On Parent–Teacher Night that year, I watched Norman walking around shaking all the parents’ hands, talking in hushed and concerned tones to those who had wayward sons and daughters. His strong physical presence soothed them all and allayed their fears. He exuded authority and gentle persuasiveness. Or maybe it was the impeccable cut of his clothes; not many teachers had private incomes derived from stints with rock bands that permitted them to fly to Hong Kong first-class to have suits and shirts made to measure for every season.
All teachers were meant to be sitting at tables in the large auditorium with a queue of parents waiting patiently to discuss their offspring’s problems. However, Norman was still wandering about, encircled by a captivated audience. As he glided around the hall, cooing at little children who had been dragged unwillingly to their sibling’s parent–teacher event, to me it was looking more like an American political or religious rally by the minute. Everyone’s attention was centred on this tall, broad-shouldered man. There was no doubt about it: he was charismatic and charming.
Finally the evening was over and all the parents went away for another term, satisfied that their children’s educational future was safe in the hands of the affable man they thought was the new headmaster, Norman (‘Not Norm’) Taylor. As I too began to contemplate making my way home, a very smooth voice broke through my reveries: ‘And a little bonsoir to the mademoiselle who teaches ze français.’
My flesh crawled and my hackles went up. Sometimes you sense that you are destined not to like someone no matter how hard they try. I was tired and hungry. My palms were filthy from shaking hands with so many nervous and sweaty parents. I wanted a long hot shower, followed by a couple of whiskies. My big bed and clean sheets were calling to me loud and clear.
But outside the skies looked threatening, and yet again I had managed to run out of fuel for my car. So when Norman asked if he could give me a lift home, I reluctantly said yes.
As we drove off, Norman started prattling on about the horsepower of his metallic-blue sports car. I hoped that he wouldn’t see me roll my eyes. There are some relationships that should never happen, and it was glaringly obvious to me that this was one of them.
Suddenly he announced, ‘I’m going to buy you a bottle of French champagne to celebrate our first date. Okay, well, this isn’t technically a date, but I’m still going to get some champagne. Do you like Veuve Clicquot?’
Date? I did have a penchant for champagne, and especially from the Widow Clicquot, but to be honest, I wasn’t that fussed. Norman was certainly a fast worker. He was only meant to be giving me a ride to my pathetic little apartment at the end of the road. He did have the most wonderful, warm, expansive smile, but by that point I was too tired to be teased and too jaded with men to be interested. I needed to sink into oblivion with some alcohol, not between the sheets with some smooth Geography teacher who was making it clear that he would like to do some hands-on research in my mountains and valleys.
Technically speaking, the Latin Lover and I had separated for the umpteenth time, after I’d heard that his assistant had flung her leg over the ladder of success — or more accurately over him — and in doing so secured a promotion within the company. It was very simple: I wanted an exclusive relationship with a future for a family and he didn’t. The Latin Lover had decided to focus on a big deal that was happening and on training the assistant in her new management role — and I had a fair idea of what that training would entail. The hurt had been indescribable. I had spent the past few months pretending that being unattached was highly desirable, when in fact the Latin Lover had managed to shatter my confidence to the core; I couldn’t get either the job or the man that I thought I wanted. Yet here on my doorstep was a man who was just oozing charm and sincerity: a big golden Labrador.
We agreed that he was only giving me a lift and that therefore his presence in my apartment would not be a date. Unlocking the door, I muttered apologies for the mess; I hadn’t managed to do any cleaning up for the last couple of weeks. Norman hid his distaste and gambolled around my apartment looking at my photos and treasures while I headed off to the bathroom to have a quick shower and scrub off the filth deposited all over my body during the course of the evening. I hoped he wouldn’t find my well-thumbed little black address book and work out my secret code.
‘Look, while you have a shower I’ll make us something to eat. You know, you look rather thin. You do eat, don’t you?’
I knew he would need extraordinary culinary skills to produce anything that would resemble a meal, as all I had in my fridge was a couple of slices of processed cheese, a dead lettuce, three bottles of some cheap sparkling white wine, half a box of chocolate biscuits already going white with age, and some nail polish (a beauty tip I had picked up from one of the endless Dolly magazines I had read as a young girl). At night, I would mark my students’ work, drink in hand, eating straight from a takeaway container, though more often than not food was bought but did not actually pass my lips.
Coming out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, I was thunderstruck. ‘Oh . . . what have you done?’ I wanted to rant and rave, blaspheme and scream, but there was some sort of obstacle in my throat and my brain had gone blank.
Norman couldn’t see anything wrong in the situation. ‘I wanted to sit down,’ he explained, ‘so I put your washing over there. I would have put a load of washing on for you but I thought that would be an imposition.’
Imposition? Was he kidding? He had just folded all of my dirty clothes into two neat piles: whites and colours. There was very little left for him to know about me.
‘Come on, let’s go and eat Japanese,’ he said.
