 
Is Free Will a Fairytale?

A memoir of sex, obsession, multiple sclerosis and the subconscious mind

Annie McBride

Copyright 2017 Annie McBride

Published by Annie McBride at Smashwords

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# Contents

Diagnosis – 2004

PART ONE: BEFORE MS 1984–2003

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

PART TWO: LIVING WITH MS 2004–2016

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter12

Chapter13

Reflections

# Diagnosis 2004

The neurologist was in his forties, balding, pleasant face, suit and tie, quite effeminate with a droopy hand shake. His office was spacious. Smart furniture, massage table and the window overlooked a garden. He pointed at the result of the MRI. 'Those white marks mean you have multiple sclerosis.' Astonishment sucked the air out of my lungs. 'That's impossible. Only young people get MS, not widows over sixty.' Doctor W. corrected me. 'Several older clients of mine have MS.' Without warning, steroids, physiotherapy and the MS Society were all being organised by Doctor W. I couldn't get a word in. Eventually, he glanced at me. My voice was clipped. 'How can you be sure it's MS?'

The doctor stood. His eyes became guarded. He again pointed to the white marks on my MRI then began reciting his well practised, word perfect lecture about multiple sclerosis. This was obviously his standard overture for MS beginners. My immune system wasn't working properly. Something called the myelin sheath was supposed to protect my nervous system. It was being eroded by my own body. That was what caused the white marks on the MRI. I had remitting-relapsing MS, it comes and goes. The boring, probably useless information was tuned out. I doubted the diagnosis. It was an educated guess at best. This whole scenario had to be some sort of cosmic joke.

Was I in denial?

It was 28th April 2004.

My husband had died on the 28th April 1984.

#  PART ONE: BEFORE MS 1984–2004

Unable to choose or decide freely

#  Chapter 1: 1984

'The doctors have told me that I'm going to die soon. It might take a few months, probably a few weeks. That's what I want to discuss with you. Do you have any questions?' My husband had called a family meeting. Tom stood at the end of the table. The lounge/dining room was large and comfortable. The kids had a billiard room and a rumpus room but we always ate together here. My husband sounded angry but his voice was not humming with rage. He was saying the words but not feeling them. Our children squirmed in their chairs, shoulders slumped, heads lowered. They had been told that their presence was compulsory. Close to six feet tall, Tom struggled to find a shirt with breathing room. His facial features were handsome but he also had an allure about him that women liked. His dark, wavy hair was combed often. The soft brown eyes were frequently sheltered by lowered eyelids. He was a loner. Jane, the youngest daughter, sixteen years, caught her breath and started crying. Always emotional, she often dropped her lip and let tears flood her face. Alison and Lyn were not much older but they were more grown up. Peter was the eldest. His twenty first birthday had already been celebrated. The silence in the room seemed strange. Tom's gaze was calculating as he studied his audience. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and sort of seductive. 'The doctors want to give me chemotherapy. They say it won't cure me but I would probably live a bit longer.' He hesitated, pursed his lips and continued. 'I didn't want the treatment so I said No.' His chest expanded, shoulders moved back in a conscious display of strength. His eyes narrowed as he studied each child thoroughly before moving on to the next. The kids looked intimidated. Abruptly, Tom straightened his body and pulled his shoulders back. His voice was loud and arrogant. 'I can change my mind.' The children looked shocked. Their eyes darted round the room. Tom licked his lips. He was in control. 'However, whether I have chemotherapy or not must be your decision. I am happy to organise it but only if you want me to. Your choice will be final.' Nobody said a word. The kids began to fidget with discomfort. Their eyes implored me to get them off the hook. I was shaking all over but a sickening rage encouraged me to shift responsibility from the family to where it belonged. 'That must be your decision, Tom. You keep telling me that you're the one who's dying.' My words shattered the silence. The older children stared at me. Their jaws dropped as they gasped noisily. Jane started sobbing again. Their father glared at me and mouthed his reaction. 'Bitch.' The sharp voice was half whispered but I heard it. His gaze devoured each child. The air was thick. Peter's deep voice took the sting out of my stress. 'Mum's right. It's your decision, dad.' The older girls gave a single nod. Jane adored Peter. Her head nodded almost enthusiastically. Tom opened his mouth as if to speak. He closed it then opened it again. It was his game face. It was his you've pissed me off face. It was his you're going to pay face. His chair clattered against the wall as he stood. 'Don't be late for dinner.' They wouldn't dare. Peter put his arm around Jane's shoulders as they walked out of the room.

Tom's diagnosis had been delivered the week before. His lung cancer was terminal. Back in February, large lumps had emerged on Tom's neck. Our local GP sent him for an x-ray then referred him to Dandenong Hospital. I was there when the doctors told him he had lung cancer. Tom shrugged his shoulders. Something like cancer had not occurred to me. Shock and apprehension flooded my mind. Life with Tom had been difficult for a long time but this was different. I was frightened. The doctor seemed abrupt. 'You will be admitted to the Alfred Hospital tomorrow for more tests.'

Most days Tom would ring in the afternoon. 'I'm coming home for the night. You'll have to pick me up soon and bring me back in the morning.'

'Are you allowed?'

'They can't stop me. I've signed a form to shut them up.'

About a week later, the oncologist at the Alfred Hospital rang and asked me to visit his office the following day. The man sat behind a huge desk. The office was dark and dingy. Wooden bookcases lined the walls, brown, boring carpet displayed worn patches and a single pot plant was struggling to survive. Certificates had pride of place, no pictures and no photos. He shook my hand. 'Your husband has lung cancer, direct result of his cigarette smoking. It's too late for surgery. He'll die soon.' Something heavy landed in the bottom of my stomach. I concentrated on my breathing. I should have brought someone with me. Tom had not been home the night before so he was in the hospital somewhere. The oncologist moved his face into a half-smile. 'We could help him live a bit longer but he refused any treatment.' My eyes closed for a few seconds. Tom had already been told. Why wasn't he here? I didn't ask. He would have been invited. It would have been his choice to refuse. I burst into tears. My tears were not for Tom. I hated Tom. The oncologist pushed a box of tissues across his desk. 'Perhaps you can have a word with your husband. He might change his mind.' Tom wouldn't listen to me. He never listened to me. Nobody knew that, except me. The oncologist droned on. 'The alternative is palliative care. You won't be able to manage at home.' This man did not know my husband. Tom would call the shots. I tuned out, the mind drifted. My imagination was rampant at times. It was just harmless wishful thinking. Tom was always drunk. His driving was always erratic. In my mind, the crash might happen in a variety of ways. It could squash his car, roll his car or spin his car. My dreams about Tom's driving were always life-threatening. I didn't have the guts to leave him. I wanted him dead.

Tom was discharged the following day. I drove in and picked him up. We came home to the outer suburbs. Our house was a triple fronted, boring brick creation. All my love went into that house. I lugged rocks one at a time in the wheelbarrow while Tom drank his beer and watched the footy. When friends called in, he would take them on a guided tour of his garden. Tom walked into the lounge room and closed the curtains. The glare of the sun annoyed him and he didn't trust the neighbors. I was mopping my face with a tissue. He sneered at me. 'I told you I wouldn't make old bones. What are you crying for? I'm the one who's dying. Get some decent videos. That'll help fill in the time.'

'What sort of videos do you want?'

'God, you ask dumb questions. I want action. None of that crap stuff you women watch. Just hurry up. I'll ring work while you're gone. I want it done right so I'd better do it myself.'

Videos became Tom's drug of choice. Alcohol was no longer leader of the pack, just video after video. Any of my stupid questions inspired him to remind me that he was the one who was dying. The day after he told the children his news, Tom made another ridiculous declaration. He was in the kitchen with newspapers spread all over the table. His voice was firm. He had made up his mind. There was no discussion, no warning. 'I won't be here for my birthday. I've decided to have a party, now.'

My voice was pleading. 'That's not a good idea. You're not well enough.'

'Who said?'

'You're dying. Nobody has a party if they're dying.'

'I'm the one who's dying and if I want a party, I'll have a party.'

My elbows went on the table so my hands could hold my throbbing head up. 'Where will you have it?'

'Here, of course.'

'You want me to cater for a party?'

He banged his fists on the table. 'Hire somebody if you can't cope. Just do it. I only want very close friends. Here's the list of guests and the date. And tell Marty he can't bring that idiot girl friend of his.'

I blinked rapidly. 'But Marty's a good friend.'

'That's more reason why he should come on his own. I hardly know the stupid bitch. Don't just sit there. Make some phone calls. I'll hire a video camera to record my farewell. Ring someone on the list now, while I'm here. I want to make sure you do it right. Tell them it's a going away party. Hurry up, ring Marty first.'

My face twisted into a smile as I picked up the phone. Marty had been widowed for twelve months. 'Marty? It's Annie. Tom asked me to call.'

'Is he okay?'

I felt sorry for Marty. He had always been good to Tom. 'He's managing. He doesn't think he'll be here for the big 50 so he wants to have a party.'

Marty swore. I kept talking.

'He's calling it his going away party, still got a sense of humour.'

Marty questioned Tom's sobriety. I answered.

'No. He's not drinking today.'

Silence. I kept talking.

'He wants you to come on your own.'

Silence. I kept talking.

'Call in and see him. Phone first.'

Marty agreed.

'He won't change his mind, Marty. Bye now.'

Tom's laugh was loud.

'What did he say?'

'He'd like to bring his partner. He'll be in touch.'

Tom's curt nod of approval made me want to throw up. 'Good. I'm going to have a rest. Get the phone calls over and done with then organise the catering. I'll arrange the video camera. I know what I want.'

It was a relief when he left the room. His smart-arse attitude made me feel weak at the knees. Everybody thought Tom was a wonderful husband. They didn't really know him. I was living with a pathetic old bully.

All the invitations were accepted. Reactions varied from embarrassment to admiration. Only one person was hesitant. Pauline was not your normal suburban housewife. When she called in to see me, we sat outside. Although she was married with two kids, weekly visits to the hairdresser and beautician were her top priority. She had never liked Tom. I occasionally confided in her. My voice pleaded. 'You can't say no. He's the one who's dying. You know what he's like. Please come.'

Her sigh was huge. Blond curls bobbed and blue eyes rolled. 'Okay. I'll appear, but not for long.'

On the day of Tom's farewell party, the sky was clear. Everyone wore casual gear. On arrival, the guys shook hands and the women gave Tom a hug. He was a football fanatic so of course he wore his team jumper. People looked uncomfortable. A couple of drinks helped them relax. Tom told one of the heavy drinkers to be the barman. Peter and Jane were waiters. The party started to liven up. Lyn and her brother loved a drink. They'd been running to the fridge for their father for years. Alison always refused. Pauline stood in the background, dressed down, avoiding Tom, checking her watch, anxious to leave. Tom's old drinking mates also had their footy jumpers on. Throughout the afternoon, the various AFL club songs were belted out. Everybody had a go with the video camera. The party became rowdy. Tom was pacing himself but encouraging everyone else. He reveled in his friends' attention. 'Have another beer, mate. It's on me. Be your last chance.'

