by Bunkie King
I firmly decline another, erm, tantalising offer.
I have been in Las Pedroñeras for about a month when a couple of members of the Flesh+Blood crew arrive at my hotel room. Filming is coming to a wrap and Jack is about to leave Spain for England. He knows the second unit is returning to shoot some ‘pick-up’ shots so he has given them an envelope to deliver to me. In it is my old airline ticket — which I can renew — and some Spanish money, enough to pay for a month’s accommodation. However, I’m still stuck in Spain until my money comes through. It’ll cost a fortune in fees if I try to redirect it back to Australia. I don’t know if it would ever reach me anyway.
I haven’t contacted the Australian Embassy because of my misguided loyalty to Jack and fear of a public scandal. However, when my visa is about to expire I need to call them.
‘I can’t leave at this point because I’m waiting for my money to arrive,’ I explain. ‘I don’t know how long it’s going to take.’
The Embassy has no problem as long as I intend to leave when the money comes. I haven’t contacted any family members because I feel responsible, guilty even, for my situation. I see no reason why anyone would or should help me out. I don’t even have contact details for anyone who might be able to help. The address book is with Jack and Le.
After three months in Las Pedroñeras, the money finally comes through. I’m not as ecstatic as I expected to be — I’m actually enjoying the seclusion and familiarity of the little town. It is daunting to imagine myself alone back in Australia, without a man at my side and very little money or career prospects. I pay my hotel bill and with reasonably fluent Spanish express my heartfelt thanks to the manager and the staff who have been so helpful and friendly to me. Who knows how or where I might have ended up without their support?
That night Fatcho and I get drunk. As we pub-crawl through the local bars and discotheques, I enjoy shouting him drinks. He’s paid for everything for the last three months out of his meagre savings as a waiter, so I also give him that money back. Returning to the hotel, Fatcho gets permission from Leonardo the night manager to stay in my room. It is 3 a.m. when we collapse fully clothed on the bed. At five o’clock Leonardo wakes us up with a cup of coffee in time for me to catch the bus to Madrid. Fatcho takes me to the bus station and we shed a tear as he waves me off. We promise to keep in contact.
In Madrid I visit the Flesh+Blood production office to exchange the old airline ticket for a replacement. Riding in the cab to the airport I am confident; finally I am leaving Spain.
Chapter 22
From Jack to Jacques
Arriving back in Australia always feels so good, but this time any excitement is mixed with trepidation as I ponder my very uncertain future. At the Bondi flat I stay a couple of nights while packing my meagre belongings: a tin trunk containing knickknacks, a suitcase of clothes, a bedside lamp and a wooden statue of a goose that had been a twenty-first birthday present. After 15 years with Jack, these are the sum of my life’s material possessions.
The little flat with its million-dollar view over the sparkling blue ocean no longer feels like home. I’m merely a visitor, someone passing through. Before walking out the door for the last time I glance around my bedroom. There are a couple of things I would like to take. I could do with a bed at least, along with some blankets and towels. The Clarice Beckett painting tempts me, but then I think I am not going to give them any more reasons to be angry with me. I close the door and am gone.
I may not own much but at least I’m standing on my own two feet, determined to never be sucked into another unequal relationship.
I still have the keys to the office in Woollahra; Jack’s Subaru is parked in the garage behind the house. It’s OK for me to use it as Jack said I could. My brother has agreed to let me stay in the tiny front room of his small semi in Darlinghurst, where he lives with his wife and children, so I drive there.
Before going job-hunting I visit my father in Tongarra, near Wollongong, where he lives with his second wife, Barbara. I haven’t seen him for a very long time and hope to rekindle some kind of a relationship with him. After dinner we stay up drinking while Barbara goes to bed. Over three bottles of port Father tries to set things straight, confessing, ‘I’m sorry that I haven’t been much of a father.’
I’m not used to people apologising for their behaviour towards me, so I brush it off, saying, ‘There’s no hard feelings. It is what it is.’
