The Year I Went Pear-Shaped (5 page)

Chapter 6: ‘My Boyfriend has Sex with Fruit’

“Are we interested in a girl with cervical cancer for a real life story?” Mands asked Naomi.

“Hmmm, maybe, it's not very glam though, is it? Is she pretty?”

“Yeah, gorgeous. Thin. Blonde.”

“Then yes as long as she’s really sick with proper cervical cancer, and not just the boring old laser-treatable, common-as-muck variety. But try and find some sexy angle. And get photographs, the scarier the better. It would be good if you could get ones of her in hospital with tubes coming out her arms and "hair falling out from the chemo" shots” said Naomi, not even looking up as she finished typing an email.

“Yep, sure. It’s a fantastic story though Nomes. Her name’s Fiona and she was given six months to live just days after announcing her engagement to the love of her life! This guy called Dan who is drop-dead, cream-your-knickers gorgeous. She sent me a photo of the two of them on holiday in the Greek Islands; anyway, they’re supposed to be getting married in nine months. It’s a great story either way. If she lives we can go with the ‘true love helped me beat cancer’ angle; but if she doesn’t then we can really tug at the old heart strings with the old ‘she bravely fought but lost and look at the stunning man she left behind who can’t believe he’s lost his angel’ type of thing.”

“Ok Mands, it sounds great,” Naomi said, “but get the whole interview and photo shoot in the bag as soon as possible just in case she pops off sooner than expected, ok? Now, what about you, Darl? How’s that Dr Ramswell story coming on?

“Well, I’ve spoken to the publicist for Love On The Wards, some chick called Trina Barnes, she said she’d ask Gordon if he was up for it and get back to me by this afternoon at the latest.”

“Good. I'm sure he"ll do it. That tragic little show needs all the help it can get. Lets face it, it’s nothing but scowling teens with bad skin who spend all their time breaking up with each other in milk bars, and ridiculous adults with fatal diseases.”

Naomi believed that daytime TV was only for the weak-minded, lazy and infirm. Although sometimes she’d watch Jerry Springer in order to get story ideas for the mag. Thanks to Jerry, we’ve run stories like ‘I became a prostitute to pay for a designer wedding cake" and "my boyfriend has sex with fruit". The important stuff.

At that point Katerina butted in, as it had been at least two minutes she'd said anything. I mentally started counting down, ‘one Mississippi, two Mississippi’...

"Oooh I just loooove that show, I tape it every day so that me and Hugo can watch it together over dinner. It's sooo much better than having to watch the boring old news..."

Three Mississippi. Right on the nail as usual. Kat had the amazing talent of being able to bring any subject of conversation under the sun back to her and Hugo within three seconds. It leaves me in awe. Before I got bored with it, I used to test her by introducing the most outlandish topic and timing her, like "hey Kat, Hitler was a vegetarian you know". She came back with, "mmm, I knew that ‘cause Hugo's grandparents are Austrian and they mentioned it once over dinner at their place, Hugo’s Nana makes the best apple strudel ever! Not that I’ve actually eaten it though, it's waaay too fattening, I told him that I'd never fit into those gorgeous Bettina Liano jeans that he's just bought me if he kept bringing his Gran's strudel home! But he said I had nothing to worry about and that I had the best butt of all his girlfriends, he's so sweet...’

She didn't stop there but by this time I had escaped up the corridor to check out something  “urgent”.

This time I was saved from Death by Kat by my phone.

"Hello, Darla speaking."

"Hi Dora, it's Trina from Channel Five here, just getting back to you re availability re Gordon Worsley."

I ignored the fact that she got my name wrong. She knew my name; it was just a standard TV publicist's method for making sure I understood who was the boss and who was the lackey in this relationship.

"Oh, hiiiiiii Trina,” I tinkled, playing the game right back at her. “Thanks soooo much for getting back to me on this, I can’t tell you how excited we are around here about working with Gordon! He's so fab! Anyway, what did he, like, say?" I squeaked in my best non-threatening, ‘IQ of frog sperm’ voice.