Marty's partner waited in their car. She had insisted on coming. Marty was a little guy. His girlfriend dwarfed him, bossed him around and belittled him. Marty would have been given his orders. He approached Tom. 'Sylvia's in the car. Okay if she comes in?' Tom was giving video instructions to his children so he could be immortal in their eyes. He didn't even glance at his friend. 'No. Don't ask me again.' Marty didn't move. Tom glared at him. 'Can't you see I'm busy?' Marty's eyes were close to overflowing. One of the other guys slapped him on the back, shoved a beer in his hand and led him away.

The food was to die for and everybody loved it. The beautiful cake with 50 on the top threw me. Susan, the catering lady, was plump and friendly. She apparently thought it really was Tom's birthday. Maybe I forgot to tell her the real reason. She shook Tom's hand and smiled. 'Happy birthday, Tom.'

Tom laughed at her. 'It's not until November. This is actually my going away party.'

Susan frowned. 'Oh. Where are you going?'

'Good question. The doctors say I'll die soon. I won't be here for the big 50.' Tom pointed a finger at me. 'She should have told you.'

Susan's eyes met mine. 'Don't worry. I'm fine.'

I mumbled my apologies and moved away. My friend, Pauline, had gone. Her hour was up.

Peter and Lyn were encouraging Jane, who was tipsy. Her breath reeked, she couldn't stop giggling. Tom had given her a small glass of wine every Saturday night since she turned thirteen. My son and my youngest daughter decided to entertain the crowd. Everybody played Simon Says then made a circle and did the Hokey Pokey. It seemed bizarre to me but everyone went along with it.

Tom presented each of our three daughters with a silver locket to hold his photo. Our son received his father's beloved gold watch with a lecture about taking care of it. They were all given money. 'This is to buy something decent to wear to my funeral. Do not wear jeans. I will not put up with it.' All and sundry applauded. They were obviously impressed, or drunk. Tom called me over and said he wanted to make sure I understood his next announcement. My heart fluttered as I wondered if he was going to thank me. I had been a loyal and dutiful wife for nearly twenty-five years. Suddenly dizzy, I wondered if a ghost of old love was nearby. Tom's voice sounded bossy. 'I want to thank everybody for coming today. You all need to know what will happen after my funeral. I do not want a wake. Nobody will be allowed to come back here, or anywhere else. The party is over.' I can't believe I didn't argue. The arrogant bastard wanted to control me from his coffin. Nothing seemed real. Friends looked stunned. Tom started shaking hands with people. My farewells were brief.

Another month went by. Tom had stayed indoors since the party. His pot belly disappeared, he looked gaunt. The industrial chaplain from work paid a visit. Paul was young, casual clothes, back to front collar and clogs. Tea and biscuits were served. Tom blustered confusedly. 'It's like this, mate. I don't go to church but I believe in God. Always have. The kids wanted to go to Sunday school but the wife wouldn't take them.' In those days, I believed God was just another version of the tooth fairy. I wanted to spew up my skepticism all over Tom. Smiling at the chaplain, I tried to look demure, like a good mother.

A few days later, Tom stayed in bed all day. He was having trouble breathing. It was gloomy with the curtains closed. He didn't want the light on. He didn't want company. He didn't want anything. 'Will I ring an ambulance?' He glared at me. Speaking was becoming an effort. 'Need oxygen... ring hospital.' The oncologist was blunt. 'It won't help. He should be in palliative care.' The following morning, Tom's every breath was a struggle. When my hand touched his shoulder, he pushed me away. His voice came in gasps. 'Alison.' My gut was churning. Alison was his favourite daughter. They often argued but Alison had written her father a letter expressing her feelings about his diagnosis. She knew what he needed to hear. He was close to tears when he read it. I wanted to protect her. 'What do you want Alison for?' His voice was fading. 'Hold...me.' I was struggling to stay calm. 'I'll hold you.' My attempted hug was cut short with a shove. Trying to keep my balance, I choked down guttural sounds of grief. I crossed my arms as if to stop the inevitable blow. Tom had never threatened violence but it was different now that he knew the truth. He knew I didn't care. That shove was relived regularly. 'Alison.' His voice was faint. Our children huddled together in the kitchen, close enough to hear it all. I glanced at Alison before I dialed 000. She went into the bedroom to try and comfort her father. The shocking but inevitable death rattle filled my ears as my husband kept struggling to breathe. A weird mixture of misery and forbidden relief gripped me.

The siren stopped. I opened the front door. Two ambulance guys rushed in. They were young, professional and dedicated. After asking a couple of questions, they loaded Tom on a stretcher and rushed back out. Alison went with them. The rest of the family followed in my car. At the hospital, none of us could be where it was all happening. We sat outside the room in Emergency. It wasn't crowded. Alison sat with us. 'Dad's only concern in the ambulance was whether the Swans will win this afternoon.' The ambos walked by. 'Don't worry. He'll make it.' That invisible fist came back and punched my chest. The ambos were wrong. They had to be wrong. I wanted him dead. Alison tried to pin me with her gaze. I ignored her. Feeling pissed-off, I stood and paced the floor, concentrating on counting the tiles. Tom's heart gave out five minutes later. The doctor shook my hand. He was busy, we were dismissed.

The funeral was packed with workmates, relatives, the children's friends, Tom's friends, my friends. Friends of friends turned up. 'We had to come. We didn't know Tom well but we admired and respected him so much.' A wave of panic washed over me. These people respected Tom. I was supposed to be upset. I tried pinching my cheeks, my eyes watered. We filled up the front row in the chapel. My eldest, Peter, looked over his shoulder. 'Full house.' Jane was crying. I counseled her. 'Take deep breaths.' Since Tom's death, the chaplain had become my mentor. I approached him. 'Tom told me not to invite anybody back to the house.' Paul stared at me. 'Would you like to invite people back?' Maybe he'd make it okay somehow. 'Yes, of course. But I don't want to upset Tom.' Paul smiled and nodded his head. 'Tom's dead, Annie. Would you like me to invite people for you?' Relief flooded my body. 'Yes, please.'

Friends supplied plenty of food. Tom's drinking mates brought the grog.

'Great guy.'

'Guts and determination.'

'Wonderful family man.'

'You'll miss him so much.'

'He never complained.'

'His children are a credit to him.'

Thank God it was over. In due course, everybody left. The kids and I sat in the lounge room and watched the video of the farewell party. We chatted about the wake. Peter smiled. 'I'm glad we invited people back. It was great.' The others murmured their agreement. Alison stared at me. She looked puzzled. 'Where on earth did you meet Dad? You had nothing in common. I've always wondered.'

'I met Tom when I first came to Melbourne in 1957. I was 19, living in the CBD. I'd been on a working holiday in Tasmania and decided to have a look at Melbourne. My brother had arranged accommodation for me in a pub on Elizabeth Street. It was grungy but I got a job in Bourke Street so I could walk to work. After a few months, I moved about half way up Latrobe Street to the Empire Hotel. I had to run past the public bar on the ground floor of the Empire before I went up the stairs to my room. Those were the days of the six o'clock swill. The pubs shut at six pm, the men guzzled their last drinks. The catcalls and wolf whistles I attracted were deafening and embarrassing. Maybe my lifestyle made me look like a prostitute. In the late fifties, girls my age didn't live in decrepit old pubs. However, the CBD was the only place in Melbourne I was familiar with. One day, Tom and his mate, Neil, followed me up the stairs.'

The children were gob smacked. I decided to wind it up. 'Tom worked over the road, we got to know each other. When he took me home to meet his family in Caulfield, Nana kissed my cheek then stepped back. Her eyes bored into mine. She asked me where I lived. I opened my mouth to speak but Tom interrupted and told her I lived near the city.'

'Did Nana ever find out about the pubs?'

'Not to my knowledge.'

Alison needed more. 'Where were your parents? Did they know about the pubs?'

'Definitely not. They had a house in Perth. Living with them was a nightmare. Every now and again I would give it a try but my father was an alcoholic.'

Lyn and Jane were nearly asleep. Peter and Alison looked at each other. Peter frowned. 'Dad was an alcoholic. How come you married him?'

'I thought I was going to live happily ever after.'

We weren't a touchy-feely family but their hugs were real that night. For me, tears were close but not allowed. Moving on was what I wanted. I had to be strong.

Once the funeral drama was finished, I expected to feel okay. It didn't happen. Depression and loneliness were my constant companions. My mother had been at the funeral. I didn't like her. She lived in Canberra now but would often invite herself to our place for a break. From what? My father was dead. She disliked Tom. The feeling was mutual. When she came to visit, I didn't know what to do with her. I was constantly on edge, dreading the nasty, sarcastic conversations they would indulge in. My brother told me she now wanted to move in with me and help with the children. What a joke! She didn't like children. She didn't like me. Her eldest son was a bank manager. She praised him. Tom sold tyres.

The doctor prescribed Seropac. The pills stopped the crying. I knew I was addicted. My hands were never still, wringing, stroking and hugging my body. I talked to myself a lot. It was like being free to spew up true things to a stranger on a plane. When I wasn't doing my job, I was isolated. I wasn't sure what I wanted. I wasn't sure about anything. What the fuck happened?

My neighbour, Pauline, called in for coffee. We sat in the kitchen. 'How are you, darl?'

'Not good. The last year is like a broken record playing over and over in my mind.'

'It's early days.'

'I need to understand.'

Pauline frowned. 'Understand what?'

The tears started. 'Why am I miserable? Why am I grieving?'

Pauline interrupted. 'You're not grieving.'

Shock dried my tears. 'But I feel lousy.'

'You feel guilty. You didn't like the guy.'

Pauline was right. This wasn't grief. This was guilt. I wanted him dead. I wished he was dead. It happened so it was my fault. I was sabotaging myself, drowning in a tsunami of self-accusations. I certainly wasn't grieving. In a way, he deserved to die. He deserved my resentment, my bitterness. How could I forget the number of times that bastard had died in my dreams? Pauline tightened her grip on my arm as I went over and over it.

# Chapter 2: 1985–1987

Amanda worked for the same big company but in a different office. She was ten years younger than me but her husband had died only days before Tom. I didn't know the lady well but after she was widowed I noted a change in her appearance. Though still clever and conscientious, she looked a bit odd, obviously trying to look younger. I was intrigued. Was she looking for a man already? It seemed a bit soon, not quite respectable. Where and how would she find someone suitable? I knew a lot of guys were divorced, some widowed but I had no idea they went out after dark. My appearance was okay, maybe. I couldn't be sure. About one hundred people worked in the accounts office. It was always polluted with gossip.

