Is This My Beautiful Life?

by Jessica Rowe

  It was such a contradiction. No, I was the contradiction—determined to be taken seriously but still caught up in the empty appearances of success. Here I was, now a mother with a small baby but also with a long media career behind her, convinced that winning a dancing competition would resurrect my job prospects. Was I really that shallow? Sometimes. I had enjoyed the trappings of success, the gowns, the make-up and the attention. Who would I be without that life? Most of my 37 years had been taken up with ‘making it’, and now I didn’t know if I would ever be there again. And who would I be, who was I, if I wasn’t that person anymore?

  However, as I wallowed in self-pity, my mother’s no nonsense advice that she had repeated over the years kept going around and around in my head: ‘But darling, no one ever said life was meant to be fair.’

  ‘Can’t it be fair just this once?’ I wanted to scream.

  A sore head and dried-biscuit mouth woke me up way too early the next morning. As I rolled over in bed, I spotted the smudges of dark make-up that I had left on my white hotel pillowcase. Allegra sensed my stirring and started whacking her cat cuddly against the side of the travel cot to get my attention. I smiled as her sparkling young eyes locked on to my tired old ones. I knew she wouldn’t let me lie down in bed for much longer—she was ready for squishy-squashy vegemite toast for breakfast, washed down with pureed apple and yoghurt. Ugh.

  Allegra was now nine months old and it didn’t matter to her that her hungover mummy hadn’t won a glitzy trophy. All my baby girl wanted was to start the day and discover what was waiting for her on the other side of the hotel room door. She was ready to sit in her stroller and explore the Botanical Gardens, our morning routine while we stayed in Melbourne. The cold morning air cut through my layers of clothing but the temperature didn’t seem to bother Allegra. Every time I struggled to get her rainbow-striped knitted beanie firmly over her ears, she would quickly flick it off again.

  ‘Allegra! Come on, cheeky chops, it’s cold—keep your hat on for Mummy.’ But again she would just pull it off with a laugh and throw it onto the path. The sound of my daughter laughing was the most wondrous sound in the world.

  ‘Quack, honk, quack, honk,’ I said, trying to mimic the musical call of the black swans. ‘Oh look, sweet pea, see that baby one there? It’s still grey and fuzzy, but it’s going to grow up into a beautiful swan. Quack, quack, quack! I wish I had brought some of our old vegemite toast to feed those brown ducks over there—they look like they would love to try some.’

  Past the duck pond, I pushed the stroller slowly up the path until we were beneath the giant Chilean wine palm. It was my favourite tree in the gardens and I rested my hand against its rough, solid trunk while holding the stroller with my other hand. Gazing up, bits of sunlight were trying to sneak through the enormous green fronds of the palm leaves.

  ‘Look, my darling, see how high it stretches up into the big sky? Look how green its leaves are! Do you think we might see a cheeky monkey swinging up there?’ I asked as Allegra once again threw her beanie onto the ground.

  We moved quickly through the succulent garden, Allegra reaching out to squeeze the downy, innocent-looking cacti.

  ‘Ooooh, ouch, they’re sharp! Just look at their spikes, don’t touch them, my darling.’ But my warnings were ignored as Allegra tried to squirm out of the harness clipping her in.

  As we made our way along the shady path I could see Allegra’s little legs kicking out from the sides of the stroller. Her eagerness to be part of everything around her snapped me out of my self-absorption. I wanted to see the gardens through her eyes, new, fresh, exciting and unspoilt.

  ‘Beautiful girl, look at those dark pink waterlilies on the pond. See how pale their petals are in the centre? Do you think Jeremy Fisher might be hiding under one of those lily pads? Perhaps he’s still sleeping in with his other froggy friends at the edge of the pond. Do you know, I remember my mummy, your Marmi, taking me for walks around ponds just like these …’

  My running commentary continued as we did our familiar loop through the gardens. I had become talented at this sort of one-way conversation. I remember reading in one of my baby books about how important it is to talk with your baby and it was easy for me to follow that particular piece of advice, because I did enjoy a chat.

