by Sami Lukis
I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about my lunch experience for a long time. I felt like a fool for even agreeing to the meeting in the first place. Maybe it wasn’t a business lunch at all. Had I been on a date with my boss without even realising it? Was I somehow supposed to know that ‘let’s discuss your future at the network’ is television-executive-code for ‘let’s discuss your future in my bedroom’?
I never called the guy out over his inappropriate ‘business’ lunch chat. At the time I tried to brush it off by convincing myself he’d done nothing wrong. It was just one little word, after all. But I couldn’t deny that that one little word had made me feel . . . I guess the best word to describe how I felt in that moment is . . . ‘icky’.
So I walked away from that lunch feeling icky and vulnerable and a little bit confused, which was in stark contrast to the excitement, pride and optimism I’d felt when I’d arrived that day in my brand-new, perfectly pressed Cue suit.
But it also made me determined to work even harder and be noticed for all the right reasons. Which I most certainly was.
My TV prime time break was when I was offered the gig as the roving reporter on the very first Aussie series of Big Brother. During each Sunday night eviction show, I’d report live from BB parties around the country or from the family homes of the housemates as Gretel Kileen hosted the show from the studio on the Gold Coast.
That role gave me the opportunity to really hone my skills in live television and I loved it. At first I was petrified, knowing that if something went wrong, I wouldn’t be able to just stop, press rewind and do it again. But I quickly became addicted to the adrenaline rush of live TV and I discovered the best way to do my job was to always expect the unexpected.
One thing I never expected to happen on that show was to fall in love with one of the housemates.
One of my few long-term boyfriends became an ‘accidental’ celebrity when he appeared on that first series of the show. Pete Timbs was one of the earliest alumni of reality television. They had no idea they were about to become household names. Pete didn’t go on Big Brother to be famous. He was just a guy working in a bottle shop who was a bit bored one day so he applied for some random radio competition. And, next thing he knew, he was living with eleven strangers in a fake house at Dreamworld.
That first BB series was a huge hit. Australian TV audiences had never seen anything like it. Viewers either loved or loathed the housemates, especially the stand-out star, Sara-Marie, and her kooky bunny ears. It was also the year that introduced us to the first series winner, Ben, the hunky runner-up, Blair, who propelled himself into an acting gig on Neighbours, and the gorgeous Jemma, who launched her own line of lip gloss. Pete made a name for himself by engaging in some very public ‘doona dancing’ with another housemate, Christina.
Pete and I met the night he was evicted from the house and we struck up a friendship immediately. Despite hooking up and then breaking up with Christina while they were on the show (awks!), he was an instantly likeable guy.
It took us both by surprise, a few months later, when our friendship developed into a romantic relationship. I can’t even remember exactly how it happened. It was just a natural progression for two people who were already great mates and really enjoyed each other’s company.
We were together for almost two years and Pete was one of the loveliest boyfriends I’ve ever had. He was kind and attentive and always a true gentleman.
While we were dating, I got the gig as the weather presenter on the Today show at Channel Nine, which meant I was out of town, on location, up to five days each week. But Pete would always go over to my apartment before I got home from another long work trip and ensure the place was clean and tidy and the fridge was stocked with my favourite things.’Cause that’s just the kind of delightfully thoughtful human being he is.
When the Sydney gossip writers found out we were dating, we became the focus of some pretty serious media attention. People started calling us a ‘celebrity couple’ and we suddenly found ourselves being invited to every red carpet event in town. For a while there, you couldn’t scan the Sydney social pages without seeing a photo of us arm in arm, smiling like goofballs and scoffing champagne at some fancy soiree. Someone even wrote an article naming us the couple you most needed to have at your event if you wanted guaranteed press coverage. I mean, seriously? A weather girl and a Big Brother housemate? It was completely ludicrous.
I’m probably not supposed to admit it, but I think we both secretly enjoyed the attention. It made us feel a bit like Brad and Ange (pre-splitsville) at times. Thankfully, it didn’t affect our relationship. Not one little bit. Not even after Pete scored a modelling gig in a national campaign for Jeanswest and was plastered half naked on huge billboards all over the country. He was a handsome guy to begin with, but his sex appeal was only amplified by his Big Brother fame and that modelling campaign. He was mobbed by horny female fans at every appearance, and I watched on with a bizarre sense of pride as countless women begged my boyfriend to sign their boobs.
I’d never had a boyfriend who had his own groupies. And I’m surprised it didn’t turn me into the green-eyed ‘you said you’d call at seven and it’s now 7.02, so who is she?’ type. But Pete always made me feel 100 per cent secure.
I know some people might assume that anyone on Big Brother would be a fame-hungry fool, but I can honestly say that Pete is one of the smartest, sharpest, most outgoing, down-to-earth people I’ve ever known. This became even clearer to me one night when we attended a black tie charity fundraiser. I was seated with Pete to my left and a well-respected brain surgeon to my right. The three of us chatted all night and at the end of the evening, just before the brain guy got up to leave, he leaned across me, handed his business card to Pete and said, ‘It was so great to meet you. Please let me know if you would ever consider donating your brain to science.’
