Not Your Ordinary Housewife

by Nikki Stern

  I needed several attempts at reading this ten-minute script before I was able to finish it without getting the giggles. Paul added the sound effects, fading them in and out where appropriate and concluding with some soporific Hawaiian pedal steel-guitar music. He was right—it was brilliant. It was a masterful tease, in which absolutely nothing happened.

  Meanwhile, I wrote the script for the Wife-Swapping Line—a serious essay written from a psychological perspective which I researched meticulously at the local library. Paul designed some big, bold display ads to be placed in Truth. I was worried about the exorbitant cost, but Paul mocked me, telling me that I worried about money too much. I retorted that he didn’t worry enough.

  Paul’s marketing talent paid off. The Fantasy Line soon became the biggest earner of any of the 0055 numbers, with the Wife-Swapping Line not far behind, especially after Truth ran an article on it. We were faxed daily figures, which gave us the average amount of time callers stayed on the line. Our holding times were the longest in the business and that, together with the huge numbers of callers, translated into a comfortable profit for us.

  In response, several of the large service providers began to venture into the sexual arena themselves; they realised they were losing mountains of money on many of their other services. Under the guise of providing clinical information, they created lines with titles such as ‘Anal Intercourse’ and ‘Semen’; they posed questions such as ‘Is oral sex normal?’ But Paul upped the ante by changing the graphics on the Fantasy Line ad—it now showed a topless me, albeit with my breasts hidden, lying on my stomach. He also reserved a new number ending in ‘69’ and booked ads in People magazine.

  Paul was on a creative binge. He was churning out scripts faster than I could record them. He came up with new titles that had maximum impact: ‘Ginger and Lyn’ (a play on the porn star, Ginger Lynn), ‘Dial Debbie’ (reminiscent of the classic porno, Debbie Does Dallas) and ‘Linda’s Log’ (referencing the star of Deep Throat). We were hiring other women to do voice-overs, such as for the ‘Sue and Helen’ series—weekly episodes narrated by two bored housewives. Unfortunately, the formula was always the same—nothing happened—but Paul was convinced that, once Telecom realised that the only lines making money were sex-related, they would relax their draconian restrictions.

  We began working frantically on a Secret Confessions series. There were to be separate phone numbers for Porn Star, Call Girl and Stripper. I wrote the interview-style questions and answers, and we hired several women to record the tapes with Paul—they were little more than fictional descriptions of how ‘she’ had first entered the various occupations. To prepare this material, I immersed myself in the library; I also wrote numerous non-fictional essays, including the Nudist and Pornography lines. But then, without warning, Telecom pulled the plug on all our lines, some even before they’d gone to air. People phoning our lines were met with a gruff recorded message stating that these services were no longer available.

  We were in shock. We had actually stuck to the contract. Furthermore, we had bookings we couldn’t cancel for thousands of dollars of advertising in several papers.

  The curt explanation for Telecom’s dramatic intervention came via our service provider. Apparently, advertising in the back section of Truth brought the 0055 service into disrepute. Furthermore, Telecom was unhappy with the word ‘fantasy’—it was allegedly too sexually suggestive—and they did not approve of the graphic of me.

  After long negotiations, we were told that we could continue the service if we changed its name to Dial-a-Dream, if we advertised in the front section of the paper and removed any suggestive images.

  ‘This is such bullshit,’ exclaimed Paul. ‘Who ever heard of not being able to say the word fantasy? And who’s gonna call a number called Dial-a-Dream? What is wrong with these people?’ Indeed, one of the other service providers had a clinical information line entitled Sexual Fantasies, which was permitted to stay on air.

  We decided we’d just have to re-record and do some new ads.

  ‘It won’t make as much as before but it’ll still do okay,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose you’re right. I’m just so pissed off—bloody Telecom think they can do anything.’ It was true: they were government-owned and accountable to nobody.

  ‘That’s what happens when you have a monopoly,’ I commiserated.

