The first sign of that crazy feeling came when I voluntarily gave up my three cats. George was hopelessly allergic to cats, and it made his visits to my apartment agonizing. He didn't complain, but it was hard to watch him gasping for breath and popping antihistamines, just to get through the night.
My mother had six cats already, so I made the fateful decision to give on my kitties to her, bringing mom's grand total to nine cats under the same roof. Mom and I are both animal lovers, though, so she didn't mind. I de-catted my apartment. Several times. Yes, I was in love.
I'm sure many women out there (cat lovers, of course) who would immediately say: girl, I would never give up my cats for a man. Before I met George, I would have agreed. But . . . things change.
Love, it makes you nuts.
Sooner than later, Brunei once again surfaced its mystical head. This time I had heard about it through another agent, someone I freelanced with for modeling and print-work. She gave me the name of another agent she knew who represented the girls chosen for Brunei tours. I called her a day later.
Tamara was around thirty, attractive, and married to a younger man of twenty-four, who helped her rep the various young models who traveled to and from Brunei. She was one of several agents dealing directly with the Royal Family. She gave me the spiel about the weekly salary of $22,500 a week (should I be chosen), the legitimacy of the contracts, the promise of more cash forthcoming for "special occasions" during a stay in Brunei. As already mentioned, I was incredulous, even doubtful. But the numbers she was throwing at me couldn't be ignored. Not with about $300 in my checking account and the bills piling up.
I figured the worst thing to happen was that I'd give Tamara a few of my modeling shots – and then I'd hear nothing back from her. Several weeks later, she went to London to meet someone who "worked with the Royal Family" and passed my pictures, along with twenty others, to this un-named representative.
June and July passed. George was doing re-shoots on Making Waves – and I was fighting mounting depression. Auditions had been few to non-existent.
I got a call in mid-August from Tamara. Her questions came rapid-fire: How soon could you get dressed up to look great and be at the Beverly Hills Hotel? How soon could you be available to leave for Brunei? When's a good time to sign contracts?
I asked her to slow down and explain. She said out of thirty pictures, I was one of five girls chosen to meet with the Sultanate representative for deciding who goes to Brunei, a Mister Jan.
"Tonight?" I asked?
"Yes," she replied.
Tamara had long ago warned me that all this would come at a moment's notice and not to be surprised. I caught my breath, and said I'd be ready in two hours.
After I hung up the phone, I thought about what I would tell George. I had only discussed the issue of Brunei with him once before; since I was vague on the subject, he accepted what I told him with equal vagueness. Bottom line, both of us had little or no details about what I was about to do.
And just what was I about to do?
Again, at the time, I didn't know what to expect. Was I going into a room with some Sheik-like person, examined like a horse, teeth checked, hooves scrubbed, judged fit or not to be accepted into the inner circle of some royal kingdom? Would I be asked embarrassing questions? Would I be asked what I was willing, or not willing to do, for $22,500 per week?
I couldn't get a hold of my other girlfriends who had undergone the same preliminary introductions to the upperclassmen of Brunei. I looked at the clock, and realized that time was wasting. I had to get ready.
***
I was to meet with Mr. Jan at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The hotel is owned by the Sultan of Brunei. It's a beautiful place on Sunset Boulevard in the heart of Beverly Hills. It is completely American in appearance and nothing gives one the impression that it is owned by a foreign dignitary. The famous Polo Lounge is annexed to the lobby of the hotel, a place where stars and celebrities wine and dine, day and night.
This was the first time I was at the hotel for business.
The meeting began at exactly 10 p.m. Five other girls waited outside the conference room with me. Tamara, our agent, sat with us in the hall, waiting to be admitted. The wait was extremely tolerable, since Mr. Jan's assistants periodically came out and inquired as to our needs, and even offered us champagne. All of us accepted the champagne offer. The assistants were very polite and I was very impressed with the overall attentiveness of Mr. Jan's entourage.
The wait lasted about an hour. At last, we were shown into the conference room and introduced to Mr. Jan. He was a quiet, attractive Asian man, and very courteous. He had our pictures spread out on a table; in some ways, I felt like I was walking into yet another casting office, under consideration for a movie role. Which, in a very real sense, was exactly what this interview was about. Except here, now, the movie was called "Aphrodite in Brunei."
We were all offered more champagne. Mr. Jan spoke to each of us briefly, inquired as to our availability for the next few weeks and months. He mentioned that he had seen my movie, Dinosaur Island. I was flattered. He smiled at me, not a lecherous, salacious smile ... but a friendly, professional one that immediately made me feel at ease. Any nervousness I had experienced earlier, both at home and out in the hall, melted away with that smile. I remembered thinking that this was not some slime-ball, pimping for some creepy king in a faraway country. Whatever this gig was about, it had the touch of dignity and class to it. If Mr. Jan represented to all the citizens of Brunei, particularly the Royal Family, then I had nothing to worry about.