Amanda became the main subject matter. Men muttered their approval to each other. Women gathered in groups and condemned Amanda's every move. Her dark, curly hair style became spiky. The guys liked her young and sexy fashion attire. 'Amanda looks ten years younger.' They nudged each other. 'She's oozing sex appeal.' They licked their lips in a slow lick, repeatedly. 'Is she ever? That's one appeal I'd give to.' They sniggered and scratched their private parts. The women bitched. 'Those clothes must belong to her teenage daughter.' They crossed their arms. 'That outfit is garish.' They rolled their eyes. 'She looks brash and brassy.' They crossed and uncrossed their legs. 'Her hair looks like it's been chopped by a butcher.' They arched their eyebrows. Amanda found out about the gossip. Her chin went up. 'They're just jealous women, bunch of boring old bags.' She flirted with the guys, liked their attention.

Single women sometimes met for drinks after work at Lyn's place. She was commonplace, divorced, own home in Mt. Waverley. One Friday, Amanda pulled me aside. Her latest gossip fodder was scratching her new hair style with the eraser end of a pencil. 'Lyn asked me to invite you to her place tonight.'

I hesitated, cleared my throat. 'Are you going?'

Amanda nodded. 'Yes. Only single women get invited. They're an okay lot.'

'What will I wear?'

'Come as you are.'

I had never worried much about my appearance. Why bother? Tom had stopped looking at me a long time ago. I had not changed much over the years. Dark, wavy hair, pleasant face and average figure. I was pleased that my boobs had shrunk after feeding four children. My brown eyes were still dark but Tom had always insisted they were khaki compared to his.

Lyn's lounge room was old fashioned but carafes of red and white wine mingled with some nibbles on a rather nice tea trolley. She had always seemed quiet at work, boring clothes and no makeup. Like me, she was a typical suburban housewife. That night she was different. I couldn't stop staring at her. Perfect makeup, classy jewellery and a black suit made her look very attractive. Amanda looked very young in her daughter's clothes but I was getting used to it. She certainly didn't look dowdy. I should have gone home and changed. The dress I had on was okay but nothing special. I didn't own anything special. Thank God it wasn't one of my matronly slacks and cardigan days. Two other women joined us. Judy worked upstairs. She had bobbed hair, pretty face, slim figure and long legs. A loose gold chain belt was slung around her hips but it still accented her tiny waist. Margo looked about my age. She didn't have a lot of makeup on but her blond hair looked a bit brassy. Her skin was pasty. Maybe it was the yellow dress. These women had only one interest. Lyn was leader of the pack. She tossed her head, rolled her eyes back and threw her arms in the air like an opera singer. 'I am so sick of James.'

Judy's voice was testy. 'You've been saying that for ages. Why don't you just dump the guy?'

Lyn's shoulders went back. Her chest expanded at least two cup sizes. 'I've been out with everybody at work. He's the best of a bad lot. They're all morons.'

Men in our work place were discussed at length. I thought these guys were business associates, nothing more. The conversation was enlightening. Sleeping around was common. I was shocked. Amanda's secrets were revealed. She had four teenage kids and was divorced from their father. She also had a three-year-old. The guy who died was the toddler's father. The singles scene was mentioned. My stomach was churning but I tried to look aloof and sophisticated. 'Have you been to Alexanders?' Lyn asked me.

Blood rushed to my face. Margo touched my arm gently. 'Casey's is better.'

Lyn's voice betrayed her impatience. 'You really do have to go out. It's a must. Do you want to be on your own forever?'

My guilt hadn't allowed me to think about that. My arms hugged my chest. Amanda spoke up. Her voice was rough, she sounded upset. 'I want you to come out with me. Sarah is only three years old. I can't do it on my own. I need a guy in my life, now. This is not a fairy story. Prince Charming is not going to knock on my door.'

Abruptly, a deafening banging reverberated down the hall. Everybody jumped then giggled hysterically. Lyn frowned and left the room. We leaned after her retreating figure straining in vain to hear the conversation. When she returned, a middle-aged man had his arm around her shoulders. He was overweight but well dressed. I wouldn't call him good looking but his smile was sexy. 'Hello, my darlings.' His eyes reminded me of eerie fog lights hunting down their prey in the mist. Everybody else seemed to know who he was. I had no idea. Fountains of laughter erupted every time the man opened his mouth. These starving women accepted his hugs and kisses like children let loose in a lolly shop. When he stared at me, my blush deepened. 'And who is this vision of beauty? Where have you been all my life?' His voice was soft, sort of silky. My eyes looked down, shoulders went up to my ears, heart pounded. Lyn gasped and rushed to my side. 'I'm so sorry, darling. Larry, this is Annie. She's new here. Larry is an old married friend. Tonight, is for single ladies but Larry is always welcome. He works in the Sydney office so we don't see enough of him.' I was fascinated. Lyn was probably dressed up for Larry. We had almost certainly been invited to cover up the illicit contact. Larry took my hand, bent over and kissed my cheek. I stared at him, my vision narrowed. Judy smirked knowingly, licked her lips then suggested music. The song was dreamy and desolate. Gentle fingers raised my chin. 'Please dance with me. I won't hurt you.' Larry held me close, crooned the words. 'I can't stop loving you.' Eyes closed, we danced cheek to cheek. My arms crept around his neck. He was married, never to be seen again but that didn't matter. I felt wanted and very, very special. Tom had never made me feel like that. Nobody had ever made me feel like that. I wanted a man in my life who always made me feel like that.

In the eighties, the singles scene in suburban Melbourne was very popular. Lyn's single group of friends was now having a drink at the local Waverley pub on a Friday after work. Heaps of guys leaned on the bar to check out the mature age females. This place was not flash and did not attract young chicks. Lyn and Amanda exposed some cleavage, behaved like teenagers and chatted up anybody and everybody. Judy, Margo and I sat at a table discussing over 28 venues. Judy's boring, married friend, Karen, joined us. She had to have her say. 'Those places are meat markets. The guys are only looking for one thing.' I didn't like her aren't-I-clever attitude. Margo looked her up and down. 'How do you know? Have you been to Alexanders?' Karen glared. 'Of course not. I wouldn't be seen dead there.' She was a waste of space.

I had invited my neighbour Pauline to the pub. She thought the idea was hysterical but reminded me she was happily married. 'Get out there and enjoy yourself. Make sure you pick a good bloke this time.'

Lyn and Amanda deserted the guys at the bar. Amanda was fed up. 'Those guys are so suburban. None of them fit my criteria.'

I was fascinated. 'What do you mean?'

'I have written a list of what I want from my next husband. That's something you should do.'

'Give me an example.'

'Well presented, good job, plenty of money, worships me etc. etc. Took me ages to write it all out but it was worth it. It only takes two minutes now to weed out the dickheads.'

She thought she had it all worked out. I didn't want to know all about my soul mate. My criterion was simple. He had to make me feel very special.

Amanda begged me to go out dancing with her. I agreed. It wouldn't be Amanda's first time at over 28 venues. Her search for a man had started less than six months after she was widowed. I didn't comment but I thought her behaviour was tacky. It wasn't as if she hadn't liked her husband. Amanda insisted he was the love of her life.

Alexanders was a single-story building on a main road at the edge of a residential area in Moorabbin. The floor area was huge with steps leading to different levels. A swing band played Glenn Miller. On their breaks, the DJ encouraged rock and roll. My nerves lightened as soon as I walked in. Everyone was middle aged. The men were quite well dressed in suits and ties. Most of the women looked a bit cheap. Mind you, the men didn't care. They danced with everybody. Amanda and I sat at a table that overlooked the dance floor. A thick brass rail separated the different areas. My dress was okay but I looked like I was going to work. A man walked along the edge of the dance floor. He stopped in line with our table, leaned on the brass rail and beamed at me. 'I'm just working the rail, honey. Would you like to dance?' I nodded my head. He came up the stairs and led me onto the dance floor. Falling head over heels in love with this delightful Canadian was inevitable. Ron's accent and sense of humour helped me relax. He was well dressed, had laughing brown eyes, short beard and balding head. There was nothing to dislike. 'Will you have dinner with me on Saturday?' he whispered.

'Ummm...okay, but just dinner, nothing else.'

'If you're talking about what I think you're talking about, it's manners to wait until you're asked.'

'Sorry, I'm new at this.'

He pulled me close. 'Will you have coffee with me later?'

'I'm with a friend.'

'I'm also with a friend. Your friend will love my friend. Everybody loves Danny. The four of us can go across to St. Kilda.'

'We'll see. Amanda's driving.'

He led me back to the table. 'Check you later.'

Danny was a fast-talking Yank who tried to sweep Amanda off her feet. His startling blue eyes sparkled through his mop of blond, curly hair. We agreed to follow them to a coffee shop. They drove straight to a house in East St. Kilda. We parked in the street. Ron leaned in our window. 'This is where we live. We may as well have coffee here.'

Amanda didn't hesitate. 'No way!'

Ron persisted. He turned towards me. 'What about you, honey?'

'It's Amanda's choice. She's driving.'

'I don't believe it! Talk about a couple of Cinderellas! What's your phone number, honey?'

I gave it to him. Knowing he was my soul mate accelerated my heart rate.

The next few nights were spent at home. I was on my own and miserable, checking the phone constantly. I picked it up, put it down, picked it up and put it down. Was it working? Dial tone was okay. I tried walking around it, jumped when it decided to ring. It was him. Arrangements were made for Saturday night. I told him we could meet at his place. I would drive there.

It took me all day to get ready. The kids stared at their mother in her new dress and high heels. I wanted them to comment. It didn't happen. They managed to put across a feeling of displeasure without saying a word.

Ron greeted me at his front door with a hug and a kiss on the lips. He wore sports jacket and black trousers. I was shaking all over. He held me tight and whispered. 'It's so good to see you, honey. I've missed you heaps.' My knees buckled, he pulled me close. My heart was racing. He was perfect. We had a drink in the spacious front room. Music was playing. Danny showed me his tomato pot plant. I had a good look. 'That's great. It looks really healthy.'

They both fell about laughing. 'You are priceless.'

'What makes you say that?'

'That isn't a tomato plant. It's marijuana.'

This was out of my league. My stomach made me feel like a nerd playing with the mafia.

Ron drove to a restaurant overlooking the Yarra River. The building was mock Tudor, dim lights, full of couples, very romantic. I asked him to order for me. My neighbour, Pauline, had given me lots of tips. Conversation flowed easily then he placed his hand over mine. 'The feeling between us is electrifying. I haven't felt like this for a long, long time.' My heart skipped a beat, eyes lowered like a virgin.

After dinner, Ron drove back to his place then invited me in for coffee. I accepted but the hairs on the back of my neck chilled. He didn't touch me. Good. We sat opposite each other in comfortable chairs. He put a monocle on and read romantic poetry to me for about half an hour. It was beautiful. He closed the book. 'What shall we do now?'

'Ummm ... I have to go home soon.'

'It's only nine o'clock. There must be something else we can do.'

'Just talk to me.'

We moved to the couch. He pulled me close, gave me lots of advice.