  Hedging our bets, we began work on an adult introduction service to be called the Contact Line. According to what we had been told, placing the ads in People magazine—with its alleged readership of some 730,000 people nationwide—was still permitted by Telecom. We re-recorded the Fantasy Line script, identical in every way to the original except for the intro and outro sentences, which now read: ‘Thank you for calling Dial-a-Dream’. Paul re-designed the ad—it was text only, and it would be placed in the front section of Truth.

  To our utter amazement, Telecom cancelled the amended version. Even the text-only Dial-a-Dream and Contact Line ads in People were pulled, despite the fact that some of our competitors continued to advertise there.

  Again, the vague explanation came via our service provider: apparently, Truth and People were deemed to be inappropriate advertising media. But we had tried in vain to get Telecom’s bureaucrats to give us clear guidelines in writing as to where we could and couldn’t advertise; however, they had refused to commit themselves.

  Paul vacillated between despondency and anger. ‘I’ve had enough—I’m starting to take this very personally.’ He was sure Telecom was trying to put us out of business, and that they were in cahoots with some of the other service providers.

  It certainly looked that way. There were still companies who were advertising in Truth phone lines with names like Masturbation and Premature Ejaculation.

  Telecom just kept shifting the goal posts; it had all become a financial fiasco. ‘The cunts’—as Paul called them—‘just keep disconnecting our phone lines.’ He thought we should go to the Trade Practices Commission—they dealt with this sort of thing. He wanted me to call Julian in Sydney; he had worked for them and was well versed in competition law.

  Much as I wanted to speak to Julian, I didn’t want to appear to be using him for free legal advice. But Paul called him anyway, without my knowledge, and discussed our case.

  We also made an appointment with one of the Trade Practices Commission lawyers. He said that it was against competition law to form a cartel and to exclude us from our rightful share in the marketplace. We were advised to document all dealings with Telecom so that a dossier could be built up.

  Paul was determined to catch the Telecom staff lying; to do this, he purchased a primitive telephone-recording device from an electronics shop. Although I had concerns about the legalities of this, Paul allayed my fears by assuring me that he would simply use whatever information he gathered to jog his memory for his Trade Practices submission. He then called one of the 0055 bureaucrats and asked him to clarify Telecom’s policies and guidelines for advertising. The hapless employee was no match for Paul’s sharp mind.

  Paul believed he had exposed Telecom’s inconsistencies and was very pleased with his recording. This tape was to form the basis of the David and Goliath battle we were about to embark upon.

  13

  One of our regulars was Mario, a charming young lawyer of Italian extraction who looked after his aged mama. With his penchant for porn, he occasionally rang for an informal horny phone call; mostly, however, he just wanted an ordinary chat. This particular afternoon, we were discussing the Police Offences Act (he had recently sent me a copy, so I could study it first-hand) when there was a knock at the front door.

  Paul answered it. Several large men stood on our doorstep—I could hear them introducing themselves as police officers and saying they had a warrant to search the premises.

  ‘Oh fuck! I think we just got busted,’ I told Mario as my heart began pounding.

  He said to stay calm and not to say anything. ‘Just answer “No comment” to
any of their questions.’

  Neither Paul nor I had ever been arrested before, but we knew we weren’t obliged to give any information beyond our name and address. The officers wasted no time in riffling through our videos and photos, confiscating everything as evidence—including my elaborate file cards and correspondence. They also seized Paul’s prized marijuana plants, his penis enlarger–bong prototype and the audiotape of his recorded conversation with the 0055 manager.

  They were joking among themselves, seemingly enjoying the hoards of photographs they’d found. Surprisingly, they allowed me to remain talking to Mario while they searched the house.

  ‘This is a nightmare,’ I lamented. ‘Our life is over. We’re gonna go to jail . . . and God only knows what’ll happen to Shoshanna.’ She was just four and I was petrified.

  Mario told me not to worry; he’d stay on the line. ‘Let me speak to them and I’ll find out what’s happening.’