Yes, you read that right. The surgeon actually leaned across me (deliberately bypassing my brain in the process), to ask my boyfriend for his brain. And it wasn’t a joke. The guy was fucking serious.
It’s one of the most hilariously humiliating things that’s ever happened to me. I was totally insulted that the guy didn’t want my brain for research – I thought I’d engaged in some fabulously interesting and witty repartee.
But I also felt the same level of intense pride for my fella as I did when women begged him to sign their boobs. Weird, huh?
So why wasn’t Pete my Mr Happily Ever After? There was no cheating or lying or celebrity scandal to divulge. We just agreed that we didn’t have that ‘great love’ for one another and we’d be better off as friends. Seriously, no pun intended when I say he felt more like my big brother than my boyfriend.
We’re still mates to this day. Pete married a gorgeous woman and they’re happily married with two adorable daughters.
I really hope Pete does donate his brain to science one day. Future generations of young men could learn an awful lot from that guy about how to be an all-round awesome bloke.
The most enjoyable and rewarding job I’ve ever had was working as the travelling weather presenter on the Today show for three wonderful years. It was also a deceivingly demanding role. Viewers would only see my happy, smiling face as I presented the weather for a few minutes every hour, but it could be incredibly stressful behind the scenes. The early mornings, long days and hours of travel between locations, combined with the pressure of trying to create six different entertaining and enjoyable segments each day, was a huge challenge for me. A couple of minor-meltdowns aside, I loved my job. And I saw more of Australia in those three years than most people get to experience in a lifetime.
It also came to my attention pretty quickly that when you’re beaming into people’s homes daily on a national breakfast TV show, the viewers either adore you or they despise you. I received some hilarious hate mail. Like the scathing letter from the woman who told me I was the worst presenter on TV because she didn’t like my hair. Or the guy who w
rote in to tell me I looked ‘grotesque’. Or the person who sent me this typewritten letter, which actually resembled a ransom note:
Listen Samie Lucas (sic) and take serious note. For no valid reasons you always laugh and giggle like a kookaburra none stop (sic). When you do such acts you give us very big shits. We are sick and tired to watch. So stop this as much as possible. Get another job where your laughing is useful and justified.
My favourite was from someone named Jo (I couldn’t work out if Jo was a man or a woman) who wrote directly to the Executive Producer of the Today show with a very serious concern about my presenting ability.
Sami Lukis, your weather presenter, would have to be the most flat-chested woman on television. She looks revolting. Surely you can find someone out of 20 million people in Australia with a normal set of breasts. Get her off TV. You’d think that with all the money she’s making she could afford $5000 to pay for breast implants.
So it turns out that the five years I spent at university getting my Bachelor’s Degree in Communication (with distinction) was a complete waste of time. I could have saved myself a lot of unnecessary study if I’d known that the only thing that would truly matter in my career as a journalist was having ginormous tits.
I was delighted to receive my fair share of lovely fan mail as well, which included a large number of requests from men asking me out on dates. I was really appreciative that these guys had taken the time to write to me and I was incredibly flattered that they thought I was date-worthy, but I never accepted any of their offers. (Although I was tempted by the charming invitation I received from a young fella asking if I would accompany him to his Year 10 formal. It was scribbled on the back of his chemistry homework and he’d dotted the ‘i’ in Sami with a love heart. Bless.)
I never felt comfortable with the idea of going on a date with a ‘fan’. I’m sure for the most part they were perfectly lovely gentlemen, but there was always the chance that one might turn out to be a freak who would cut me up into small pieces and store me in his freezer.
One morning I rocked up to the Today show office to find the biggest, most breathtakingly beautiful bunch of flowers I’d ever seen from an anonymous admirer. There was one hundred glorious, gigantic red roses and one spectacular single white rose. And the card said: ‘Sami, I can think of 100 reasons to call you. I’m hoping you can think of one reason to call me.’
Oh. My. God.
I know, right?
Original. Clever. Sweet.
There was phone number on the card but no name, so I couldn’t Google-stalk the guy. I probably should have just dialled the number anyway and found out who this (cashed-up) Prince Charming was immediately. I could certainly think of more than one reason to call him. But I didn’t.
Nothing that mysteriously romantic had ever happened to me before. And I was pretty sure it would never happen again. It was the most over-the-top anonymous gesture I’d ever experienced. The effort. The thought that had gone into the card. The extraordinary expense (unless he owned a rose farm?).
Still, this was just another fan. And I felt like if I did call him, it would be unfair to the other men who had tried to get my attention by writing me a simple letter. Just because this guy could afford the expensive, extravagant gesture shouldn’t guarantee him the date. Should it?
So I didn’t call.
But I did take the flowers home and fill every vase I owned. And every time I walked in the door, I felt like a complete bitch. Some guy had sent me 101 roses and I didn’t even have the decency (or guts) to call him and say thank you.
So imagine my surprise when, exactly one week later, he sent me another bunch, with another 101 roses. This time, the card said, ‘Second attempt at getting your attention.’
I couldn’t believe it! This guy sure was persistent (it also seemed a little more likely at this stage that he did, in fact, own a rose farm).