'Never admit to being over forty. From now on, you are only thirty-nine and some months.' I wanted to take notes but I didn't want to look stupid. Ron kept talking. 'If you think a man might be married, try and pin him down to a Saturday night. He will always have an excuse.' My laugh was loud. Ron smiled at me. 'You sound happy!' I was but I did have a problem. The car was showing empty when I arrived in St. Kilda. I'd had all day but I was too busy working on my appearance. Maybe Ron could help. I gazed at him and chewed my bottom lip. He frowned. 'What's the trouble, honey?'

'Is there a garage nearby that puts petrol in your car for you?'

'Not in St. Kilda. Those places went out with button up boots.'

'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure but there's a normal servo around the corner.'

I avoided his gaze. His eyes were like searchlights then his mouth slung open. 'You don't know how to use a self-serve, do you?'

Close to tears, my arms crossed. He moved them and hugged me. 'Come on, honey. I'll go with you and show you exactly what to do.' We went to the servo. I dropped Ron off on the way home.

Our dates became fairly regular. I kept dodging the sex issue. Tom and I had not made love for about five years before he died. He had lost all interest. The feeling was mutual. Cheating was never considered. Revealing my body to anybody had been an issue for me forever. Eventually, Amanda and I worked out an ingenuous way to get undressed and remain discreet at the same time. After lots of practice, my self-confidence improved. Ron had been patient. The night I said okay, he walked me to the bedroom and turned the light off as we went through the door. I felt like an idiot! When I told her about it later, Amanda couldn't stop laughing. 'Do you think he had a good time?'

'I think I did okay. He seemed to enjoy it.'

Sex was about being good at it. My own sense of pleasure or intimacy did not exist. Male gratification and satisfaction were paramount. It had always been like that with Tom. It was the same with Ron. I was happy because he was happy. Orgasms happened to other people.

The relationship with Ron did not last long. He stood me up one night. Panic pushed my heart past my rib cage. Heartbroken and full of accusations, I closed my bedroom door and rang him.

'You're a player. I love you but you don't care about me.'

'Do not be ridiculous.'

'What do you mean?'

'Listen, honey. You've only been out after dark on your own for five minutes. You do not love anybody.'

'You don't understand how I feel.'

'I'm doing you a favour, honey. Guys like me do not have lasting relationships. Please just keep looking. You deserve a guy who will always be there for you.'

'But I want to see you.'

'Why don't we just be friends?'

There was no choice. My infatuation forced me to agree.

Over time, Ron observed the changes in me. In the early years, he seemed flattered by my obsession. I idolised him. We had the occasional coffee in St Kilda. The shops were always busy. The locals didn't seem to worry about anything. They were free. Having a good time seemed to be their only concern. My life wasn't like that. When I first met Ron, I did not own a dress suitable for after dark. I bought three. They were similar fabric but different colours. I always had to choose between the pink, the blue and the lemon. Ron applauded my new wardrobe. 'Your husband would not recognise you now, let alone know what you're talking about.' My heart sang. He still gave me goosebumps, always had lots of news. 'I'm buying a house in Richmond.'

'Can you afford it?'

'It's a great house, original Edwardian, incredible floor tiling, the price is right.'

Ron's wife and children now lived in his house in Dandenong and kept him broke. 'But how will you pay for it?'

'I've worked out how to use my credit card to pay the deposit. My family house will take another mortgage.'

'What about Danny?'

'He's going home to America for a while. He sends his love.'

My magnificent obsession was good for me. Ron was a great guy who understood me better than I understood myself.

Amanda and I decided to check out another suburban over 28 Venue. Casey's was situated next to the railway line at Hawthorn station. Disco lights flashed, music was loud, lights were dim, décor was swish and there were lots of men. It was up market compared to Alexanders. People packed the bar three deep. The dance floor was barely big enough and a DJ supplied the music. Tables and stools littered the area between the restaurant and the dancing. Amanda was now very blonde. She had tried to talk me into joining her at the hair dressers. 'Blondes have more fun.'

'How do you know?'

'Just watch the guys. They love blondes. Let's do it.'

'No way. Blonde is not me, never was, never will be.'

Amanda was petite but well endowed. The blonde hair was boofy and she looked like Dolly Parton. She did start to have more fun. 'I told you so.'

Our experienced friends had told us that guys prefer animated women. Amanda and I stood at a small table and exchanged bullshit. My blonde friend looked stunning in a slinky black dress. Her hair certainly attracted attention. I felt boring in the pink, preferred the lemon. I needed to do some more clothes shopping. It was about 9.30 pm. Amanda noticed them first. A group of very well-dressed men sauntered through the doors. Her eyes lit up. 'The board room boys have arrived.'

I had no idea what she was talking about. 'Do you know them?'

She shook her head. 'Margo warned me. They call in after their sales meetings, married of course.'

'How do you know?'

'Expensive suits and ties, cuff links, ironed shirts, good aftershave, polished shoes and a nice watch.'

'What are they doing here?'

Amanda laughed. She couldn't take her eyes off the group of suits. 'Rumour has it that they are here to grab a granny. Back soon.'

She deserted me. The board room boys obviously had more appeal. I stood there on my own feeling stupid. A good-looking guy smiled. 'Will you have this dance with me?'

I nodded my head then realised everyone was dancing in unison. 'I'm sorry but I have no idea what they are doing.'

'It's called the Bus Stop. It's great fun and it's easy.'

He grabbed my hand and pulled me on to the dance floor. He was right. It was easy and it was fun. When the music stopped, the guy wandered off. Amanda was back at our table. She had collected five phone numbers. We decided that Casey's was better value than Alexanders. It was very relaxed and the regulars gave it a club atmosphere.

Magazines were crammed with amazing advice. By now I knew that women had orgasms and expected men to make that happen. Everybody took their clothes off before going to bed. Some women liked to be in control. They told the male how they liked it, when they wanted it, where to do it and why he was going to love it. Sometimes there was a concealed section in the magazine. One week it was hiding pictures of different popular positions. The following week was all about something called oral sex. It was a bit hard to follow because there were no pictures. I decided not to ask Amanda. The magazines were hidden under my mattress. In my opinion, they were adults only. The children wouldn't understand. I couldn't fathom all of it. It sounded as if women liked sex.

A guy at work told Amanda about the red eye special. It sounded interesting so we did some homework. It was all about flying to Tasmania on the cheap to visit the casinos. Amanda and I decided to give it a try. We flew to Hobart to check out the Wrest Point Hotel Casino. Our visit lasted from late Saturday morning until 8 am Sunday with no accommodation. The idea was to gamble or party all night. The casino had opened in 1973. In the eighties people were still getting glammed up to go there.

We had been given a room to freshen up in. I was concerned about my outfit. 'Do you think this pants suit is smart enough?' Amanda circled me. 'It's okay but it needs something else.' We went shopping. I was happy with the waistcoat I bought but it was the hat that made all the difference. I chose a dark brown fedora which is known as the most expressive and personal hat shape. It was a guy's hat but it was different and it suited me. Back at the casino, I tried it all on. Amanda's eyes boggled. 'You look incredible but are you game to wear it tonight? I'm talking about the hat.' I checked the mirror. 'I think so.' Amanda wore a red cocktail dress, frilly and frothy. We probably looked like a lesbian couple but that did not occur to me back then.

On our way to the gambling area, a well-dressed man stopped, blinked and shook his head. 'I love your hat. You look fantastic.' The hat filled me with hectic eagerness. My gaze checked the man out thoroughly. My smile was five stars. 'Thank you, darling.' Everybody stared at me. Everybody loved my hat. The casino was glamorous, all the gambling tables were busy. One ageing Italian man escorted me into a private area only available to high rollers. Poker was popular but extremely serious with a minimum bet of one thousand dollars, a lot of money in the eighties. I didn't stay long. These guys were there to gamble, not play the field.

A four-piece orchestra entertained upstairs. The cello player had lots of blonde hair, shortest around the neck, floppy on top. His dreamy brown eyes looked me up and down. 'Love your outfit, especially the hat.' I checked him out. 'Thank you.' He stopped playing the cello. A small note pad appeared. 'Please give me your phone number.' I raised my eyebrow. 'Why?' He laughed. 'I'll ring you the next time the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra plays at the Melbourne Arts Centre.'

It was not a joke. A couple of months later, the phone call happened. 'I'm playing in Melbourne next month. Give me your address so I can pick you up.' One month later, this cute guy arrived in the suburbs in his rental car to escort me to the city. He swaggered up the drive sporting a leather shoulder bag. My teenagers jostled each other to get the best look. They had accepted my life style. 'Who is he? Where did you meet him?' Not wanting to play happy families, I rushed out the front door and headed him off. Culture wise, I was completely out of my depth. Tom wouldn't even go to the movies. It was my first visit to the Arts Centre. My life was embarrassing. I'd have to play it by ear and lie a lot or this guy would think I was a bogan. After we had dinner, he escorted me to my seat. We met after the recital. 'What did you think?' Looking him straight in the eye, I said what he wanted to hear. 'It was beautiful.' That was a lie, give me Elvis any day. It was true, I was a bogan. The cello player was pleasant. Can't remember his name but I did ask him the question. 'Are you married?' He smiled. 'No, I'm not. But I do have a partner in Hobart.' We had nothing in common. He had been intrigued by my outfit, probably the hat. It was a one-off occasion.

Launceston Country Club Casino was more successful. Minutes from the CBD, the 18 holes golf course was very popular. There were more single guys there and they seemed a tad younger than the mix in Hobart. Amanda and I had a few drinks in a very swish bar. The men were local, certainly not refined or classy. Amanda wore virgin white. It looked like a copy of the white dress Marilyn Monroe made famous. I now owned a straight black skirt, blousy top in black and white. My suburban look had been replaced by a sophisticated image. I told myself it suited me. The disco appealed so we wandered upstairs. A man approached while I was trying to insert some money into the cigarette machine. 'Here's a dollar, darl. Ten cent pieces won't work.' His dark brown curly hair, smiling eyes and cute mustache were complimented by a colored bow tie. Looking him up and down, the decision was made. 'Thank you. You're way too young for me but you must meet my friend.' Kevin was married but apparently that did not matter. Being single was not on Amanda's perfect husband criteria. Her explanation was simple. 'If he was happily married, he wouldn't be looking around.' I said nothing. Guilt consumed me. Maybe I should have looked around. There were no excuses for wanting Tom dead.

# Chapter 3: 1988–1990

Gossip spreads at work. Nobody approved of the merry widows. I was annoyed but tried to ignore the looks and whispers. My track record had always been excellent. What happened outside work was nobody else's business. The huge company I worked for had its own credit union. Employees could apply for a loan. My job was to prepare loan applications and submit them to a committee for approval. Amanda had applied for a vacant position in the credit union and was now working with me. Two juniors helped. The boss called me into his office. Colin was tall, short back and sides, squinty eyes and a permanent pout. He shut the door, told me to sit, walked behind his desk and remained standing. I wasn't concerned. He liked to pick my brain regularly. He would go to the big boss and claim any of my new ideas as his.