I surrendered. I was tired from talking to parents all evening; there was no food in the kitchen and no petrol in the car. I looked pathetically at the answering machine for any sign of a message from the Latin Lover, but there was only a deafening silence. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me not enough. He doesn’t love me at all. Wise up. Get over it. Be independent and strong. Clearly I needed someone more dazzling to force me to forget him. It was time to move on.
CHAPTER THREE
Marrying Mr Right
FROM THAT FIRST IMPROMPTU Japanese dinner, Norman and I moved on to a stage that could technically be called ‘dating’. As rigorous outdoor activities were not for him, we went on gentle strolls through the Botanical Gardens or walks along the beach fronts, keeping well clear of sand and other messy natural substances that could ruin the inside of yet another new sports car.
After a foray one day into the bookshops in the upmarket suburb of Paddington, Norman handed me a beautifully wrapped present, saying, ‘I think it’s time you had a new address book. I took the liberty of putting my details under “T” for Taylor. I think you’ll find that’s the only name you’ll need. I’m not giving you an order — but I wouldn’t mind if you concentrated solely on me.’ And he took me in his arms and kissed me.
We’d only been seeing each other for a couple of months, and I hadn’t been expecting things to move so quickly. The trouble was, for me the timing wasn’t quite right. The Latin Lover had left me scarred and disillusioned; I needed to work out who I was before I embarked on another serious relationship. After a lot of thought, Norman and I agreed to go our separate ways.
I resigned from teaching in June 1984 as a birthday present to myself. I realised I’d have to take a courageous step and push myself out of the safe confines of teaching to find the career I was seeking. I felt like my youth was disappearing in front of my eyes before I’d accomplished anything significant. I was twenty-six, with a language degree and three and a half years of teaching experience. Journalism in radio or television attracted me, as I already had all the requisite skills: I smoked continuously, I drank like a fish and I could stay up all night doing both. But I had little idea of how to enter either of these fields. I continued to do some part-time teaching to maintain some money in the coffers, while spending vast amounts of time knocking on doors t
o try and get myself into any career to do with the media.
Eventually, in early 1985, I found a low-paying job in advertising; working with adults rather than pimply adolescents was going to be a wonderful change. The work was not very interesting, but the social aspects of advertising were highly amusing. My boss, Sue Gamble, was barely a couple of months older than me, and was willing to party until dawn most nights of the week. Burning the candle at both ends twenty-four hours a day was the best way to describe my lifestyle. And, even though I’d sworn it was over between us, the Latin Lover was back in my life — only for a short time, as I justified it to myself. He was an addiction I was finding it very hard to shake.
Almost a year had passed when I realised I was back in a familiar pattern: stuck in another dead-end job and the same dead-end relationship. Deep down I knew what Ray and I had was never going to develop into anything but the occasional horizontal tango between the sheets — when it suited him. And could I ever really trust him when he’d already been unfaithful once? But I couldn’t seem to find any constructive path out of my whirlpool of indecision.
Luckily my parents stepped in to save the day yet again. Sheilagh’s sixtieth birthday was coming up in May 1986 and Jack suggested she and I go on a holiday together to Italy — and away from the lecherous grasp of Latin Ray. It would also put an end to my illustrious job in advertising — another career path that had led nowhere. At last I was beginning to see that all jobs had tedious and petty sides to them.
Holidaying with a parent, especially one you adore and idolise, is the greatest indulgence you could have in life. Sheilagh was informed about a whole range of subjects: Italian language and culture, art and ancient history, just to name a few. We spent a great deal of time in art galleries and museums and shopping at markets. She guided me through the back streets of many an Italian town, asking for directions to restaurants that only the locals knew about. She tackled problems head-on, using lateral thinking, and never shied away from difficulties such as strikes or lost luggage. While other travellers were still waiting at the station for trains that would never arrive, we would already be off on the road.
When she returned to Sydney, I stayed on in Italy. Once again I enrolled in a three-month language course in Florence, to learn more about Renaissance art and subjunctive moods of irregular verbs, living with yet another host family — but this time I was paying. My parents breathed a sigh of relief; their daughter’s latest crisis was over.
On my return to Sydney, with my bank balance not looking particularly healthy, I made up my mind to get back into teaching, at least for the short term. It proved to be a better move than I could have realised. I was offered a year-long teaching contract at one of my old schools, Cremorne Girls’ High, which the New South Wales Education Department, in its wisdom, was closing down at the end of 1987. There were three years’ worth of students left in the school, which amounted to 120 girls, if that. It was a very strange experience returning to teaching, especially in a ghost town of a school like this one. There were very few girls squealing up and down corridors, no slamming doors, no raised voices, and balls were rarely bounced in the playground. It was as though we were all on sedatives.
Strong friendships were forged among the teachers due to our peculiar circumstances. The number of staff reflected the number of students, and although there was a full complement of teachers, not everyone worked full-time. The weekly staff meeting was always rowdy and full of good humour, as it was the only occasion when we were all assembled, balancing on our knees cups of tea and the ubiquitous teachers’ special, Arnott’s cream biscuits.