We were not asked personal questions, nor examined like thoroughbred animals, nor even asked to turn around slowly for a complete viewing of our figures (unlike some commercial calls in the television world of Hollywood, where such requests were commonplace). Mr. Jan, after ten minutes or so, extended his hand to each and every one of us – then bid us farewell. I was the last person he said good-bye to, and he kept me in the room for a few moments longer, after the other girls had disappeared.
"You are an attractive young woman," he said courteously. "But you are not drop-dead beautiful."
I swallowed hard. I suddenly felt like some kind of wart-covered farm animal.
"Well," I stammered, "I'm not as beautiful as those other girls." I turned to acknowledge the girls filing out of the room.
"No. But you were very funny in that dog movie."
"Oh, you mean the dinosaur movie," I gently corrected him.
"Dinosaur," he repeated slowly and nodded. "Yes, that is what they are. Dinosaurs, dogs, so very confusing."
Yes, one type of animal vanished 65 million years ago, and the other is commonplace, but no biggie on the confusion factor, buddy boy…
I tried to sympathize with a sigh and a shrug.
"Still, you look like fun, with personality," he continued, and this time he smiled broadly. Two gold teeth on either side of his upper molars gleamed back at me. He looked vaguely like some kind of bureaucratic pirate.
"I'm a nice girl," I said and smiled back, feeling immediately corny and provincial by the self-righteous declaration of good clean American morality.
Would I fuck for money, if push came to shove?
Hm. Push, find out…
"Nice. Yes. Without doubt," he said, walking me to the door. He held it open for me without another word, then closed it behind me.
And that was that.
We asked Tamara about the next phase of our adventure. She told us that the one and only next step involved a phone call from Mr. Jan to her requesting our immediate presence to sign contracts and receive a travel itinerary to Brunei.
And when could you expect such a call, we asked.
She shrugged. Tomorrow. The next day. Next month. Or six months from now. That's how Mr. Jan worked. Ostensibly, he would return to Brunei, review the pictures with Prince Jefri, as already mentioned, the Sultan's younger brother. Then, based on the Prince's desires, extend the invitation to the girls
he deemed most appropriate for a protracted stay in Brunei.
What was the criteria for acceptance? we wondered.
"The Prince's decision," Tamara said, "was completely arbitrary. If he liked your picture . . . you were in."
There was nothing more to be said.
At midnight, I got home and told George of my introduction to Mr. Jan. It was the first real discussion we had about Brunei; we covered all the facts as I knew.
George was circumspect about the whole matter. He said, point blank, that the Brunei deal sounded like one that involved "veiled whoring." He didn't color his feelings. He thought that I was being naive if I thought that I was going to get twenty-two grand a week, just to drink expensive champagne and make polite conversation with the Royal Family. I listened and sympathized with his point of view, but I was pretty clear that the final decision to stay or go was mine alone.
We fought after that declaration. He told me about girls who went over to the Far East and never returned. He was right; there have been girls, lured over to God knows where, under the impression that they were being offered a modeling job, who were never heard from again. Such cases are documented. "Bad things happen to pretty girls abroad," he said.
I knew this statement to be very true.
I was a victim of such a bad thing.
I did not want a repeat performance.
I explained to George that the Brunei representatives were offering actual contracts of employment; everything appeared legitimate.
"Sure," George said. "I'll believe that when I see the contracts."
I was right. And he was right.
We had too little information right then to really evaluate the Brunei deal. We made up later that night; we agreed it was a pretty silly thing to argue over. I hadn't even been offered the job yet. And I might never be offered it, anyway. I believed the latter to be the most probable in any case, based on the stunning assembly of young womanhood I had auditioned with. I simply wasn't in the "drop dead gorgeous" league of Brunei candidates, no matter how "fun" I might have been perceived as.
George's concern and worry about my meeting with Mr. Jan that night lasted for a few days; he was morally certain that I would receive a phone call within a day or two. Who could, he reasoned, resist the personal charm and magnetism of Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty.
I laughed, flattered.
No phone calls came the day after. Or the week after. Or anytime in the remaining month of August or September.
I accepted the obvious fact that I had been passed over by the Prince's discriminating eye for beauty. Perhaps for the best.
George was finishing Making Waves, and was already in preproduction on yet another movie, a project called Vendetta, which would co-star John Travolta's older brother, Joey, and a fine character actor by the name of Richard Lynch. George himself played the lead cop in the picture. I planned to help George on the production level of this movie. It was set to shoot in December. I figured October would be a pretty busy month for me.
It would be busy ... but in a way I never imagined.
***
It was in October that I got the call to leave for Brunei.
I was given 24 hours to pack and sign contracts.
I thought back on my meeting with Mr. Jan. He seemed nice. Would not the Royal Family be equally nice? Just folks, really. Why assume otherwise.
I took a breath. Remembered Japan. Then dismissed the poison memory immediately.
And made my decision.
Wait a Minute – You're Leaving Tomorrow?
As told by Aphrodite...
When the call came, I was actually in Atlantic City with some girlfriends, gambling money I didn't have. I went there for a few days in early October for a friend's wedding; it was a nice getaway, and I figured I might as well take a vacation since George's film, Vendetta, would soon monopolize my time. George, of course, was still trapped in a small, humid editing room, frantically rushing to finish his movie, Making Waves.
