by Tina Arena
Some reviews of the show published in the days that followed didn’t quite match the audience’s reaction. In fact, one or two verged on nasty. One reviewer hated the music but liked the production; another liked the music but hated the production. It was disappointing but not particularly surprising. Once again it seemed like a classic case of the English–French divide: the music and the whole mood of the production were so European, so Latin – dark, emotional, expressive. The script or ‘book’ was also very modern, a series of vignettes built around songs – the narrative was not spelt out in black and white. I think that the things the Europeans loved about Notre-Dame de Paris were exactly the things that the English reviewers didn’t love: the two sensibilities are just so different.
But, strangely enough, the English punters did love the show. They filled the house every night, and every night bar one, they gave us a standing ovation. After a few nights of that kind of reception we knew something was going right.
Another bit of good news was that ‘Segnali di Fumo’, my duet with Luca Barbarossa, had been picked up by Italian radio and put on high rotation. The song had been released there on the same day as the Notre-Dame premiere. According to Luca, everywhere he went it was playing. It was always great when you sent a song out into the world and people responded. I never tired of that feeling.
Mum and Dad stayed three weeks. It was the first time in years we’d spent real time together and it was wonderful. We’d do the grocery shopping at Harrods, which wasn’t cheap but sure was good! That was one downside of living around the corner from the famous department store – I spent an absolute fortune on food and wine.
A month after the show opened, I took a night off from Notre-Dame to perform at the Prince’s Foundation Gala Dinner at Buckingham Palace. With an extraordinary band put together by brilliant muso Lewis Taylor, I performed ‘Chains’, ‘Sorrento Moon’ and ‘Live (for the One I Love)’.
It was a fabulous evening and took me back to those first World Music Awards at Monte Carlo, although this time I had the sense to wear a frock, thank god! The place was heaving with European royalty as well as celebs. I caught up with Elle Macpherson again; Donatella Versace, Lauren Bacall and Joan Rivers were also there. I’d met His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales a couple of years before at his ‘Party in the Park’, but I seem to remember that, after quickly shaking my hand, he’d made a beeline for the lovely Nat Imbruglia. It was a priceless moment, bless him!
But the next night was even more astonishing in a way, when I attended an intimate dinner with Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles, as she was then known. Surprisingly the dinner would not be at the cheap Indian restaurant around the corner from their place. No, I would be going to dinner at Buckingham Palace. Who would have thought a girl from Moonee Ponds would ever end up there? (Come to think of it, Dame Edna Everage, Moonee Ponds’ most famous resident, had probably already beaten me to it.)
The invite was a way of saying thank you for my performance the night before. I was delighted but terrified. For one thing, what do you wear to dinner at Buckingham Palace? There are protocols to follow and traditions to be observed, surely? Luckily, the invite came with all the information I would need.
There were to be no toes showing, nor leg skin. It had to be closed-toe shoes and sheer stockings. Then the gloves: above the elbow if your gown was strapless; to the elbow otherwise. Finally, the gown had to be ‘structured’. I think that meant no floaty sacks, which was lucky because, being vertically challenged, I tend to get lost in them.
I managed to get my outfit sorted, and ended up having a lovely time. Charles and Camilla met us personally and we chatted for a while. He actually knew my work, as did Camilla. They seemed like a happy couple, very comfortable in each other’s company – while they’d been together for many years by this time, they had not yet married. Then, after a tour of the palace (oh, the art, just for starters!), we had a three-course meal. It was an ultimate London experience to tick off my bucket list. I think I have to thank Esmeralda for the opportunity, though: Camilla liked musicals and she loved Notre-Dame de Paris.
Performing in the West End of London was another ultimate London experience to tick off the list. And leading an ordinary life in London for so many months – buying the groceries, cleaning the house, cooking the dinner (even if I was treading the boards every night) – was probably just what I needed at that time in my life. But it wasn’t the beginning of a quieter life for me. Far from it. Because things were hotting up again, this time in my homeland.