  So Mario spoke to the sergeant, who told him we would be taken back to the station and charged with offences relating to the manufacture and sale of objectionable material. There would also be charges relating to the telephone recording and the marijuana plants. I now realised that a helicopter I’d noticed circling overhead two days earlier had probably been photographing Paul’s crop.

  True to his word, Mario stayed on the phone during our entire ordeal, which buoyed our spirits considerably. One of the officers joked that he’d never encountered a bust in which the offenders were already talking to their lawyer. I had to admit there was something comedic about this.

  We were taken to the police station, where they attempted to interview us; but we simply gave them the standard ‘no comment’ responses. We were released, but we were informed that numerous charges would follow on a summons that would provide us with details of our impending court appearance.

  A hasty meeting with Lloyd was organised. He explained that, before any charges could be formalised, all videos would require official classification by the Australian Film Censorship Board. He reassured us that, until he got the charge sheet, we shouldn’t panic. He’d made several phone calls and gathered there was nothing too serious. Nonetheless, I was paralysed with dread.

  The reality of what had happened hit us immediately. I was in shock. I woke the next morning with a pit in my stomach, the likes of which I’d never experienced before. I was so sick with worry, especially about Shoshanna, that I couldn’t eat.

  However, we were totally unprepared for what came next. Several days later, the police raided again and placed us under arrest. It’s hard to know what they were hoping to find, because they’d previously gone through our home with a fine-tooth comb, removing everything of questionable legality. The house was totally porn free, which was an undeniably liberating feeling.

  They informed us that a community policing division was attending Shoshanna’s creche, to remove her from our care. It was Friday evening and a Children’s Court hearing on this matter was scheduled for Monday morning.

  At the police station, I was questioned specifically in relation to six clients, from whom statements had been obtained. From my efficient filing system, the police had learnt not only the contact details for these clients, but exactly what sessions they’d booked, which videos they’d bought, how much they’d paid, plus what their jobs and marital statuses were. I could hardly blame my clients for cooperating with the police.

  I was also told I’d be charged with theft of some overdue library books: two children’s titles and four sex-therapy tomes borrowed for my 0055 research. I was informed that I had committed offences under Section 11 of the Films Classification Act and Section 166 of the Police Offences Act. I was even to be charged with the cultivation of a narcotic plant, the same as Paul. Apparently, the law didn’t distinguish whose plants they were: if they were on our premises and I knew about them, which plainly I did, then I could be charged. Paul, however, was also to be charged with an offence relating to the Telecom employee recording.

  Eventually, we were released on our own recognisance to appear at a suburban magistrates’ court in several months’ time. Mario kindly collected us from the station and we called Lloyd on his home number. He was attending an Old Boys dinner at Melbourne Grammar, but he promised to organise legal representation for us at the Children’s Court.

  My heart bled for our beautiful little girl. We had no idea where the police had taken her—they wouldn’t tell us her whereabouts. I desperately wanted to call her, to hear her little voice and tell her that we still loved her, but we just couldn’t be with her right now. I understood, of course, that the police believed they were protecting her—but was it really necessary to remove her so brutally? We wondered how she would cope and what damage this would do. Never had we experienced a more agonising weekend.

  There was some press coverage of our bust: being sex-related, it was juicy. We’d heard that Graham Kennedy’s News Show featured it and even the ABC’s nightly news program PM ran a segment on it.

  I called Dory and told her of our plight. Being an avid ABC listener, she’d heard PM and, although our names weren’t mentioned, she’d suspected instantly it was us.

  ‘I knew it was you as soon as I heard the phrase “Warrandyte couple”,’ she said, pronouncing the ‘w’ as a ‘v’. ‘What a thing to be involved with. Nikki-le, Nikki-le, how could you?’

  ‘Listen,’ I pleaded, ‘we could really do with some support right now.’

  ‘How could you do this to me?’