  But it was getting harder to keep up my running commentary while pushing Allegra up the hill as I was in desperate need of another coffee, or something sweet to eat. The cheap champagne had left my head throbbing, and the fresh Melbourne air was not blasting the fuzz out of my brain. The cool breeze was now just making my ears ache and head hurt even more. There was enough time for a final loop around the bottom of the War Memorial before getting a taxi to take us to the airport and back to our normal life.

  Although I was busting to get home, I was unsure how I would deal with the shift back to my daily routine. the show hadn’t ended the way I had hoped, but I loved the spunk and edge it had awakened inside of me. That night at home as I packed away the feathered black catsuit, carefully laying the black gloves and sequinned ears on top, I was afraid the renewed grind of domesticity might kill my new-found sparkle. I had been so relieved to discover that my naughty, cheeky side was still there and I didn’t want to lose that glittery part of myself again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Hot lusty sex sometimes needs time to percolate. It wasn’t so easy to switch from domestic non-goddess to sex kitten in real life; getting in the mood to slip off your angel wings takes time and patience. For me, sex had lost its excitement and spontaneity, my desire over the past year dampened by sore and leaking nipples, exhaustion and large comfy Cottontails. The downside of juggling so much in my mind—like pureed meals, doctors’ appointments and career limbo—meant there was little room left to contemplate the G spot. Surely it’s still there, just a bit to the left? No, to the right. Don’t stop, not yet, don’t stop.

  Sleep had become my new nirvana and bed was now my place to greedily grab some snatches of downtime. How much sleep I was or wasn’t getting had become an obsession. I would quiz every woman I spotted with a pram and ask her the sleep question. Pretty much no one with a small baby was getting enough sleep—or if a new mum told me that her baby slept all night and she was getting lots of sleep, I now suspect she was lying.

  Unfortunately for Peter, actually getting hot and heavy under the covers became a distant memory for a while. My sex drive cooled off even further because of the antidepressants I was still taking, so while the pane of glass had gone my libido had also been put on ice. And I was desperate to have my body to myself, even for a few hours, after being available to another little person 24 hours a day. I would hold my breath if Peter rolled over, stretching his arm over my waist.

  ‘Can’t you just hold me?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh but I know I can get you in the mood,’ said Peter.

  ‘Nothing will get me in the mood. Just give me a cuddle, I’m too tired … I love you.’

  ‘But what about me?’

  ‘Go and take a cold shower …’

  My long-suffering husband would sigh, roll back over and turn on the radio. As he struggled to tune it in to a talkback station, the baby monitor playing havoc with the reception, I was already asleep and snoring. My heavy sleep would be undisturbed until I heard the sounds of my daughter snuffling through the monitor, ready for her early morning bottle.

  Life slid back into a routine of sorts, after I had finished Dancing with the Stars, a routine that still didn’t include having much energy for sex. I told myself that sex wasn’t about how many times you ‘do it’ a week; that knee-buckling feeling between your legs can ebb and flow, but it needs time and the right headspace to be nurtured. I longed to rediscover the part of myself that melted at the right touch from my lover, but first I just needed to get some sleep.

  I wondered, was anyone having sex? How were other mums coping with the changes in their bodies and the extra demands on their emotional energy? Was that mother with her toddler i
n the stroller who I saw each morning at the cafe too exhausted for sex too? Of course, the twenty-somethings draped over each other at the cafe bench would be having wild sex, probably after staying out late clubbing. In a galaxy far, far away, I was once a careless and carefree twenty-something too. But now?

  Bad mother! What a wicked woman I was to be daydreaming like this. I was supposed to be grown up, responsible and sensible, but everyone I knew with babies and small children wasn’t getting enough sleep or sex. It was hard to get in the mood for loving when little people were at you all day. Allegra’s sweet face would be pressed up against the shower screen while I tried to take a second to meditate on the day ahead. She pulled on my legs, hid under my skirt and constantly demanded my attention. By the time the sun went down, all I craved in bed was white chocolate Lindt balls and a good Swedish thriller.

