‘That fucking bitch has locked it.’

‘Stop talking like that!’

‘Where’s she hidden the key?’ he asked angrily.

‘I don’t know and I don’t want to discuss it. My mother has just died and all you care about is her will.’

‘It’ll be inside the piano—that’s where she normally hides stuff, isn’t it?’ he conjectured.

‘I don’t know. Just stop all this. I can’t deal with it now. I just want to be in her house in peace.’

But there was no stopping Paul. He was removing the piles of music and ornaments from on top of the piano in the lounge room, so he could open the lid. In his impetuosity and carelessness, he nearly knocked over Beethoven’s death mask.

‘Bingo!’ He held up the key to Dory’s filing cabinet. I looked at him in disbelief—he was possessed by an unmitigated greed.

He returned to the study, opened the cabinet and began searching through files.

‘Bingo again! I’ve found it,’ he called out to me.

‘Put it away,’ I begged him. ‘I don’t want to read it.’

But he was reading aloud now. ‘“I appoint the Public Trustee as Executor and Trustee of this, my will, and I give, devise and bequeath the residue of my personal estate and the whole of my real estate to my trustee . . . ”’ He frowned at this. ‘She’s left it all to the Public Trustee! I was right: she’s really fucked you over—she’s left it all to a bunch of fucking public servants! That fucking bitch . . .’

‘I can’t deal with this right now,’ I said, glancing at the document. ‘Please, put it away. I know she will have done right by me. You’re not a lawyer . . . you’re probably misconstruing everything.’

‘I want you to call Lloyd,’ he said, convinced that Dory had ‘shafted’ me and Lloyd would know what to do. ‘You’ll have to contest it.’ But I told him Lloyd was the last person I felt like speaking to.

‘Well, I’m gonna call him.’

Paul went through to the bedroom to make the call. When he returned, he told me, ‘Lloyd’s coming over after dinner.’

I didn’t want to see Lloyd. I still had to go through Dory’s phone book. There were many people I needed to call. As it was, they’d only have a day’s notice to come to the funeral.

‘Please, cancel Lloyd,’ I pleaded.

But Paul told me it was too late. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

Later, as I opened the door to Lloyd, I felt only contempt for him. Although I’d always respected his legal acumen, he was more Paul’s friend than mine. He’d also become insufferably lascivious, forever wanting to talk about sex and porn.

Paul rummaged through Dory’s financial papers and found her bank books, which he presented with the will for Lloyd’s perusal. Even before Lloyd had finished reading the will, Paul was badgering him insistently. ‘So, what’s the bitch gone and done? She’s fucked Nikki over, hasn’t she?’

Lloyd told Paul to be patient, saying it was a complex document and describing it as ‘a very well drawn-up testament’.

‘But she’s left everything to a bunch of public servants,’ said Paul.

Lloyd finished reading the papers with Paul restlessly looking over his shoulder. Then he turned to me. ‘Okay, your mother was a very wise and worldly woman, and she’s obviously had some expert legal advice.’

I smiled, because I suspected what was coming next.

‘What she’s done,’ continued Lloyd, ‘is to put everything in a testamentary trust.’ I had what was called a ‘life interest’. He thought it exceedingly smart, because it meant I’d never get the principal, only the income. I would receive the benefits of her estate, without it ever being in my name. I could live in either of her houses, but I could never access the proceeds if I should decide to sell. ‘Obviously, she’s done this to protect you—from Paul, presumably.’

I looked at Paul. He was livid. ‘See, she’s ruling from the grave.’

Lloyd turned to me again. ‘You’re a very wealthy woman.’

I was in shock. Dory had far more investments than even Paul had calculated.

‘See how wrong you were about Francine,’ I said to Paul. ‘I never doubted she’d do right by me.’

‘So, Nikki never gets the money?’ Paul clarified.

‘That’s right,’ said Lloyd. ‘Very clever of her.’

‘Well, obviously we’ll have to contest it,’ said Paul.

‘Now, why would I want to do that?’ I asked angrily. ‘So you can fritter it away?’

Lloyd furrowed his brow, saying that we’d have a hard time overturning it. We’d have to go to court and prove she was of unsound mind, which clearly she wasn’t.