My only childhood memories of connecting with Father are of him tinkering with the car or gardening; he taught me a lot about plants and growing things. But he hadn’t really been there for me emotionally before the marriage broke down and wasn’t involved with me after he left. Consequently, I don’t feel deep emotions towards him. I gained experience of feminine emotional caring from my mother and sisters, but never experienced the masculine equivalent — so it wasn’t as though I felt its loss. However, his absence created a need for fatherly love that might have tweaked my attraction to someone twice my age.
I reassure Father that I don’t blame him for anything or resent him for leaving us. He tells me that he loves me, cares about me. We don’t discuss my break-up with Jack. He is English — you just don’t go there.
But he does ask one question.
‘Why didn’t you contact me when you were in such dire straits in Spain?’
‘Because I promised you years ago that I would never ask for your help,’ I reply. And that’s that.
It is almost sunrise now. We hug and express our love for each other, just as Barbara walks in. She doesn’t speak, but the expression on her face says everything. She has woken up, found her husband missing, walked in and seen him embracing a young blonde. Apparently her first husband used to bring young women home. Her default response means she isn’t able to consider how great it is that a father and daughter who haven’t been close are re-connecting. It’s all just an unpleasant moment of déjà vu for her. Father and I pretend we haven’t noticed her reaction and I leave for bed. Sharing a very bad hangover that lasts a couple of days brings my father and me closer together. The irony isn’t lost on me.
***
I find work in a market research office in Miller Street, North Sydney. One evening, after a couple of after-hours drinks, I head for the train station but when an empty taxi drives by I change my mind and hail it. I’m a bit tipsy and start chatting with the driver. As we drive south over the Harbour Bridge he looks at me in the rear-view mirror.
‘My name is Jack,’ he says. ‘Would you like to go out with me?’
‘Oh no!’ I reply, laughing. ‘I don’t know if I can cope with this. Your name is Jack? I have just broken off a long-term relationship with a guy called Jack. I don’t think I want to go there again!’
He hastily explains his real name is Jacques. He drops me off at the Woollahra house where Mother, recently returned from England, is staying.
‘A good-looking cabbie just asked me out,’ I tell her, and she laughs.
In early August, Jacques and I have our first date, dinner at a restaurant in Double Bay. I’m taken aback — he expects me to pay my share of the bill, but I figure this means we’ll be on an equal footing in the relationship. I’m fine with that.
After dinner, he invites me up to his flat to ‘see his paintings’. Is this just a line? So original! But he really is an artist, as it turns out. He shows me some of his work, surreal landscapes rendered with tiny dots using ink pens. He studied draftsmanship; his work is unique, really good. We don’t sleep together that night, which gives me the impression that he respects me. A good start.
***
As soon as Jack and Le return to Australia, Jack calls to invite me to dinner. In my family, all four of my sisters have remained friendly with their exes, boyfriends or husbands. To me, dinner seems like an opportunity to reconnect with Le and establish a relationship with Jack on neutral terms. At this stage I have no animosity toward either of them. I just want to move on with my life.
Jack comes to pick me up in a loaned BMW, but I prefer to follow him in the Subaru so I can leave at will. He has told me I can continue using the car for a couple of months. We drive into the underground car park of an apartment block in Woolloomooloo, behind Hyde Park. The apartment is opulent with stunning views to North Sydney, where office buildings are highlighted by the colours of the sunset. It’s very striking.
Our dinner conversation is somewhat stilted, I presume because of my ingrained feelings of guilt for leaving him. Nothing is said about Madrid airport. This is underscored when Jack mentions he had to cancel an important family event in London after filming finished in Spain. He explains that he was too distraught after my departure to cope with social engagements.
It feels like the purpose of the dinner is merely to show me the luxury lifestyle I’m walking away from. But I’m not budging.
As I am leaving Jack asks, ‘Would you like to come to the farm for my birthday? I’ll fly you up there.’
I’m immediately suspicious. ‘Will you fly me back as well?’
‘Of course I will.’