Then it happened. He proceeded to accuse me of disrupting the work place. I was not setting a good example to the juniors. Amanda needed guidance. I was leading her astray. He went on and on, spouting bull shit. My gut churned. I'd listened to crap most of my life. Why now? I interrupted. 'Please accept my resignation. I'll work another month or you can organise for me to be paid out and I'll leave today.'

'That's not necessary.'

'It's not your choice.'

'I don't want you to leave.'

'I don't care what you want.'

'I was just giving you some constructive criticism.'

'You're talking garbage.'

'We can work this out.'

I stood, walked to the door, turned to face him.

'I don't want to work it out. I'll put my written resignation in the mail.'

I spoke to no one, left the building and drove home. Colin was an idiot. He wouldn't cope. I kept going over it. Bastard! Later in the day, Amanda knocked on my back door. She was on her way home from work. 'What happened? They reckon you resigned.'

'That's right. The place is awash with gossip again. I'm over it.'

'I think Colin's in trouble. What did he say to you?'

'Colin said I'm a disruption in the office, bad influence on the juniors and I'm leading you astray.'

'You're kidding! That's ridiculous. Do you want me to go to his boss for you?'

'No thanks.'

'I've organized a collection for your farewell gift.'

'I am never going back to that place. We can have a farewell at the pub. More gossip for the wankers.'

'That's a great idea, invitation only.'

'Actually, I'm not that upset. I've been thinking about looking for a new job for a while.'

'Why don't you look in the CBD? The singles venues in there would be much more sophisticated than the suburbs.'

'Don't be crazy. It would take ages in peak hour to travel to the city from Noble Park.'

'You could live somewhere near the CBD. Your kids are old enough. They don't need you looking after them 24/7.'

I liked the idea. I wanted a different job so a change of living arrangements made sense. My relationship with the children was okay. The five of us went out for dinner together to celebrate birthdays. We laughed a lot. They always presumed that any decision I made was right. When I told them, I'd resigned from the credit union, they just accepted it without question. I would miss them when I moved but my mind was made up. They just stared at me when I told them my plans. I included a few little white lies to make it sound credible. 'I applied for another job and I got it. It's great money and interesting. There is one problem. It's over the other side of the city.'

Peter rolled his eyes. 'Traveling time would be ridiculous.'

'I'll find a place to rent near the CBD and come home on weekends.'

Alison looked shocked. 'How will we manage?'

'You won't have to pay rent. You will have to shop and cook for yourselves. The lady I currently employ will still do the housework at my expense.'

Alison didn't get a chance to express her opinion. My voice filled the gap. I was in control.

'Feel free to chat about it but I won't change my mind. I'm running late for an appointment. See you tonight.' It was not discussed again.

The organisation Flat Mates helped people to change their address. They gave me some leads to check out. The first one was a near new, two story town-house in Faraday Street, Carlton. The building was Victorian style, party wall separating next door, very close to the footpath, pub over the road. Amanda came with me to supply a second opinion. Elaine opened the door. She was nondescript, intense attitude, cropped hair, no makeup, probably in her thirties. We had a look through the property. The spare room was upstairs with an ensuite. Elaine's bedroom was downstairs. The door stayed shut. Living room included kitchen and dining areas. Furniture looked like Ikea. No plants or paintings meant the décor lacked interest. Coffee and cake was served at the dining table. Amanda and I were in casual gear, jeans and t-shirts. Elaine wore a blouse over loose slacks. She told us she was a music teacher at a Grammar school in Essendon. She was anxious to impress. 'It's very trendy living close to Lygon Street.'

'Do you own the property?'

'No, I pay rent. That's why sharing is necessary.'

'Is the traffic noisy?'

'Not really. You get used to it. Here's my phone number. Please call me if you have any questions, any at all.'

We said our goodbyes. The place was okay but I wanted to look at a few more. Elaine was never going to be my next best friend. Amanda was even more cautious.

'She's gay.'

'What makes you think that?'

'It's just a feeling, you know.'

I did not know. I had never met a lesbian. Carlton and surrounding suburbs attracted all sorts of people. Elaine's sexual preferences had nothing to do with me. I wasn't challenged because I didn't care. The next two places were horrible. My mind was made up.

'That music teacher is starting to look good.'

Amanda didn't agree. 'Don't let her sit on the end of your bed.'

Elaine had lied about the traffic. How could anyone get used to it? Every Saturday night, all night, a continuing cacophony of police, fire brigade and ambulance sirens wailed uncontrollably up and down Faraday Street.

It took a while for Amanda and me to find out what happened at night in the CBD. Elaine was no help. She rarely went out after dark. Our experienced single friends tried to help but they didn't go into the CBD. Ex neighbour Pauline didn't go out without her husband but I knew she had a lot of contacts. We met for coffee back in the burbs. She looked good. The compliments flowed both ways. I had to walk around like a model for her. 'Look at you! Where's the suburban housewife gone? You are one sophisticated chick! I'm so happy for you.' She had done her homework on the CBD for me.

'You have to go to Lazars. It's a three-story building at the top end of King Street. It used to be a bluestone grain warehouse. It became Lazars nightclub about twelve years ago. It's the place to be seen. It has loads of stained glass, burning fires and space to dance.'

It sounded great but I had a couple of questions.

'What's the age group?'

'Ground floor disco is for young people. An expensive restaurant is on the next floor. You will love the top floor. Lots of executives enjoy slow dancing on one side of the room, piano bar on the other.'

We hugged each other and giggled like school kids.

I was looking forward to going somewhere different. Feeling good about myself and surprised at my level of confidence, I was enjoying life in general but not sleeping around. Searching for my soul mate was entertaining. Amanda was in some sort of relationship with Kevin, the married guy I introduced her to in Tasmania. He was still living with his wife.

The first time Amanda and I went to Lazars, we arrived at 8.30 pm and went straight upstairs to the top floor. Surroundings were certainly impressive. Words like lavish and luxurious come to mind. We drank lots of water and ate a plentiful supply of complimentary nuts. Nobody noticed how stunning we both looked with classy clothes and full makeup. Why the lack of interest? The place was deserted! I couldn't believe it! It was so disappointing. By 11 pm I was fed up. 'Let's get out of here. This is a fizzer.' When we realised the crowd was half way up the stairs and queued out on the footpath, we turned around. After having a fantastic time and meeting lots of men, we left about 6 am. Amanda was bewildered. 'Where do they go first?'

'A couple of guys told me they drink at the Rialto.'

'Where's the Rialto? What is it?'

'It's a posh hotel in Collins Street.'

'But what time do they get there?'

'We could have a sleep after work, set the alarm for 8pm and meet at the Rialto at 9.30.'

'That's awfully late.'

'The crowd didn't get to Lazars until after 11.'

'Okay. What about we wear office gear and have some business cards printed?'

'That sounds crazy. What would we put on the cards?'

'Our name and phone number will be enough. I'll organise it. Why don't we go totally professional and buy briefcases?'

'I do not want to lug a briefcase up the stairs at Lazars.'

'I suppose it could be awkward.'

The following week the Rialto doorman, complete with top hat, nodded his approval. We sidled into the foyer, visited the rest room, checked each other out and discussed our plan of action. Both dressed in suits, our frilly, sexy blouses barely covered our boobs. The business cards were a shock. Amanda was never discreet but these cards were outrageous. Any prostitute would be delighted to hand them to a potential customer. Amanda's were black and mine were electric blue. Silver lettering flashed our names and phone numbers. What was she thinking? My friend insisted she didn't believe in sleeping around. Our business cards did not have any details. Men would presume we were advertising sex. One glance at the card would prompt the question. 'How much?' I wasn't ready for this. It screeched desperate. Amanda was staring at me. 'Don't you like them?'

'They're okay but I wish I'd asked for pink. Never mind, maybe next time.' I shoved them in the bottom of my bag, binned them the next morning.

The Rialto was opulent. Wall to wall people literally jammed into a huge space. Everybody seemed to be yelling, the noise was deafening. Flirting with the drunken mix of solicitors and lawyers was good fun. We were part of a group when we walked up the hill to Lazars. The top floor was active but not packed like the Rialto. The music was soft and romantic, couples danced and the bar was busy. It was 11.30. The hostess had introduced herself the week before. Sammy wandered around the top floor making sure everyone was content and happy. She was in her thirties, sensible clothes, reasonable and rational manner. 'Have you had a good week?'

We nodded and smiled vaguely. Scrutinising the dance floor was our top priority. It was another great night. The men were aged in their forties or fifties. We laughed a lot, danced heaps and told a few fibs. At one stage, we pretended to be reporters from the scandal newspaper called The Truth. I'm pretty sure nobody believed us. It was about 5 AM. We were leaving, heading for the stairs, when Sammy approached. She gave us free tickets for the following week. Obviously, we had been accepted as regulars. I was overjoyed.

Amanda rang me a few days later. Her boyfriend had left his wife. 'I'm in shock. He fits my criteria but I don't really know if I love the guy.'

I remember my reply because it was strange. 'Would you marry him if he was the rubbish man?'

'Of course not. You're being ridiculous!'

I believed love was not about criteria. My experience didn't exist but I felt love had to be the 'I can't live without you' feeling. It had nothing to do with material things like your job or how much money you have in the bank. I shook my head and gave her the answer she needed.

'I thought your criteria was the ultimate guide.'

'You're right. I'm sorry, darl. Kevin has moved in here. He doesn't want me to go out after dark without him. You and I did agree that if one of us got a better offer, we could take it. I feel awful because this is not a one off. Kevin is serious, talking marriage down the track. In future, you'll have to count me out for everything.'

Even though I said all the right things and wished her luck, panic overwhelmed me. My stomach churned non-stop. I had never been good at making or keeping friends. My list of single women who liked the CBD did not exist. I wasn't ready to go out after dark on my own.

Shirley was an acquaintance. She had given me her numbers a while back at a singles function in the suburbs. Eight years older than me, this woman was in love with a toy-boy. She was stunning with dark blond short hair, big blue eyes, good skin, great figure plus she wore expensive jewellery. She had left her husband to live with the toy-boy then the toy-boy left her. Shirley was not happy. She was still in love with the toy-boy. When I rang, she remembered me. I was flattered. We met for a drink at the Rialto.

In her mid-fifties, Shirley only looked about forty and loved sex, preferably with a man in his thirties. She quizzed me on my sexual likes and dislikes. 'Do you like having sex with young guys?'

'I'm a widow. I'm looking for my soul mate.'

'Get a life. Your soul mate doesn't exist.'

'I'd rather wait than sleep with just anybody.'

'How long is it since your husband died?'

'He died in 1984.'

'Oh my God. What are you waiting for?'

'I've done it a few times.'