The night after the wedding, I woke up, hungover on relatively cheap champagne. The reception had been held at a casino, and my friends and I had partied and gambled until dawn. My head felt horrible. I reached over for the hotel phone to check my messages in L.A.
Tamara had called an hour earlier, frantic. She paged me, but I had turned the pager off so as not to be disturbed by anything in my post-champagne aftermath.
When I returned Tamara's call, I barely had time to say hello.
"You're going," were the first words out of her mouth.
"Going where?" I asked, momentarily in the dark.
"Brunei. Mr. Jan called late last night. You've been chosen as one of the girls. You leave tomorrow. But you have to be home tonight to meet with me and the lawyers."
I gurgled something back that sounded like: "You're kidding."
"No, I'm not kidding. Where are you now?"
"Atlantic City."
"Oh, shit. Get your ass on the first plane home. I'll set up the appointment for tonight. Are you hearing me?"
Yes, I had heard her. I was stunned.
"This is a little short notice, isn't it?" I protested, hating all champagne manufacturers at that moment, everywhere, wherever they lived and breathed.
"I told you it would be. Call me when you get home."
Click. The phone went dead.
I staggered to the airport, rearranged my ticketing, and blasted off for home.
As we reached a cruising altitude of 35,000 feet, it occurred to me that I had called everyone in the world, including my mother, informing them that I was coming home a few days early – everyone except George.
And I knew that when I told him I was leaving shortly for Brunei, his response was going to be less than enthusiastic.
I decided I would wait until I talked to him in person.
George picked me up at the airport around noon on October 5, 1995. He seemed edgy, distant, vaguely irritable; he was in post-production hell with one movie, and was encountering financing problems with another. He was not having the best of days
I told him in the car.
"I'm leaving, honey," I said. "Tamara called today. I sign the contracts tonight. And I leave for Brunei tomorrow."
The car screeched to a halt. George turned to me and said nothing for a whole minute.
"I love you," I said.
"How long?" he asked.
I shrugged. "I think for around six weeks. That's how long Tamara said the contract was good for. But I could stay longer if I liked – and if they want me to stay."
He nodded. Digesting the information. Not liking it. Not at all.
"Shit," he said at last.
He started the car. And we didn't say anything after that all the way home.
***
We walked in the door of my apartment, and the sparks began to fly.
No, you can't go. No, it's white slavery. No, you're asking to be raped or murdered, or kidnapped. No, No, No.
I was touched. I could see George was genuinely concerned for my well-being. On the other hand, the opportunity of a lifetime was being offered to me.
"Are you paying my bills right now?" I asked.
George gave me that look, the one that said, 'no fair. If I had the money, I'd pay your bills.'
"Look, I don't mean to be insensitive, but I have to take this job. I'm broke."
"It's not a job, Aphrodite," George said. "It's something else and you know it."
"I'm not going over there to hook. You know that!"
"I know that. Do they?"
It was a fair question. I kept thinking about Tamara's assurances, the other girls who had come and gone to Brunei, all without incident. And I remembered Mr. Jan.
"I'll be fine," I said. "Please don't fight with me. I'm leaving tomorrow. We're not going to see each other for months."
George calmed down. He wasn't a guy who got really mad about anything and don't get me wrong, he never yelled at me about this matter. At worst,
he was argumentative, but it was done in a very loving manner.
He came over and kissed me.
"It's just that I'll miss you," he said.
I kissed him back. I started to cry.
I was already missing him...
***
I called Tamara. The meeting with the lawyers was set for 7 p.m. at their offices in Century City. That gave me roughly six hours to try and arrange my life for three months abroad. I had to get some shopping done, little every day important items like shampoo and other toiletries. I had to find my passport. I had to find my birth certificate. I felt rushed, put upon.
Then I remembered, $22,500 a week.
I got over my pouting real quick. My hangover dissolved into an adrenaline high.
I was really leaving.
I learned that one other girl besides me had been chosen. She was a good friend of mine, whom I'll call Kayla here. She was also O.J. Simpson's girlfriend at the time. Not Paula Barbieri. This was his other girlfriend. And she had a few stories to tell.
I was leaving when the O.J. Simpson murder trial reached its climax. Everyone was talking O.J.; a few days earlier, he had been acquitted. Part of the reason that Kayla accepted the Brunei job was to flee from the unwanted press accompanying O.J. madness. She had actually appeared at the trial as a character witness early on in the proceedings; after that, the tabloids took full advantage of her presence on television by making more of her involvement with O.J. than was factually accurate. I know, it's a surprise to hear that the tabloids would exaggerate anything. But that's life.
Kayla was the first girl I talked to after my phone call with Tamara. We agreed that we would meet at the airport the following day and have a quick coffee before we boarded the airplane. The trip to Brunei was supposed to last around twenty hours, which included two layovers, one in Tokyo and the other in Singapore.
The Last Harem Page 4