CHAPTER 20
The Flame
It was a media scrum. Just about every news outlet in the country was represented, from the Wangaratta Chronicle to Mackay’s Bush Telegraph to Channel Ten, as well as reporters covering for international news.
We were hustled into the room in order: John Williamson, Julie Anthony, John Farnham, Olivia Newton-John, Vanessa Amorosi and, finally, yours truly.
The announcement of the line-up for the Sydney Olympics opening ceremony was made at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. We answered a few questions, the cameras flashed. It was a standard media conference, but with a difference – because, for all of us, it was a truly special day, and we were absolutely chuffed to be there.
I’d arrived from London two days earlier, having taken a short break from Notre-Dame de Paris to be there for the announcement. Before returning to the UK, I recorded the song I’d be singing at the ceremony with the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra and the Australian Youth Choir. Called ‘The Flame’, it was written by John Foreman, a young Australian composer who went on to work as musical director on several TV shows, including Australian Idol and the new Young Talent Time.
A month later I was back in Australia, this time in Sydney for the opening of the Olympics. The atmosphere was electric. Daylight saving had been brought forward especially for the Games and, as if in response, summer had come early. Long sunny days were followed by balmy evenings. The entire city was decked out in its best clobber – there were flags and flowers everywhere.
On the day of the ceremony we were bussed to the stadium in Homebush, western Sydney. I know I’m always saying how nervous I get, but this one took the cake. The audience would be upwards of three billion people, give or take, and that freaked me out. I think it freaked everyone out. I just hoped I wouldn’t trip over mid-chorus.
My old workmate and friend David Atkins was the artistic director for both the opening and closing ceremonies and, together with Ric Birch as executive producer and director of ceremonies, what a brilliant job he did. I was watching the event unfold on a big screen backstage – security was unbelievably tight.
It was a stunning spectacle that told the story of Australia, from ancient times to the present. Everyone remembers little Nikki Webster, the thirteen-year-old girl with blonde curls who represented the young nation. John Williamson sang ‘Waltzing Matilda’. Human Nature and Julie Anthony sang the Australian national anthem, ‘Advance Australia Fair’. Then Aussie icons John Farnham and Olivia Newton-John sang ‘Dare to Dream’ as they strolled among the athletes. After Vanessa Amorosi’s ‘Heroes Live Forever’ it was my turn.
‘The Flame’ was the song that preceded the lighting of the Olympic flame by Australian athlete Cathy Freeman. They’d dressed me in a shiny bronze-gold dress by fashion designer Fiona Scanlan. The Sydney Children’s Choir also sang. Up on that stage, looking out at the enormous crowd, I wanted to pinch myself. I felt like I was part of history in the making. And, despite all my fears, I didn’t trip once.
Dad and Nancy had flown up especially for the occasion. Mum couldn’t make it because she was working at the nursing home in Moonee Ponds, but I’m sure she and all her clients were glued to the telly that night.
Watching Cathy light the flame was a supreme moment. To share it with her was an honour, and I will treasure the memory forever. It felt so right: she, a great and true Australian, up there holding the Olympic torch high; while down below, there was I, the
child of migrants but nevertheless an Aussie just like Cathy. As we waited for the flame to reach the cauldron my heart missed a beat. But when the flame finally burst forth, tears were streaming down my cheeks.
It had been an unforgettable evening, starting with a call on my mobile while I was backstage getting my makeup retouched.
‘Hi, Tina.’ The voice had a strong French accent and sounded far away. ‘C’est Vince.’
‘Ça va? How are you?’ I said. Here I was, about to trot out onto the stage at the Olympics and perform for a few billion people, and now Vince was calling me.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to hear from this particular guy – quite the opposite. But just thinking about him put me in a state, even though I’d only met him once. What was wrong with me?
Vince wished me luck and told me he’d be watching. Which was lovely, but now, with a worldwide audience to worry about, all I could think of was him. It was ridiculous.