'Okay. This is what we'll do. One of my lovers is married to my best friend and lives in Sydney. We get together when he's in Melbourne. His next visit is happening on Monday. When he's here he always catches up with a mate. The mate is hot. He's probably your soul mate. You'll love him. I'll tee up a double date. You'll have to dress up. These guys are loaded. We usually go to the restaurant on the first floor at Lazars.'

My wardrobe now included a George Gross black creation with the biggest shoulder pads in the world. The lady in the designer shop had convinced me that the dress was a great investment. 'George Gross epitomises style and elegance. Princess Diana purchased six George Gross pieces from Harrods in London.' I was shopping in Lygon Street, Carlton. Cost didn't matter, I wanted that dress. Though still looking for another job, I wasn't broke. Tom had only signed up for superannuation six months before he died. Because super wasn't compulsory in the eighties, it took years of nagging before he agreed to join. When he died, the money was invested. Negative gearing meant my purchase of an investment property involved a mortgage. I had some play money so I paid cash for my new dress. There was no wavering and absolutely no concern. I had lived on a tight budget for years because Tom spent his wages on beer. I was over it. Even apart from the money angle, the dress would not have been suitable for my married lifestyle. We didn't go anywhere.

Shirley and I met her friend's husband and his mate for a drink at the Rialto. I wore the new black dress. Maurie kissed my cheek, looked me up and down, whispered 'luscious lady' in my ear and held my hand. He came across as a gentle giant with laughing brown eyes, curly hair and a ready smile. Shirley had been told to warn my potential partner that I was not an easy lay. We got a taxi to Lazars. Everything about the restaurant was classy. Shirley was playing touchy feely with her lover. At one stage she went to the toilet. When she returned to the table, she tucked her skimpy panties into the man's top pocket. The guys made a few lewd comments. I didn't know where to look. Maurie decided I needed a cuddle. He put his arm around my shoulders. As I relaxed into his body, everything changed. An unexpected feeling washed over me. Mixed sensations happened as shock caught my breath. My body squirmed, shoulders dropped and my breathing became ragged all at the same time. My body was on fire. Hotness consumed me, made me twist and turn. I wanted this man, big time. He knew. We said goodnight and got a taxi to a city hotel. Maurie was patient, he didn't rush. Maurie made love to me, slowly. I helped him take my clothes off. He knew all about orgasms, multiple orgasms. He was married. I didn't care. My need for a soul mate went on the back burner. This was what I needed. I needed sex. I loved it.

My phone rang the following morning. Shirley laughed.

'Did you, do it?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'It was all a bit rushed.'

'I don't believe you.'

'I can't talk about it.'

'Why?'

'I'm confused.'

'Please tell me. I'm an expert.'

'For the first time in my life, I loved having sex.'

'Oh, God. That is awful. I can't pretend to understand. Do you mean you let your husband do it but you didn't like it? What was different about last night? Why are you worried about it? It's time to celebrate and be happy because you loved it.'

'Only dirty girls like sex.'

'What did you say?'

'Only dirty girls like sex.'

'Fuck! Who on earth told you that?'

'I'm not sure, probably my mother. That sentence seems to be embedded in my brain. It's been on rewind over and over since last night.'

Shirley and I became best friends. She understood. Her mother had been an alcoholic. My mother was an intellectual idiot who did whatever my alcoholic father demanded. Shirley belonged to anything and everything single people enjoyed. We were out two or three times every week and spoke on the phone most nights.

The new job happened at last. It was in Coburg. The company was supposed to be an agent for an American firm but nobody seemed to do much work. My every day job was handling enquiries and complaints. My phone rang heaps. Keeping people happy kept me reasonably busy. Michael, the managing director, had interviewed me the week before while we were dancing at Lazars. The following day, he rang and offered me the job. It was a big building with very few people. The accounts department was upstairs. They did not mix with people in sales. Michael and his secretary had two offices on the ground floor. Jane was mature, dressed well and confided in me on my first day. 'Michael's a nut job but I think he's harmless.' I hoped so. My salary was over the top. My desk was in a large walk thru space. Two sales managers were nearby with an office each. They were both middle aged, good looking, well dressed and married. It was love at first sight for one of them. Phillip could not take his eyes off me. They both wanted me to wake them up if I heard Michael coming down the corridor. There was a warehouse out the back and one salesman on the road.

On my first day, Michael invited me to have lunch with him. 'Do you like Japanese food?'

'It's okay.'

'I'll order for you. We'll go to Fitzroy.'

After lunch, he loaded his boot with cases of wine charged to the company. These supposed intimate lunches started to happen often. He seemed to think I was a shy and retiring widow who fancied him. 'Isn't it wonderful to have the time to chat, just the two of us?' He tried to hold my hand occasionally. Sometimes he insisted on my help with his new computer. His classic good looks would probably appeal to some women but I found him immature and boring. I told Shirley all about him. She had become my mentor. 'You've made up your mind too soon. If Michael wants to seduce you, let him. He needs encouragement.'

'What about Maurie?'

'What about him? We're talking about Michael. Tell him you can't sleep with anybody because you haven't got any sexy underwear.'

'Good idea. That will put him off.'

'I am not trying to put him off.'

'What do you mean?'

'I am trying to advise you. He will probably buy you some super-hot, all lace, revealing knickers with no crutch and a matching bra with nipple cut-outs. You'll be on a promise.'

I agreed to think about it but sleeping with the boss did not appeal. It would be like sleeping with the enemy. Anyway, only dirty girls would wear that sort of rude underwear. Mind you, the thought made me squirm a bit. It was different for Shirley. While I was busy having kids, her married life had been full of affairs. Men from work, husbands married to friends and husbands married to neighbors were just a few. Her life revolved around sex. It was sort of like a hobby. Some women were passionate about knitting. Shirley was fanatical about fucking.

The whole sales team had lunch regularly at Jimmy Watson's in Lygon Street. Michael invited me. I was the only female he asked. During the morning, Phillip, the sales manager with the hots for me, filled me in with a bit of history. 'The place is an institution in Melbourne. It captures the essence of a European café, casual yet stylish.' The street front of the bar was very ordinary but I must admit when I walked in the door, I was impressed. Phillip played tour guide. 'It's a part of society, a place to meet friends, to drink, to talk, to argue, to change the world! The ambience is great. Look at the fireplaces, brick walls and gorgeous pot plants. Have you seen the courtyard?' This brick paved, amazingly awesome, overgrown area was packed with tables and chairs. Lunch was served and enjoyed. The port was opened, chattering got louder, laughter became raucous and glass shattered. Ken, the other sales manager, had written himself off. Apparently, it happened often. His port glass had been thrown against the bricks of the fireplace. Nobody objected, everybody cheered. I became a regular.

When Shirley rang that night, a new idea was debated. 'I think I'll buy a house closer to work. The outer suburbs are boring, there's no going back.'

'Can you afford it?'

'I can sell the family house.'

'Are you sure you want to do that?'

'I am sick of paying rent to Elaine. She's stitched up.'

'What about your kids?'

'What about them? I drive home to see them at least once a week and they're never there. The thought of living at home full time is depressing. My life would revolve around the children who are always out.'

'That is terrible. You should have told me. My kids have left home, thank God.'

I made an appointment with my family for the following weekend. My attitude was direct and to the point. 'The house is starting to look rented. The neighbors are complaining about the parties.' They glanced sideways at each other but nobody said a word. 'Maybe we should sell. This is your inheritance as well as mine. Half the proceeds will come to me but the other half could be split evenly between the four of you. There is a condition.' Peter narrowed his eyes. 'What's the condition?'

'You must use the money to travel overseas or invest in real estate.'

That conversation confirmed my change of attitude since Tom died. I had never been headstrong or bossy. Was this person the real me? Sometimes I wasn't sure I liked her. She could be a bitch. The four children looked at each other. These kids were party animals. After Tom died they seemed to cling to each other. When I left home the parties started. They chatted to each other about my offer but their decision didn't take long. Their excitement was contagious. Destinations were discussed plus preferable times and the possibility of traveling together. 'We'd have enough money to do Contiki tours everywhere.'

Alison was concerned. 'But where will we live when we come back?'

I didn't hesitate. 'All of you are old enough to rent a house.'

Usually children leave home. People had been shocked when I moved to Carlton. My decision to sell the family house seemed to traumatise the whole suburb. Gossip got worse. 'She's selling the house now. The children will have to rent. It's disgraceful behaviour!'

'Someone told me she's out every night in the city, sleeps around, you know. Poor Tom would be so upset. He was such a good father.'

I didn't care about the scandal. Except for Pauline, these people had never been my friends. Staying in the suburbs interfered with my life. Finding a soul mate was on hold but only because I had admitted to myself that Maurie was filling a need in my life. He wasn't permanent. We didn't chat. That would be a waste of our precious time together. Anyway, his life and his family were his business. Time with Maurie was all about relaxing and allowing myself to enjoy sex. When it was over, the old mantra plagued me. 'Only dirty girls like sex' haunted my dreams like a broken record.

The house sold quickly. Peter and Alison did the organising and everything fell into place. Lots of people came to the airport. I was upset because my four children were flying to London seated together on the same plane. Shirley had warned me but I didn't listen. On their return, I would have to try to see them regularly. Alison and I chatted on the phone occasionally but living on the other side of the city did not encourage the children to play happy families. That was what I told myself. The reality was never admitted. My children didn't know how to play happy families. I was a lousy mother, invisible and cold.

A delightful, refurbished terrace house in Brunswick came on the market. The agent knew his patter. 'Two original bedrooms have sconces and lace ceilings. Back half of the house has been rebuilt. Spacious lounge area, separate dining and galley kitchen are all brand new.' The small back yard opened out to a lane but it was easier to park in the street. My new home, stylish and tasteful, replaced the unexciting, dreary suburban eyesore that was my choice years ago. It was time to move on. I was a different person now.

My flat mate wanted to move in with me. I refused. Elaine was a vegetarian and could name every cheese. If she went to a guy's house for dinner, she took a huge basket of food plus a bottle of wine and did all the work. Regular massages made her look exhausted. We had nothing in common. Shirley had met Elaine. 'Get rid of her. She looks like a virgin, bad for your image.'

Life was different. Maybe Brunswick was a mistake. Living on my own was awful. It reminded me of my lifestyle before I married Tom. Existing in a room in a hotel in the CBD was a nightmare. Being a teenager without friends or family was not funny. It was lonely. Once the working day was over, window shopping filled in time for a while. When hunger made my stomach rumble, the dingy cafe over the road from the pub was cheap. The sliced bread and butter served with the meal was taken to my room for breakfast. The only other lodgers at the pub were old and creepy.

Living in Carlton had been great. Lygon Street was only a few metres away. There were people everywhere all the time. Brunswick was different because the people were not the same. Like the pubs, there was no sense of belonging.

My evening walks were discouraged. The police car pulled up near me. A woman in uniform stepped onto the footpath. 'Where are you going?'

'I like to walk every day.'

'This area is not safe at night. Please walk in daylight hours.'

'You're kidding.'

'No, I'm not. Get in the car. I'll drive you home.'