  Work continued to take Peter overseas a lot, so Allegra and I spent our days walking the neighbourhood and visiting the local parks. Playgrounds became my least favourite place in the world—I would rather chew my own arm off than go to another park. The rest of the world seemed to be getting on with something really fascinating and I was stuck behind a wretched swing again. I missed the buzz of working in a television studio. There was nothing like the adrenaline of talking live on air, knowing there was only one chance to get it right. Even if you make a mistake you just had to keep on going. I missed talking to my colleagues, both on television and while we got ready behind the scenes. I missed the gossip, the laughs, the serious conversations about politics and the not so serious talk about whether leopard print is a classic and perfectly appropriate for news presenters to wear. (I’m still adamant that it is!)

  But here I was in yet another windswept park, and I had never felt so bored or lonely. All the other mothers looked like they were having such a happy time in the sandpit. I smiled and waved, recognising some familiar faces from the park, looking desperately for an ally. Was I the only one feeling brain dead and dreaming of being somewhere else? Did I need to increase my medication or was it normal to feel like this? What use were the qualifications I had spent my adult life building up? Now I had a double degree in unloading the dishwasher and swing pushing. While the glass pane of depression had vanished, there was still resentment and restlessness fluttering inside me. I mourned the loss of my old self, the confident and self-assured woman I once was. Being a mother had broken my stride and I needed to work out how to get my groove back. I had wanted so desperately to be a mum, but nothing had prepared me for the hard slog and repetitiveness of real life. And here I was again, turning into one of those whingeing, ungrateful mothers I had promised myself I would never be.

  I hadn’t expected staying at home with my daughter to be a struggle. Sure there were moments of joy but it seemed like I had lived a lifetime each day. I changed endless nappies, wiped down benches, did incessant loads of washing, and built up stacks of blocks only to have them knocked down moments later. What would happen if I hid in the bathroom for a while to read a chapter of my book? Did I always have to be inventing new games? Did we have to play peekaboo again? I put extra pressure on myself to be in the moment as much as possible, probably because I was unconsciously trying to make up for the times that Mum hadn’t been in the moment with me and my two sisters.

  Life hadn’t always been like this, of course. I had once been a sexy free spirit, a life that was light years away from me now. Squinting into the blazing sun at the playground, stars start to dance in front of my eyes and suddenly I am dancing on the top of a white marble bar on the Greek island of Santorini. After my fifth shot of something seductively sweet and strong, my inhibitions had been shed—in fact, they were shed several days ago when I first arrived in this indigo-blue paradise. No one knew me so I could be whoever I wanted, desirable, confident and indestructible. I’d been dancing all night then living on honey-drenched yoghurt for breakfast, snacking on creamy feta cheese, olives, thinly sliced onion and tomatoes for lunch, and downing any number of colourful cocktails for my dinner.

  Each morning I woke up in my small cliff-top room, bright-eyed and clear-headed despite my nocturnal naughtiness. Wearing just bikini bottoms, I would roast my body under the cloud-free sky, oblivious to the strength of the Mediterranean sun. Lying on my blue-striped beach chair, rented for a handful of drachma a day, my bare skin was protected from the white pebbles of the beach and also gave my friend and me a lazy position from which to check out the handsome blokes on the beach. That summer we were young, untouchable and bulletproof.

  My Greek island holiday came in the middle of a year of modelling in Europe. I use the word ‘modelling’ loosely, as that part of my career was limited to sporting and camping catalogues in Germany. An agency based in Munich had signed me up from Australia because it thought I had potential in the lucrative world of mail order catalogues and television commercials. The highlight of my less than brilliant modelling career was starring in an ad for washing powder, in which I wore white underpants and a singlet while filling up the front-loading machine. It was so unremarkable that my part got cut from the ad before it even made it to television.