I knew I had to call him and say thank you. But that’s all. I wouldn’t engage him in conversation and I certainly wouldn’t go on a date with the guy.
So when I finally got the courage to call and thank him for the flowers, I apologised profusely for not calling sooner and we laughed about the fact that I was probably responsible for a rose shortage across Sydney (he said he did not own a rose farm, by the way).
He told me he’d seen me working out at the gym at the Crown Hotel in Melbourne (I stayed there whenever I was in town on location for the show) but he didn’t want to interrupt my workout so he asked one of the gym attendants who I was. She recognised me from the Today show and suggested he contact me through Channel Nine. I had assumed he was a fan who’d seen me on TV, but he said he didn’t even watch breakfast television. He said he was surprised to find out I was a TV presenter, but relieved that it made it so easy to find me . . . yada yada yada . . . magnificent OTT flower delivery (times two).
I was impressed by the fact that he didn’t want to meet me just because he’d seen me on TV. I was flattered by his tenacity. And I was intrigued by his story. Who sends 202 roses to someone they’ve only ever seen walking on a treadmill? (I also made a mental note to buy three more pairs of the workout pants I was wearing at the time.)
I argue that it would be near-impossible for any single woman to walk away from this situation without wanting to know more about the guy who sent her 202 roses. So I momentarily relaxed my ‘don’t date fans’ policy and agreed to meet him for coffee. We lived in different states and I was travelling a lot with the Today show at the time so we agreed to meet in the Qantas Lounge at the airport on a day when he was flying into Sydney and I was flying out. In more than thirty years, this is the only date I’ve ever had in an airport lounge. I actually thought it was a little bit fabulous (and what a hilarious story it would be to tell at our wedding).
As I sat there on date-day, my nerves turned to excitement. I couldn’t believe I was doing this. I suddenly couldn’t wait to meet the anonymous Prince Charming who’d spotted me at the gym and sent me 101 roses . . . twice. This might turn out to be a pretty epic love story.
However, I realised this wouldn’t be my fairytale romance from the moment he arrived. It was a total shit soda. He turned up wearing board shorts and thongs. It would have been nice if he’d made some kind of effort in the wardrobe department. I mean, is it too much to expect a guy to wear shoes on a first date?
Plus, there was no spark. Zero chemistry. The conversation was incredibly awkward. For someone who wanted to be anonymous at first, he sure did speak about himself at great length. And he didn’t ask me a single thing about myself. Surely if you felt compelled to send 202 roses to a stranger after simply watching her walk on a treadmill, you might actually want to find out a little something about her? I mean, anything?
The entire date was excruciating and weird. I’ve had more chemistry with my neighbour’s pet lizard. He also made sure to drop into conversation early on that his driver had met him at the gate and taken his bags and was waiting for him in his limo downstairs. That turned me off. The completely gratuitous use of the words ‘driver’ and ‘limo’ indicated that he was a bit of a muppet. Probably a very wealthy muppet. But a muppet, nonetheless.
The date was so bad that I excused myself at one stage to go and make sure my flight was leaving on time. I’m usually the last person to board the flight (the Sydney Airport boarding announcement people are very familiar with my name). But on that day, I was the first person on the plane.
I remember sitting on that flight feeling completely deflated. I knew there was no point in a second date. My cashed-up Prince Charming had the best pre-game of any guy I’d ever met, but his on-field performance was appalling. What had unexpectedly appeared in my life as something so extravagant and promising and romantic had turned out to be yet another big fat fucker of a disappointment.
I was impressed when he told me he owned a very successful company, but I also realised this meant the excessively generous flower delivery probably wasn’t a big deal for him. Wealthy gu
ys can spend whatever it takes to try to get what they want.
Well, money might be able to buy you a ridiculously large bunch of roses (or two). But money can’t buy you humility. Or a personality. Or, apparently, shoes.
I’ve experienced a variety of unique approaches from men over the years. Two hundred and two roses was certainly one way to get my attention. Another was an email sent to the radio station where I was working at the time. It read: ‘Sami, I’m the guy who fell on you on the dancefloor on Friday night. Just wondering if I could take you out for dinner sometime?’
Of course I remembered a brief interaction at a bar the previous weekend when a totally wasted guy fell over, on top of me, in the middle of the dancefloor. It’s not a moment I could easily forget. I was trapped under him briefly while everyone around us laughed hysterically. He apologised profusely as people peeled him off me, and then he disappeared and I never saw him again. Our entire encounter only lasted about thirty seconds, but I guess he saw that moment as something too precious to ignore. Hence, the ‘I fell on you on the dancefloor’ email on Monday morning.
I politely declined his invitation, but I had to give the guy credit for a) recognising me in his heavily inebriated state, b) working out how to contact me, and c) seeing the humour in the situation.
Some guys think money talks. One Friday arvo I’d popped into the Char Char Char bar in Brisbane for a few drinks with friends. A rowdy table of well-lubricated suits nearby had clearly enjoyed an extended lunch and were in no rush to get back to the office or home to their wives. One of the guys came over, presented me with two fifty-dollar notes and said, ‘Hey, Sami, I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you come and talk to my friends.’