Shirley suggested a fancy-dress house warming. It lasted for weeks. The same people turned up every Saturday night. My friend supplied most of the guests. I invited the guys from work. Phillip and Ken were always Arabs. They looked like shifty sheiks with sheets around their shoulders and tea towels clamped on their heads. Michael was not invited. I enjoyed dancing with Phillip. He always brought me flowers. We got to know each other. He begged me to have dinner with him but I put him on hold. One at a time was enough for me. Sex with Maurie was still amazing but twice a week was now twice a month. Phillip was first on the waiting list. The parties were great. Everybody loved the drinking, laughing, dancing, kissing and hugging. It was party time, all the time.

# Chapter 4: 1991–1993

The job in Coburg folded. Everybody was given one month's notice. Maybe the staff drank all the profits. Nobody seemed to know, or care. Philip called me into his office. He looked upset. 'What are we going to do?'

'The place is closing. We can't do anything about it.'

'I'm not talking about that. I love you.'

'You're married, Phillip.'

'I know, I know.'

'What's the problem?'

'I won't see you every day.'

'You can ring me.'

'It's not the same.'

A tear ran down his cheek. His feelings for me were obsessive. I remembered his behaviour at the parties. He spoiled me and I liked it. In fact, it was very flattering. He was well presented, handsome face and thick, wavy, groomed grey hair. Money did not seem to be a problem. He had a holiday house somewhere, his E Type Jag came out on weekends and two large black poodles completed the affluent scene.

Everybody in the building was aware of Phillip's infatuation. He made no secret of it. The man was desperate to find a way to remain in my life. Looking for another job was keeping me busy. My goal was finding a better position with more responsibility. Despite the top money and the free lunches, boredom had set in. Frustration followed. If Maurie lost interest completely, Phillip might be good in bed. Hang on. Why wait? My lover was not my soul mate. He was just good in bed, maybe. Lack of know-how meant I wasn't an expert. The decision was made to ignore Maurie's next message. I had to. My needs had changed dramatically. Sex used to be a chore that women had to be good at. If my soul mate was impotent, it did not matter. Back then, I didn't give a fuck and physically, I didn't have to. Sex was now a priority. I loved it, couldn't live without it. My new activity was masturbation. It helped but it wasn't like the real thing. Shirley could not understand my reluctance to have two guys on the go. She wanted to buy me something called a vibrator. Her private collection was fascinating. She made me promise to consider her offer. Shirley and I spoke on the phone but hadn't caught up for a while. The move to Brunswick was time consuming and Shirley's diary was chocka. She kept track of every fuck she had so she was never short of a friend to chat to. These guys were awarded scores out of ten. They all got Christmas cards.

The kids were sending postcards from all over the world. I wanted my relationship with them to improve but I had no idea how that could happen. Would they notice how different I was? Shirley assured me that I fuck around was not tattooed on my forehead. All the changes made me wonder about my sanity.

Phillip called me into his office again. I sat down. He walked behind me, shut the door and sat on the desk facing me. 'Would you like to be my partner in a plant nursery?'

'Where is it?'

'It's out near Warrandyte.'

'What about your wife?'

'My wife is not interested in gardening.'

'I wouldn't mind having a look at the place.'

Phillip could not stop smiling. We checked the nursery out. My plant knowledge was minimal. Our offer was accepted. He rang his wife with the news. The call was brief. I was curious. 'What did she say?'

'She's really pleased.'

'What did she say about me?'

'She wants to meet you.'

'Why does she want to meet me?'

'You are now my business partner.'

'What's that got to do with her?'

Phillip pulled me towards him and held me close. 'Please don't be difficult.'

He hugged and kissed me until we went back to my place and made romantic, tender love. Well actually, he did. I went along with it. He was a passionate man but he lacked imagination and struggled with his performance. It was disappointing. My mentor might have some ideas.

Shirley and I met for a drink the following night. 'Why didn't you check with me? Phillip only got a two in my diary.'

'When did you seduce him?'

'It was at one of your parties. I thought you knew.'

'Can you help the situation?'

'Yes, of course. Phillip needs a bitch in his life. All you have to do is talk dirty to him.'

'I can't do that. I don't want to be a dirty girl.'

'Oh God. I thought you were over that.'

'I was okay with Maurie but we didn't do a lot of talking.'

'Pretend it's a game. I've got a dictionary of filthy requests and remarks. It's good fun and talking about sex will turn Phillip on big time. I brought the book with me in case you want to borrow it.'

'Yes please.'

'Have you found a job yet?'

'Phillip and I bought a nursery yesterday out near Warrandyte. That's why I needed your advice. If we're working together seven days a week, there won't be a lot of time for sex. It has to be fast and good or I'll go nuts.'

'How come you bought a nursery without consulting me?'

'I need a different sort of job, something challenging. Having a soul mate is important but being successful is an absolute must. I need to be successful. It's super important to me. You're my best friend, Shirley. You understand me.'

The need for success had crept up on me. The job in Coburg had been boring. Over the years, my expertise in every job had always earned me praise. I used to love the accolades. Coburg was a joke. My days could have been filled doing crosswords or reading a book. Nobody cared if I was good at my job. There was nothing to praise. Having a good time was the company goal. I needed more.

After making a lot of excuses, I finally agreed to meet Phillip's wife. They lived in the suburbs. It wasn't Toorak but the houses in that area were expensive and highly regarded. Their home was elegant. It was double brick, maybe Edwardian, orderly garden and winding paths. The superb antique lamp post had pride of place in the front lawn. I was impressed. Phillip opened the door. He escorted me to the drawing room where delicate china tea cups were set up. Ribbon sandwiches looked delicious. His wife, Elizabeth, shook my hand. She was charming, attractive, blonde, groomed to perfection, stylish clothes and very well bred. Her voice was quite posh, not a trace of bogan. Tea or coffee was served. Elizabeth started chatting.

'I have heard so much about you. I am delighted you'll be joining Phillip in the nursery. Maybe I can pop over there sometimes, give you a hand and get to know you.'

'You'll be made very welcome.'

'I understand you're a widow with four children.'

'That's right.'

'Where do you live, dear?'

'I live in Brunswick.'

'Really? How cosmopolitan. Do your children live with you?'

'They're overseas now.'

'That's wonderful. We've got a boy and a girl.'

'I have one boy and three girls. Your home is beautiful. Please tell me about your family.'

Phillip and Elizabeth took it in turns to play their devoted husband and wife roles to perfection. Similar gestures and facial expressions displayed their devotion. Phillip looked delighted. If his wife and his lover were best friends, his world would be complete. The room was thick with bull shit. Elizabeth's smile seemed real but her eyes had a haunted, weary look. The reason was obvious. She knew she had to accept the situation or lose her husband. I had no interest in Phillip long term. My gut filled with fascinated panic but as usual, my voice said the right things. A supposedly good time was had by all.

Neither of us had ever owned a business. Phillip's accountant was called Charles. He chewed his lip and screwed up his face. 'Why didn't you bring me the paperwork before you signed? Were the previous owners making a profit?' Phillip and I glanced at each other and shrugged our shoulders. Charles closed his eyes. In his sixties, he had a ruddy complexion and grey hair. He was a chain smoker but very business-like. His office was in South Melbourne. It was a two-story bluestone, probably worth a fortune. After giving me a successful crash course in book keeping, Charles loosened up. He smiled at me.

'Have either of you had any experience in a nursery?'

'It can't be that hard. Bit of weeding and watering won't kill us.'

Charles raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. 'You had better keep the local help on for the time being.'

The truck and front-end loader were part of the business. Phillip delivered sand and soil to huge new developments in the area. Some of these houses were ninety squares. Children could get lost trying to find their bedrooms. The local help was a big, brawny kid called Barney. He agreed to stay but he wasn't cheap. The nursery needed sprucing up. That was my job. Stoneware suppliers were checked out and new hand painted signs were ordered for individual garden beds. We had no passing trade. Traffic on the main road flew past. The nursery had been established at the bottom of a steep hill. Our street had been built on a sharp incline off the main road. We changed the name of the nursery. The new A-board was put at the top of the hill next to the main road. One day, Phillip came in stamping his foot like a spoiled kid. 'Somebody has pinched our new sign.'

This was not our first confrontation. 'I told you the council has confiscated it. We have to get a permit.'

'We shouldn't have to get a permit. It's ridiculous.'

I yelled at him. 'I don't want to pay another cent to get that thing out of the pound again! Stop belly aching. Get the permit!'

Phillip was always apologetic. 'I'm sorry, darl, sorry.'

The children arrived back. They all pleaded for money to pay for the bond and rent in advance on a house. Peter and Alison had applied as a married couple. They figured four young single people would be knocked back. I organised the bank. We arranged to meet for Chinese food in Waverley. They had stayed with friends in Noble Park until they found a rental property in Mulgrave. Excited about everything overseas, they talked non-stop. We had a great time and promised to catch up again soon.

Even though the nursery was now looking good, we did not have enough customers. Maybe we had to spend money to make money. 'We'll have to advertise, Phillip.'

'Can we afford it?'

'Probably not but it might help. That nursery down the road is packed full time.'

'I know. It's amazing because their plants are very expensive.'

'People do not know we are here. This place is hidden from the main road.'

Brochures were printed. If you spent enough money, we didn't charge for a punnet of seedlings. Sometimes, you could buy one, get one free. Turnover went up but we were still losing money.

Maybe a weekend art and craft market would help. I went to local galleries and scanned ads in the papers looking for home made goods and bric-a-brac. Eventually there were enough people booked to fill any open space we had. Notices were put in every local shop and letterbox. We got some great publicity with articles in the local papers. The car park was full all day. Stall holders were delighted. The BBQ man waved his hands in the air and raved. 'Best market this year. Fantastic! Good on you, love.' There was a queue outside the Tarot Card tent. At one of the stalls, women jostled each other to try on necklaces, bracelets and brooches. A few large, empty indoor pots were on special. 'Over here, ladies. Terracotta pots for only twenty-five dollars each.' I sold five of them but not much else. These people were not gardeners. 'Will the market be on every weekend?'

'No. We may have it once a month.'

My designer gear had been replaced by track pants. Life wasn't fun anymore. We were still working for zilch. 'We can't afford to keep Barney on.'

Phillip's jaw dropped. 'Are you sure? We won't be able to manage without him.'

'We'll have to. He won't work part time. I've asked him.'

We were on one acre of residential land in a new estate. A guy called John was the developer. I knew he had a license for the nursery business. We chatted occasionally. John was rough around the edges. He always looked scruffy with unshaven face, wild hair and grubby clothes. It was a large estate with heaps of one-acre blocks. Phillip and I were the only people paying rent. I wondered how John could afford to hang on to all this land when there was no building happening. 'How's the subdivision going, John?'

'It's taking way too long. I'm going to try and sell the nursery freehold.'