We’d met a few weeks before, in August, on the eve of my trip to Australia for the Olympics announcement. I’d gone with a bunch of the Notre-Dame cast and crew to get some dinner between the Saturday matinee and evening shows. We were wolfing down our sushi in the local Wagamama when a tall, tanned blond man dressed all in white came down the stairs. As soon as I saw him I thought I knew him. After a second glance I spotted his bright blue eyes. It’s Brad Pitt! I thought to myself.
I turned to a dancer next to me and said quietly: ‘Look who’s just walked down the stairs.’ He clocked this blond Viking and blurted out: ‘Holy shit!’
Now Brad was coming towards us. It was then I realised it wasn’t the movie star at all. But the guy was so handsome I didn’t want to have to talk to him. Then he began chatting to my colleagues in French. Obviously he knew some of them.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him, but I didn’t want to meet him. So I quickly paid for my meal and snuck away.
I was skulking back in my dressing-room when the principal dancer, Cynthia, popped in. Strong and brave and a great listener, Cynthia had become a true friend during our time together in Notre-Dame.
‘Darling, don’t forget we’re having drinks tonight!’ she cooed.
‘I won’t,’ I said. I could hardly forget – I’d arranged them myself. I’d booked the bar upstairs for the cast and crew after the show. We were saying goodbye to the wonderful Garou and Bruno Pelletier, who were finishing up on Notre-Dame that week after almost a year performing in the French and now British productions. It would be my last night with them, because I was headed to Australia in the morning.
‘Good,’ Cynthia said, ‘because I want you to meet someone.’
‘Not that tall guy with the long blond hair.’
‘As a matter of fact, yes. His name is Vince. He’s staying to see the show tonight.’
‘No, no, you’re not going to do that to me. I don’t want to meet him.’ And I didn’t. He was too good-looking for me. It was intimidating. And anyway, Jeremy and I had parted only relatively recently.
Cynthia just raised her eyebrows and smiled knowingly, then disappeared like a naughty fairy.
Now I was really in a state. The thought that this man would be in the audience tipped me over the edge. And once I was onstage, all I wanted to do was get off and go home. Vince, whoever he was, had rattled my cage.
Back in my dressing-room after the show I opened a bottle of champagne to soothe my nerves. Just as the cork popped, Cynthia appeared in the doorway. ‘Nearly ready?’ she asked.
‘Here, sit down and have a drink with me,’ I said.
Cynthia would never say no to a glass of French bubbles, so I poured her one.
I inhaled my drink then started pouring myself another.
‘Come on,’ she said, pulling the bottle out of my hand. ‘We’re going upstairs. We’ve got to say goodbye to Garou and Bruno. You organised these drinks.’
I protested as loudly as I could but she wouldn’t let me get out of it.
‘Well, just don’t introduce me to that guy,’ I said as we climbed the stairs. ‘I won’t know what to say, my French is poor and he probably doesn’t speak English. It’s pointless.’
Cynthia turned around and gave me the eye. ‘You are so full of shit, Tina,’ she said. ‘Stop being a child and grow up.’ Cynthia was not one to mince her words.
It sounds crazy, but I’d only seen this man once and I was in an absolute tizz. I’d never felt anything like that before.
We walked into the bar. Everyone was already there, drinking, talking. Someone ordered me another champagne. I’d just taken my first sip when I felt a hand on my back. Cynthia was pushing me forward towards the tall blond guy. ‘Vincent, Tina. Tina, Vincent,’ she said.
It was then I finally remembered my manners. I smiled at him, said hello and put out my hand.
He kissed me once on each cheek. Then we began to talk.
Vince was so unpretentious and genuine, all my nerves immediately disappeared. His English was worse than my bad French, but it didn’t matter. Somehow we were managing to communicate.
Vince said he’d loved the show and my interpretation of Esmeralda, which was sweet of him. It turned out he was an actor and had worked on the French production of Notre-Dame. Since then he’d been acting in a travelling theatre company production of a famous French comedy by the eighteenth-century dramatist Pierre de Marivaux, called L’Île des Esclaves (Slave Island). He’d just had a holiday in the south of France where his family lived – hence the suntan.
Despite the language barrier we talked and talked, and before we knew it, it was closing time.