  During the day I changed in and out of Gore-Tex mountaineering gear and tried to look convincing holding an ice-pick in the snow; the catalogue photographer said he wished I looked as relaxed on the top of the Alps as I did on the dance floor. I joked back that I had plenty of experience in clubs but knew next to nothing about climbing mountains. It was easier to pretend to be a camper, or a golfer, or a cyclist—anything high altitude was out of my comfort zone. There were no fancy fashion labels—the most stylish I got was wearing lilac checked golfing shorts with a matching mauve bucket hat—but I was earning good deutschmarks, far more money than the student living allowance that was deposited fortnightly into my bank account at home. The money I was earning would be enough to fund the rest of my studies, so although initially I had only planned to take a few weeks off, in the end I stayed on in Europe and deferred the final year of my communications degree.

  Most of that time I was dancing in night clubs with my new-found friends, who had also temporarily left their homes and regular lives far behind. Once the sun went down, evenings were a blur of tequila shots, music and nightclubs. It was easy to make friends in this hothouse of hormones and youthfulness. I shared an apartment in Munich with Pierre, a French Canadian model who had dimples to die for and became my unrequited love; I decided he must be gay since I couldn’t tempt him. We walked around holding hands or arm in arm and shared beds, but we each stayed chastely on our own side. We were best friends. He would wipe away my tears when I missed out on another catalogue job or dinner date.

  There was also Jane, a six-foot blonde amazon from New Zealand with a plummy accent, who I managed to lead astray most nights. She was the most sensible of our group, reining us in and telling us to get our beauty sleep if we were going to have a chance of getting a job. Jane knew how to rock a catwalk and spent many hours trying to teach me how to strut, swinging my hips and pointing my toes. Unfortunately her expertise and experience weren’t enough to change my frog style of walking and put-on pout, which looked more like a comedy routine. Eventually Jane gave up her lessons and told me to stick to modelling sportswear and camping equipment.

  My partner in crime and humour was Greg, a hair and make-up artist from Melbourne. The pair of us would often get stuck into the cheap apple schnapps for sale in the neighbourhood Spar supermarket, downing the small bottles of sickly sweet alcohol before reaching the checkout. He would buy my groceries or treat me to meals at glitzy restaurants when my finances couldn’t stretch beyond breakfast cereal, trail mix and dark brown pumpernickel bread. Our shrieks of laughter and silly voices frequently attracted raised eyebrows and mutterings from the camel-coated, sensibly shod elderly German couples trying to walk past us on the icy footpaths.

  Greg was the experienced one of the group, having already worked in Paris, London, Tokyo and New York. He was in Munich to make some fast
money before heading back to get ‘tear sheets’ from the editorial work he was bound to be booked for in the Conde Nast fashion magazines. The closest I got to working for those magazines was when Greg would do my make-up for our nights out. He would darken my eyebrows and give me a wicked, wing-tipped black liquid eye line before I dressed in my new gold Lurex mini dress with black opaque tights and suede knee-high boots.

  Our party pack was rounded out by Toni, another Aussie, who had long, languid limbs and a wicked laugh. She introduced me to the sounds of Depeche Mode, whose Violator album became the only cassette I would play in my Walkman. And she also showed me the pleasure of taking over the dance floor, something I would never have had the nerve to do in Sydney.

  The nightclub of choice for our motley crew became P1, named after its address which was number one on the famous Prinzregentenstrasse. Absorbed in my wild new world, I was oblivious to the dark past of the location of our regular revelry. The club was housed in the museum known as the Haus der Kunst (literally the House of Art). Construction had begun on the neoclassical style building in 1933 using plans by Hitler’s architect of choice, Paul Ludwig Troost. The colonnaded concrete edifice became the Third Reich’s first monumental structure. If you looked closely at some ceiling panels at the front of the building you could still see lurid green and red swastika motif mosaics. Just a few years later, at the end of the Second World War, American forces used the building as their officers’ mess, and it was during that time the address was shortened to P1.