This peaceful working environment encouraged me to reflect on other areas of my life — including my love life. Ray and I were well and truly finished, and both Jack and Sheilagh were encouraging me to go out with someone who had a bit more style — someone just like Norman Taylor.
Like me, Norman had taken time off teaching, and gone on a short trip to Tokyo to manage a tour for Dire Straits. But when he came back to Sydney we picked up exactly where we had left off, and now the timing was right for both of us. Our time apart had convinced us that we were perfect for each other. I had got Ray out of my system and now I was ready to commit. We didn’t want to waste another minute, so we moved in together almost straightaway.
We soon found a routine that suited us both. After a long-term relationship with someone who often took me for granted, suddenly I felt totally needed and completely cared for. Norman understood what women like and loved to pamper me; he might spend half an hour searching for the perfect lipstick to match a certain dress. We seemed to bring out new qualities in each other; I’d encourage him to read rather than watch TV, just as Jack did with me all those years ago. In return, he brought order to my scattered life. Norman was funny, obsessive and maddening, yet so wonderfully sweet-natured that a day without him seemed hollow and empty.
Our previous experiences had knocked the stars out of both our eyes and now we were acutely aware that the recipe for a good relationship needed to be based on something more than a purely physical attraction. We wanted stability, with a view to a lifetime commitment, including a family and all that it entailed. I had been spoilt and immature for too long. It was time to put someone other than myself first. Maturity was gradually dawning on me. I wanted a life partner, not a good-time bed partner.
But the same old stumbling block was there. At twenty-seven, I still cherished my dream of Mr Right and the perfect white wedding, but I wanted to achieve something for myself as well. Where was the all-consuming wonderful career I’d been seeking for so long? I only had to look at the imbalance between Norman’s and my financial situations: he had earned considerable sums and all I had obtained was a wonderful collection of high-heel shoes. Would it be possible to combine a brilliant career with a family life, as I’d assumed when I was young?
Norman wasn’t interested in my phobias. This time round he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Wrapping me in his arms, he told me I could have the freedom to be whoever I liked but he needed to be part of my life because he loved me. We visited his childhood friends, Bill and Deborah Healey, and their four adorable children, whose lives seemed perpetually on the edge of chaos. Norman pointed out how Deborah managed to hold down a very demanding career in the top echelons of law and still go along to her children’s football matches and ballet concerts. Whatever career I wanted, he would support me to the hilt. I was not giving up my independence; I would be gaining so much more by having a devoted partner at my side through thick and thin. I would have absolute security combined with absolute freedom.
It was a very convincing argument.
Norman proposed on 7 January 1987, while we were at Putty Beach, a secluded jewel on the Central Coast, and we decided that a winter wedding later in the year would suit us perfectly. After living together for several months, we knew that we were compatible. We had no jitters or flickers of doubt. We just wanted to be together from dawn to dusk.
Both families were delighted at our news. It was just the stability that Jack, Sheilagh and Kate had wanted for me for so long. Norman’s mother had died several years previously; it was sad for him that she had not lived to see him marry. At least his father and sister would be there. His father, Norman senior, was a real bull of a man, big and powerful yet not at all loud or uncouth. He was a boy from the country who, through hard work from the time he was a teenager until his late adult years, had become a wealthy man. Now he was enjoying his autumn years, fulfilling his lifetime ambition of dancing in the moonlight on board a cruise ship. He claimed he was always in huge demand due to his dashing good looks and ability to whirl around the dance floor. We thought it was more likely that it was because he was one of the only men on board who could stand upright without the need of a Zimmer frame or walking stick! He was brushing up on his tango steps for the Big Day.
Our small wedding took place on 3 July 1987. I had just turned twenty-nine and Norman was thirty-three. My childhood dr
eams could not even compete with our wedding. It was more than perfect and my new husband was the best choice I could ever have made. He came to the entrance of the church and together we walked down the aisle. When he turned to me at the altar, the image of him looking at me with such love was imprinted forever on my heart. There was great fun at the low-key reception in Manly, but even more later that night when we sat up watching Pat Cash at Wimbledon, with wedding cake and tea, wearing football socks and woolly sweaters, my wedding dress in disarray. I never wanted that night to end.
We started spinning a little cocoon around each other of deep love and affection. The word that described our relationship was ‘contentment’, the perfect ingredient for a long and happy marriage, the kind our parents had had. Little did we know then that there was a worm in our cocoon wreaking havoc from within.
We both wanted the white-picket-fenced house with loads of babies as soon as possible.
The house was the first step. We quickly bought a pretty little cottage in Cremorne, on the border of Mosman. Jack and I painted every room and Sheilagh, with her green thumb, advised me on how to plant a white garden that would be easy to maintain. One room was earmarked as a nursery for the baby that we hoped would soon follow.
Before our marriage, I had stopped smoking completely and curtailed my drinking during the week. We started reading about pregnancy and the vitamin supplements and folic acids that gave a woman’s body the best possible chance of conceiving.
Escaping Page 4