I accept the invitation, seeing it as another chance to normalise our relationship. His ex-wife and many ex-girlfriends have visited the farm regularly, so why not me? I love the place and already miss it. But I’m completely resolved to never again get into a close relationship with Jack; I just want to be friends. With precious few friends of my own, he and Le are the closest family I have. We’ve all shared such a unique and full life together — I really hope that means something to both of them, too.
Jack meets me at Coffs airport. On the way to the farm I ask him to stop at a shop so I can buy some cigarettes. As I get out of the car I have a panic attack, fearing that he is tricking me and will leave me stranded. I’m still deeply affected by what happened at Madrid airport. I ask tentatively, ‘You’ll be here when I come out?’
He nods but I repeat the question to feel reassured. I rush in and out of the shop in case he drives off with my overnight bag that contains all my valuables. I sit silently as we drive on through the lush sub-tropical scenery, seriously contemplating what I could do if he won’t let me leave. No matter what, I will get back to Coffs in time to catch my plane — even if I have to walk.
I step into the kitchen where Le is preparing food but she avoids eye contact when I say hello. The tone is set and we don’t engage in any meaningful conversation for the rest of the weekend. The usual friends have gathered for Jack’s birthday celebration, drinking and getting high. I suspect an ulterior motive; perhaps he hopes I will reconsider. But what happened in Spain and his obvious lack of concern for my welfare set me firmly against being under his influence ever again.
Outwardly everything is the same at the farm. I stroll over to pat my horse Bobo; our strong attachment remains intact. It’s good to see her again. But as at the flat, I experience a similar flash of not belonging any more. When Jack drives me back to the airport he must realise that I no longer have feelings for him and it is finally over between us.
Shortly after my return to Sydney my brother asks me to move out of his house. Thereafter, I rarely have contact with him.
***
As had happened with Jack, Jacques shows strong interest and attaches himself to me immediately. Vulnerable and alone, I become emotionally involved with him too quickly, not really exploring my options or even believing I have any. I am wearing my rose-coloured glasses yet again. A week before my thirtieth birthday in October, I move in with him.
Jacques immediately becomes my universe, the only person in my life. I am besotted with him and will do anything to please him. He’s handsome, loving and caring; the best lover I’ve ever been with, fantastic in bed. I know he’s never been in a relationship for any length of time and I’m flattered that he is committing to me. I don’t see that he might have issues in that regard. I am so convinced about him truly being the one that I feel a strong urge to have a baby with him. Jacques responds positively to this proposal and I have my IUD removed.
When we mention our plan to have a child to my mother and his family, they are in accord — if we’re committing to having a baby, we should get married. On 4 February 1985, we have a brief ceremony at the Registry Office in Sydney. I haven’t issued invitations to my family but they’re aware of the date and turn up regardless — Mother, Maria, and, surprisingly, Father and his wife Barbara. I am happy to see them but also slightly embarrassed; it’s such a modest event we don’t even have a reception planned. When we sign the register I discover Jacques is actually 26, four years younger than me. He’d told me that he was about to turn 28. Two days after the wedding, on our honeymoon in a Sydney hotel, I discover I am pregnant.
Jacques doesn’t have any money; he works casually as a taxi driver. I pay for our honeymoon through temping work, but in order to save money suggest we move in with my mother in her rented house in Randwick. Mother does her best to be accommodating and supportive of our partnership and very respectful of our needs, but Jacques’ attitude towards me swiftly changes.
After I first move in with Jacques, Jack invites us to dinner at a restaurant. I hope it is because he and Le want to establish a friendly social connection with us, but on the night it feels more like an opportunity for him to scrutinise his younger replacement.
Soon after, I learn that Jacques’ father had worked for an underworld ‘identity’ in Sydney. My honeymoon is over, quite literally.