  Dory agreed with me that Shoshanna should be our greatest concern. I told her we didn’t even know who she was staying with, and we couldn’t contact her to reassure her we still loved her and that everything would be okay.

  Dory was smug as she told me that obviously they thought Shoshanna was at risk. She also said she didn’t want anything to do with it. ‘What would Egon say?’ she added, reminding me that, in all their 70-plus years, they’d never broken the law. ‘I’m so ashamed of you.’

  ‘Well, believe it or not, I’m ashamed too.’ I had never been more ashamed of anything in my entire life.

  ‘I told you Paul was bad for you,’ she said, convinced that this whole ‘porn business’ was his idea. I insisted she couldn’t blame it all on Paul. Yes, of course it was his idea, but I’d gone along with it. I couldn’t abrogate my responsibility—I’d been a willing, if reluctant, participant.

  ‘Well, I blame him,’ said Dory.

  ‘Please, I need you to come to the Children’s Court so we can try and get Shoshanna back.’ I begged her to offer to have Shoshanna live with her while we sorted ourselves out. The sad fact was that we had no other family.

  ‘I can’t take her—I’m too old,’ she snapped.

  I didn’t understand: she professed to love Shoshanna, and she knew how much her granddaughter loved her. ‘Perhaps you could hire a nanny part-time? Please . . .’

  ‘No—I can’t afford it.’

  ‘Then just come to court so they can see we’re not total trash,’ I entreated. ‘If we don’t come up with some alternative, the police will put Shoshanna in a foster home. Please! It would look good to have you there, and we need moral support.’

  But she refused. ‘It’s bad for my health.’

  ‘I’m begging you—please, go . . . for Shoshanna’s sake.’

  ‘No, I won’t be there.’

  And she wasn’t. Nothing had prepared me for Dory’s reaction. I thought she would give her usual ‘I told you so’ lecture, but that ultimately she would stand by me. I was really struggling to understand why she refused to show even a modicum of support for us.

  Paul naturally capitalised on Dory’s failings. ‘I knew she hated you. I always thought she was a bitch. Now do you believe me?’

  I said I was reserving judgement. Although I was very hurt, I honestly hadn’t thought she’d behave like this.

  ‘It’s because you’re adopted,’ he said. He theorised that, because she hadn’t borne me, she could detach from m
e when I did something she disapproved of. Possibly he was right; but I still wasn’t totally convinced. I hadn’t realised how intensely embarrassed she would be. All her friends listened to ABC Radio—they’d all have heard and would be gossiping about her.

  Lloyd explained that we needed to find Shoshanna a suitable home where she could stay until we could convince the authorities we were fit parents. In desperation, I rang the mother of Molly, a girl who occasionally babysat Shoshanna. I didn’t even know her mother’s name and it was a big ask, but she generously offered to take Shoshanna if the court was agreeable.

  I was angry at Dory—on the Monday morning she didn’t even ring to wish us luck. I couldn’t understand why she had deserted us in our hour of need. I had meantime phoned several of her friends, who were most sympathetic and promised to talk to her on my behalf.

  Paul announced that he’d called Saskia. ‘She’s very concerned and said she’s booking a flight from Amsterdam.’ She could only stay a few days, but it was better than nothing.

  I was amazed. ‘That’s great,’ I said. For once, I would be truly grateful to see her.

  Our neighbours—Nora’s parents—kindly accompanied us to the Children’s Court that morning. Thankfully, Shoshanna had been staying with the director of her creche, who was at least someone she knew. It was the court’s decision that she was to live with Molly’s family for some months. We would have the right to visit her regularly, but ultimately we would have to convince the court we were out of the porn business and were proper parents.

  At long last we were allowed to see Shoshanna later that day at Russell Street Police Headquarters—a venue clearly not set up for small children. Beforehand, I agonised over how to tell her what had happened, in a way she’d understand. I decided that all I could really do was to tell her repeatedly how much we loved her, saying that everything would be okay . . . soon.