Garou organised the troops to kick on. ‘Come on, we’re going to a club.’ I call Garou a young Tom Jones. He loves his poker games at the casino, loves girls, loves life. He’s always fun to be around.
We set off behind Garou. ‘It’s not far,’ he said encouragingly. Half an hour later we finally stumbled into the bar.
Once we were settled in a corner with a couple of drinks in front of us, Vince and I began talking again. Looking into his handsome face I realised there was a lot more behind it – an intellect and an interesting man. I also liked the fact that he didn’t know anything about me at all – he had little interest in popular culture. That was refreshing.
Finally I glanced at my watch. It was after 3 am. Shit, I thought. I’ve got to be on a plane in the morning and I haven’t even finished packing. And then I remembered that my poor driver was still parked outside. He’d followed us to the bar and had been waiting there ever since. I felt terrible about that. Usually I’d just send the driver home and get a cab. But on this night I’d forgotten.
So it was like Cinderella at the ball – suddenly I had to leave. But goodbyes, French style, are never speedy. I did the rounds, which probably took another half an hour. It would be the last time I saw Garou and Bruno for some time so they got extra hugs and kisses. Everyone wished me luck for the Olympics and they all promised to watch. Then I said goodbye to Vince. ‘I have to catch a plane in the morning,’ I told him.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
When I told him about the Olympics, he said: ‘Wow! I’ll be watching.’
I gave him my number. ‘Call me.’ And I left.
Just as I was climbing into the car, I heard my name. Vince was there behind me.
‘What’s up?’ I asked.
‘It was great to meet you tonight,’ he said in broken English.
‘I’m so sorry I have to go,’ I said, which was true. I would have stayed up all night to talk to him if I could.
We agreed to catch up and he promised to stay in touch.
As the car drove off I thought to myself: I’ll probably never see him again. But we did stay in touch over the following weeks, texting and phoning when we could.
And then he’d called me just before I was due to go on to sing ‘The Flame’ at the opening of the Sydney Olympics. ‘I’m ringing to tell you I’m watching,’ he’d said. ‘Bon courage.’
&nbs
p; ‘Merci,’ I’d said. And that was that. But when I walked out into the stadium to sing, there had been an added spring in my step. To then see my friend from the beauty parlour, the great Cathy Freeman, light the flame – it would go down in my book as one of the most memorable nights of my life.
CHAPTER 21
Good Times
In the end, due to my Notre-Dame commitments, I missed seeing Cathy win her 400-metre race and a gold medal. Thirteen years later I’m still kicking myself. Instead, I returned to London. Vince paid me a visit while I was there. Nothing happened but it was nice to know he considered me a friend. There was something about that Frenchman I couldn’t put my finger on. For some reason I couldn’t get him out of my head. But it was time to move on to the next chapter of my life, and I knew I’d be spending less time in Europe in the coming months.
When I finally finished on Notre-Dame I felt mixed emotions. Performing a lead role in London’s West End had been tough and tremendous in equal measure, but I was keen to get back to my other job. I had managed to get some writing done while I was in London but now I was itching to do more. One thing that inspired me around that time was a bit of a win in the US. A cover of ‘Burn’ by American country singer Jo Dee Messina had reached number 2 on the Billboard country charts, while her album, also called Burn, went to number 1. It reminded me that not only did I love songwriting, I was actually not too bad at it.
But first I headed back to Australia to appear as a guest presenter at the ARIA awards in Sydney. At the same time, Sony released Souvenirs, a compilation of my songs and recordings that had not been previously available in Australia. The album included ‘Show Me Heaven’ and ‘If I Was a River’, the French singles, some live recordings from the Olympia in Paris, plus my live duet with Donna Summer, ‘No More Tears (Enough is Enough)’. That performance had also appeared on Donna’s live album Live & More Encore, something I’m still proud of.
The ARIAs were the usual palaver. My good mate Michael Angel accompanied me, which caused a bit of chatter. Killing Heidi took out the Album of the Year and a few other awards, and dance house duo Madison Avenue won Single of the Year.