"Well, he wasn't keen to be honest Donna," she said in her best ‘I’m very important you know’ voice. He really is extremely busy with his production schedule right now...buuut...I talked him round a bit and I think he just might do it as long as we can have copy and photo approval before the story goes to press."

Translated, this means he's desperate to do it as the exposure could be good for his TV Awards chances. And, being an actor, he's a publicity slut who can’t get enough of seeing himself in the media.

"Oh Trina, you know I can’t give you copy and photo approval but I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll read out his quotes to him over the phone once the story’s written, just don't tell my bloody editor or she’ll have my guts for garters."

Reading out quotes was standard practise; Trina knew that, we were both just moving the obligatory pieces in the game of media chess.

She sighed heavily, pretending to consider the offer. "Well, I guess if that's ok with Gordon we can go for it. I'll tell him that you'll meet him in the Channel Five Cafe next Monday at 10.30am sharp to discuss just what you need from him. And don't be late Doris, Gordon's time is very precious."

And with that she hung up. Which was the cue for panic to set in. Following closely by hysteria and hyperventilating.

Oh. My. God. In just six days, I was going to meet Gordon Worsley. The man that I had lusted after, obsessed over, followed, fantasised about, written poems for, given star-billing in my dreams to, filled diaries with, and dedicated first born sons to -- ideally ones begat by him -- for the last 16 years. And I knew it was sad, pathetic and tragic and all that but still, there I was, a 34 year old, intelligent, career woman of sorts, reduced to a shaking, quivering mess at the thought of meeting some guy off a mediocre -- although admittedly incredibly popular and successful -- TV soap. A soap so cheap in fact that there were only three sets. There was the hospital cafeteria staffed by a kindly but bad-tempered elderly lady who delivered one-liners like machine gun fire at the expense of the dopey but good-natured orderly and, if you looked closely, you"d notice that the same extras were always sitting in the background, playing customers but sometimes they wore different wigs. Then there was the hospital ward which was a room with a bed in it, a vase of flowers on the side table, and a patient that never said anything more than "not too good to be honest Doc" and whose function was to provide a wrist for pulse taking so that the doctor could pretend to be working while he flirted with the nurse. The third set was the cocktail bar called Louie's where all the staff would meet after work to conduct the show's real drama away from distractions like pesky patients.

But knowing all this didn't douse my ardour for Gordon Worsley. To me he embodied my lost youth. What could have been. Those precious years wasted inside a fat shell. Gordon Worsley was all the boys who had looked straight through me back in the time of obesity. He was a prize. And dammit, I deserved him.

Chapter 7: Psychic landlady

"No, you don't understand Anita! This is a life-changing, corner-turning, transformational event! It is a watershed moment in the existence of Darla Manners! All my life has been a build up to this cataclysmic meeting. I am going to meet Gordon bloody Worsley! The man who can cause clitoral meltdown in a female corpse at 100 paces. How can you tell me to calm down!"

Anita gazed at me disdainfully from over the top of
The Australian
newspaper. She was sitting at our kitchen table, her slippered feet resting on the chair opposite, crossed at the ankle.

"Honey, I more than anyone have witnessed the murky depths that is your obsession with this second rate, soap actor. I just don't understand it. I can’t reconcile the intelligent, cynical, razor-tongued woman I know you to be with the fawning, pathetic starfucker you turn into over this man. He's just some guy you went to high school with about a century ago. Why are you so hung up on him?"

How could I explain an irrational, illogical obsession to her in a rational, logical way?

"I can’t really explain it to be honest, he just totally, utterly does it for me, Neets. Starfucker? I should be so lucky! Godalmighty what I wouldn’t give to get horizontal underneath him. And stop being so sanctimonious you cow, surely you've been crazy about some guy that you didn't really know, didn't you kiss any rock star posters in your teens? Or sell your Barbie doll collection to buy a CD by some hairy macho posturer who is now a zillionnaire thanks to the pocket money of an army of pubescent girls?"

"Ok, ok, yes, it's true that at one point I would have laid down my young life for Jon Bon Jovi  but I was 12, Darla, not 34! But don't worry, I'll shut up about it and give you my total support in this insane mission. I'll even listen to your rantings and help you go through your entire wardrobe while you decide what to wear to this oh so important, mochachino appointment. But let me say just one more time that I think you're fucking nuts. But what I really don't get is why you've waited so long to meet him; surely you could’ve swung this a long time ago? God, you went to school with the guy, you could’ve figured out a way to get in touch."