***
Apart from being penniless, Jacques is an ideal partner during the first few months we are together, but once we are married, he transforms almost overnight from a sweet and caring person into someone who’s belligerent and abusive, often yelling and even throwing things at me. He becomes obsessive, angry and dominating. I blame it on having to live with his mother-in-law and his insecurities about my ex being ‘Jack Thompson the Film Star’. I make excuses because he can also be very giving and caring. I rationalise that he’s an artist, so he’s bound to be highly strung and emotional.
When I met Jacques, I’d lived for nearly 30 years with an underlying feeling of being ignored and unwanted. I’m even needier than when I first met Jack. I’m unable to recognise how deep-seated my desire to be appreciated truly is. While I’ve developed confidence in my physical appeal, I’m still insecure about my worth as a person and as a wife and partner. I feel vulnerable and constantly doubt myself.
What I hope for with Jacques is an equal relationship, where we both grow as we come to understand and support each other’s strengths and weaknesses. But I fall back into my old pattern — I tolerate his mistreatment in order to feel that I belong somewhere. Anywhere.
Jacques slips into a sort of ritual. When he finishes work on a council gardening crew at around 4 p.m., he comes home, has a shower, pulls some bongs then sits around in a black cloud. Inevitably he finds something to yell at me about — the place isn’t tidy enough, dinner isn’t cooked properly. He undermines my self-worth by criticising my culinary skills.
‘The food is too cold and disgusting,’ he roars, and then storms out.
Once when I served up his dinner he threw the plate against the wall. I sobbed and watched the food drip down onto the broken crockery on the floor. I cry a lot and try harder, often sobbing myself to sleep.
Jacques’ mother is Dutch-Jewish from the eastern suburbs; she keeps house impeccably and is a great cook — not my strengths. I keep thinking I need to try harder to be a good wife and homemaker. My experiences with Jack have left me with a sense of guilt: guilt for my lack of love, compassion and caring. And now my new husband, who I’m desperately in love with, is also telling me I am lacking. Jacques’ anger and guilt-tripping leave me totally demoralised.
I have not heard from Jack for many months when I receive a call at work. He needs me to sign some paperwork to discharge me from any possible legal involvement that we may have had.
‘I’ll pick you up at lunchtime,’ he says. ‘It won’t take long.’
A car ho
rn sounds as I wait outside my office block in the Rocks. Jack yells through the open passenger window to get my attention. I am seven months pregnant but hurry to the car and jump in as the traffic banks up behind him. He drives around the corner and parks the car, then he reaches in to the back seat to open a briefcase. He pulls out some papers and a pen.
‘As we are no longer involved I need you to sign these documents,’ he says abruptly.
‘What are they for?’ I ask.
‘They’re just the necessary forms to finalise our situation.’
I look at him questioningly. He gives me a justification for this sudden pronouncement — he is possibly about to be sued and I could be liable for one-third of the costs.
I assume he’s referring to a breach of contract case with a Hollywood film producer. I wish Jack had given me forewarning or posted the papers — that way I might have thought twice and consulted a solicitor before signing them. But his presence is daunting, especially after all that has happened — and I just want to get it over with. I don’t even take the time to read the document as he points at each page where my signature is required.
When I finish signing he takes a dollar coin out of his pocket and slaps it onto the dashboard. ‘That’s your share, fully paid up.’
Apparently that’s all that’s required to end any joint legal interests. It’s a mundane end to a fiery, rollercoaster-ride of a relationship.
I surprise him by saying, ‘I presume you’ve already changed your will.’
The look of horror on his face confirms my suspicion — he hasn’t.
Jack drives me back to the office and, as I am about to get out of the car, he points to my pregnant stomach. ‘I wish that was mine.’
‘Well, it could have been,’ I respond and walk away for the last time from the stranger I once thought I loved.
***
Shortly before the birth, Jacques and I move into a two-bedroom flat in Palmerston Avenue, Waverley. I christen it ‘cockroach hollow’. He moves his art studio into the second bedroom and refuses to relinquish it for the nursery that we need. He’s not going to allow a baby to intrude on his space or affect his life. As a compromise I put a chest of drawers and a bassinet at one end of the room.