"Yeah, I know but I wasn't ready before now. I've been subconsciously building up to it and preparing myself for it at the most basic, cellular level. That kind of molecular overhaul takes time."

"Yeah, but why bother? He's just some guy and what if you meet him and he turns out to be a real arsehole? An up-himself, arrogant, boring jerk? Would you be released from this evil spell?"

"Well, I can"t imagine that he"ll be anything but charming, witty and personable but if that doesn't turn out to be the case, I'll cross that bridge when I come to it, Neets. Anyway, shut up with your predictions of doom "cause you said you were going to be supportive so stop criticising, put that bloody newspaper down and come and help me pick out some clothes."

Shaking her head and smiling at me, she lay the paper on the table and followed me upstairs to my bedroom where clothes and shoes were strewn all over the floor.

"Christ, what a mess, it looks like your wardrobe has vomited all over your floor!" Anita exclaimed, clearing some space at the head of my double bed, sitting on one of my pillows and resting her back against the wall underneath the only real art I owned, which were three small hand-coloured etchings of flowers that looked like vaginas. Or maybe it was the other way round; vaginas that looked like flowers. I'd seen them at an exhibition opening held by my old friend Kate, an art gallery curator. The artist was this highly-strung, nervous woman called Irene Cooper who Kate assured me was brilliant and would "go places". I picked up the three prints for $900 each. "A steal" according to Kate, apparently I would thank her when I sold them for ten times that much. But I didn't really care whether they appreciated in value or not, I bought them because I thought they were fantastic.

"Yeah, I've tried on just about everything I own and it all makes me look fat and dumpy. I need to lose seven kilos by tomorrow, " I said, picking up a suede mini skirt that, half an hour ago, had made me look like a potato with an elastic band stretched around the middle.

"Rubbish, you don't need to lose weight, you need to lose the bad attitude. Now put on those black trousers hanging off the door frame and your gorgeous Anna Sui floaty blouse."

I did as I was told; simultaneously pulling the filthy t-shirt I was wearing over my head and pulling my trackie daks down with my feet, before tossing them over my bedside lamp.

"Now, put on those calfskin ankle boots which for some reason you've got sitting in your laundry basket."

Anita was inspired when it came to fashion. I would never have thought of teaming the Anna Sui with the black trousers but, checking myself out in the full length mirror on the back of my door, she was right, I looked great. Hot, even. Goddamit, I was going to give Gordon Worsley something to think about.

"You look fabulous Darla! Well, you will do once you've done something with all that hair and slathered yourself in a tonne of make-up. But you're not seeing him for another five and a half days, that should be just enough time to fix yourself up."

I didn't dignify her comments with a response. I just leapt on top of her with a blood-curdling yell and smothered her with a pillow. It took her about three seconds to kick and squeal her way out of my death grip and suddenly it was me who was pinned beneath her and unable to move, partly because I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe but mostly because four years of martial arts had taught Anita a thing or two.

Just then the doorbell rang.

Telling her that she had been saved certain humiliation by the bell because I'd been about to launch a brutal counter attack, I pushed Anita towards the door and said "you're closer". Then I sealed the deal by quickly putting my thumb on my forehead in that age-old drinking gesture that meant the onus was on her to run down and see who it was. Like the good sport she was, she recognised defeat and ran down the stairs.

About a minute later, she yelled back up to me.

"Daaaarrrrrlaaaaa! It's Margot, she's popped in for a cuppa!"

"Hiiii Margot!" I shouted. "Be right down!"

Margot Linbarrett was our landlady. Aged in her sixties, she lived around the corner by herself in a gorgeous four-bedroom terrace house. For as long as we"d been tenants, she'd dropped by every week or two for a chat and never turned up without homemade cake, or biscuits, still warm from the oven. She was the best landlady I'd ever had. She was also the strangest and had told us that she had ‘certain psychic abilities’. It came up on one of her early visits; she was in the middle of telling us something when she suddenly stopped mid-sentence, looked at the phone and said, “Anita, your grandmother’s about to ring and something’s wrong. She doesn’t want to tell you because she doesn’t want to be a bother but it’s important that you pester her until she does tell you.” That spooked us; let me tell you, but not nearly as much as we were spooked about three minutes when Anita’s gran did call. Margot and I left the room at that point but Anita told me later that, after some determined questioning, her gran had admitted having agonising stomach pains and that she’d been urinating blood. So Anita had jumped straight in her car, drove the hour or two to her Gran’s house and took her straight to hospital. It turned out to be something wrong with her bowel that would need surgery. So, after that, we took Margot’s little predictions and funny visions a little more seriously.

Back when I first moved in, I'd thought her visits were just an excuse to check up on us but I soon realised she honestly just wanted to chat and couldn't have cared less if we"d had a huge orgy the night before; whether friends from overseas were sleeping semi-permanently on the couch, or if there was a different man in our beds every night.

Once, Margot had come round when Anita had left a bowl of marijuana sitting on the coffee table along with the usual paraphernalia that goes along with Class C drug use, like a pipe, a bong, and packet of rolling papers with the cardboard ripped off the front. Without batting an eyelid, Margot said that she often had marijuana in her tea before bed to help get off to sleep. Apparently she had her own plants growing out the back in her herb garden, hidden amidst the basil, rosemary and coriander plants.

In the three minutes it took me to get downstairs, Anita had already put the kettle on and was cutting into the jam roly-poly sponge that Margot had brought round. Sitting on the bench next to the kettle were three mugs with Earl Grey tea bags sitting in them, the string tags hanging over the side.

"Hi Margot, lovely to see you!" I said, kissing her on the cheek.

"Hello Love, are you well?" She asked.

"Brilliant thanks, what have you been up to?"

"Well, I was just telling Anita that you were in my dream with me last night."

"Really? I'm honoured. What were we doing?" I asked, pulling up a chair opposite her at the kitchen table.

"Having tea and scones under a giant mushroom."

'scuse me?"

"Yes, there was you, me, and a very dear friend of mine called Tobsha, she's Latvian you know. Anyway, the three of us were having a lovely time and after we"d finished tea, we went for a swim in this lake of warm cocoa."

"Warm cocoa?" I laughed.

"Yes" she smiled, "I think it's a sign that I'm supposed to introduce you to Tobsha."

"I think it's a sign you've been drinking too much of that special herbal tea before bedtime, Margot."

"Very possibly but I'd like you to meet Tobsha anyway Darla, I think she could help you."

"Help me? How? What do I need help with?"

"Well, I'll let her explain all that, she's very good you know."

Margot refused to be drawn into giving me any more detail about the kind of help she felt I needed, which was probably a good thing, but she insisted I phone Tobsha right away and make an appointment. She said she wasn't leaving until I did it.

And that's how I ended up in Tobsha Pudarneski's office the very next morning at 10am, sitting uncomfortably across from the woman herself.

Aged somewhere between 50 and 75, Tobsha was a Latvian-born therapist who used regression hypnotherapy, psychoanalysis, and tarot card readings to sort out her clients’ problems. In heels, she stood at 5ft1 and had breasts that could be put to use as a helicopter landing strip should a state of emergency ever be declared in North Sydney.

As well as those breasts, which surely had their own gravity pull, Tobsha had long, black -- suspiciously black -- hair that fell down to her waist in waves. Her nails were outlandishly long and her forehead ridiculously smooth. By the end of my first session I also knew that her sex life was "vunderfully satisfying with rich, resonant horgasms" and that in her spare time she wrote best selling romance novels under the pseudonym "Annetta Hardman".

I also knew -- because Tobsha told me -- that I was far more fucked up than I realised and needed to see her every week without fail. So I signed up. Partly because I didn't want to disappoint Margot but also because Tobsha was cheap -- "Darla dahlink, I do not need ze money" -- and nothing if not entertaining. I justified the cost to myself by rationalising that it wasn't much more than a movie if you included popcorn, a large drink and one of those choc top ice creams that came in plastic bags, which of course I always did.