My mind raced. I had always been alert to good deals in real estate. When our marriage was okay, I had convinced Tom we needed a bigger home. I bought a block of land from a stranger. It wasn't for sale but it was in a built-up area and I wanted it. A great price was negotiated over the phone. My husband wasn't interested in meeting the builder. It would be a waste of good drinking time. One day I insisted that Tom go to the site to check some tile samples. The builder commented. 'I thought you were a figment of your wife's imagination.' That was my life. If you wanted something, you did it yourself.

I brought my attention back to the developer. 'We could be interested in buying the nursery freehold. I'll speak to Phillip.'

John's eyes lit up. 'Okay, why not?'

Enthusiasm set my mind racing. We could take a punt and get ourselves out of trouble. 'Let's buy the land, Phillip. If we own it, we won't have to pay any rent.'

'We'll have to borrow to buy the freehold. Banks charge interest, could be more than the rent.'

'I can pay cash. My investment property in Waverley has been sold to developers. They bought the whole street. The Glen Shopping Centre is going to be extended. I doubled my money.'

'What's the point? We could be stuck with a failing nursery on a block of land that nobody wants.'

'When the subdivision goes through, this land will be worth a fortune. The developer probably must sell the nursery freehold to keep the bank off his back. Come on Phillip, let's do it.'

'No way, I would have to sell the Jag.'

He had told me that the Jag and the holiday house were treated like superannuation.

'You can borrow the money, take out a mortgage.'

When he finally agreed to my nagging, we celebrated in bed. My first interpretation of Shirley's foul mouth fuck had startled Phillip. He thought of himself as genteel. Vulgar was not in his vocabulary. However, my bossy demands fueled his imagination. He was delighted with his performance. When my energy levels were low, I had to fake it but he satisfied me for the time being. My dream of success in the nursery had turned into a nightmare. I was permanently exhausted.

The dumb developer reported back. He could not sell the nursery land without a title. He was desperate to have proof of an impending sale. Phillip and I signed a contract to purchase the property as soon as it was on its own title. I insisted on a condition. Under no circumstances could our outlay exceed the current agreed price. It was an amazing deal. I clapped my hands while Phillip chewed his lip.

Working seven days a week was grueling. Some of the land was under shade cloth but pots had to be watered every day. When it was hot, twice daily was the rule. The wife popped over in her designer gear, kissed Phillip on the cheek and fluttered her eyelids at me.

'How are you, dear? Now what can I do to help?'

My smile dazzled. 'I'm sure Phillip knows best.'

She pulled out a few stray weeds, checked her fingernails and went home.

My social life had disintegrated. Shirley called in sometimes. We had a drink together once a fortnight without fail. 'How's Phillip? Has his fucking improved?'

'It certainly has.'

'That's fantastic. I bet he wishes his wife could swear like a trouper.'

'Believe me, Elizabeth would faint if somebody said fuck.'

'People need to express themselves regularly.'

'I didn't swear when I was married.'

'That's a pity. You could have told that dickhead husband of yours to fuck off years before he died.'

Shirley's attitude still shocked me at times. She didn't care what you thought. If her conversation was offensive, she really didn't give a fuck. She practised what she preached. 'Why on earth did you buy a nursery? You have to get out of there.'

'I'm working on it.'

'Just cut your losses and run.'

'Not yet. We are going to buy the land.'

'Oh, God. Have you lost the plot?'

Details of my plan were discussed. She shook her head. 'I'm terrified for you.'

'So am I but it should work. It must work. I want my life back.'

'I'll bet you do. I want you back in my life.'

It all happened at once. The subdivision was completed. Every block of land had a title. Their value tripled overnight. It had been six months since our contract was signed. Our price was now an amazing bargain. We had to settle. I was over the moon. Phillip paced back and forth in the showroom. 'I can't do this. The wife doesn't want to sell the Jag or the holiday house.'

'Mortgage the place you live in.'

'Hang on. We could . . . we'll have to . . . it would be a good idea . . . maybe we should talk to the developer.'

'What do you want to talk to the developer about?'

'I think he'll let us out of the contract. I'm sure he won't mind if we rip it up.'

My heart leapfrogged into my throat. My voice was ragged. 'Of course, the developer would be delighted with your idea but we are not doing that. You signed a contract. You can't just change your mind. What about me?'

His eyes darted all over the place. I crossed my arms and sneered at him. 'You're being ridiculous. I want this land. It's a great price. We'll make a lot of money.'

Phillip still could not make eye contact with me. His voice mumbled. 'There are no guarantees.'

Working with Phillip had shown me another side of him. He was like a spoiled child who was constantly whining or making demands. His wife adored him. Phillip still insisted she had no idea he was cheating on her. He would never have the guts to confront her. Deliberately careless at times, he was probably hoping to get caught. Over the months, I had often questioned my reasons for respecting Phillip. There were none left. My steely voice sounded like a slap. 'Forget it, Phillip. Get lost. I'll do it on my own.'

'You won't be able to do it on your own.'

'Yes. I. Will. Just watch me. It won't be a problem.'

'I don't want to argue.'

'This is not an argument. I'm just stating facts. I'll find the money and buy you out of the business.'

'What?'

'I'll buy you out of the business and settle on the land. All. By. Myself. Agreed?'

He hesitated. I shrieked at him.

'Do you agree?'

'I suppose so.'

'Good riddance! I'll speak to the accountant tomorrow.'

Phillip's eyes pleaded. 'There's no rush.'

This guy just didn't get it.

When I asked the accountant, Charles, how much it would cost me to buy Phillip out, he stared at me. Charles rarely smiled so it was a shock when he suddenly roared with laughter. 'The business is losing money. If Phillip wants out, he must pay you, not the other way around.'

Phillip's best friend was a business man. He would know this. He would have shared this with Phillip. I felt betrayed and stupid. 'How much will it cost him to buy me out?'

Charles did some quick calculations. The figure was not exorbitant but Phillip did not like it. When the paperwork was finished, he paid the money into my account and begged me to stay in touch. He swore his mate had not advised him. I did not believe him.

'It's over, Phillip.'

Then there was me, and only me. Shirley was hysterical.

'He's an arsehole. If you lose everything, I will be obliged to have a little chat to his stupid wife.'

'Please don't. I need to act as if Phillip never existed.'

My sanity was definitely doubtful. Why would a woman in her fifties go it alone in a business that was labour intensive? With no qualifications, sometimes it was hard to know the difference between a plant and a weed. My behaviour had not changed. Only a naïve suburban housewife would be stupid enough to choose the lifestyle I had landed myself in. Staying in the suburbs and looking after my children would have made more sense. Trying to relive my youth was a joke. Perhaps I was suffering from menopausal exhibitionism. My home in Brunswick was sold. An old, very ordinary house in Warrandyte was rented. The nursery freehold was mine.

Neil answered my ad for a truck driver. He was a big guy, about forty, not handsome but pleasant enough. His dark hair was receding but the mustache added some glamour. 'I know you need a truck driver but I want more than that.'

'What do you mean?'

'I've got a bob cat, do a bit of landscaping. I want to lease the sand and soil section of the nursery and run it as my own business. I'm willing to sign a twelve-month lease. Just tell me how much rent you want.'

'Make an offer. I'll consider it.'

The amount of money Neil proposed was completely over the top. His sanity was dubious. Recovering from a heart attack, his son would help. I didn't hesitate. The offer was accepted and my solicitor prepared the lease. Neil signed on the dotted line. My stress levels relaxed but life still wasn't easy. I considered selling the land but the nursery was the problem.

I hated the heat. Watering pots was time consuming. The weather changed. One weekend, torrential rain poured down the hill and burrowed gullies over most of the acre. A local boy was paid a pittance but did his best to fill the trenches. Neil's son helped. Fat, black rats feasted on snail pellets. It required an early start to empty the rat traps that had been set in the showroom. Remembering those rats makes my stomach turn. At the time, nausea racked my body. Then the chewed cardboard boxes had to be binned. More money gurgled down the drain. Neil made another offer. 'I'll pay you to do my books so you can employ some help for the nursery.' I nearly cried with relief. My advertisement in the local paper was a long shot but it worked.

Bruce was in his thirties. He had curly hair past chin length and moved his hips like a model. This charming, delightful, local married man saved my life. He was studying horticulture. Somehow, word spread, business picked up. Bruce built up a following. The ladies loved him, especially when he raised his hand to his shoulder to flick his hair back. 'I can work full time. I don't need money, just the experience.' Nothing was a problem for Bruce. He loved everything about the place and kept thanking me for giving him a job before he was qualified. A few months later, I had to disappoint him. 'I'm sorry, Bruce. It's time for me to move on. The land will be sold and then the nursery.'

'Should I leave?'

'Not yet. I couldn't manage without you.'

'I'm not going anywhere. I'm here as long as you want me here.'

'That's wonderful. It will probably take a while for everything to fall into place.'

In the nineties, The Age was the place to sell real estate. When I put the freehold up for sale in a personal advertisement under Property Investments, a developer gobbled it up. Huge houses were being built. The real estate market was booming and the land was worth an absolute fortune. Actually, there was a queue. The astronomical rent from the sand and soil was a huge incentive. Neil's landscaping business was extremely successful. His son told me that his father was very creative and a wiz on the bobcat. Neil confirmed he was happy to keep paying the rent to a new owner. The nursery business was practically given away. Bruce didn't leave until it was all over. Everything went smoothly until a couple of days before settlement was due. The purchaser contacted my solicitor and told him he needed more time. He wouldn't give a definite date. My solicitor referred the purchaser to me because he wasn't prepared to play games. He told me how to calculate penalty interest because they were late to settle. Then he spoke to my local bank manager. Settlement would now take place at the bank. Once I had a date, the solicitor's secretary would bring the paperwork and meet me at the nursery. He expected me to help his secretary because she was not familiar with the process. I was not happy. My heart thumped. The purchaser's solicitor had an office in Collins Street. I rang him and got vague excuses. 'I'm still doing credit checks. Yours is okay. Couldn't find anything at all in your history. Squeaky clean.'

'You must have some idea of when you can settle.'

'Probably by the end of the week. I'll be in touch.'

'Are you sure the purchaser hasn't changed his mind?'

'It's a lot of money. We're just being careful.'

He didn't sound like a real solicitor. Then again, mine wasn't much better. Some days I thought it was all going to crash. The deal would disintegrate. I would still own the nursery. That was my worst nightmare. It seemed like forever before we had a time and date. We met at the nursery then proceeded to the bank. The purchaser's solicitor was a bloke with shoulder length blonde hair wearing an expensive suit. He drove a white Porsche. The man with him looked like a body guard and carried a long skinny case. Maybe he took his machine gun everywhere. Even the bank manager looked nervous. Penalty interest was about five hundred dollars. The blonde guy offered me a separate cheque. I said okay. He scribbled it out and handed it to me. The bank manager handled the big stuff. My profit on the land was huge. The source of the penalty interest payment was strange. The money came from an inner city 'BODY WORKS' account. My solicitor was horrified. 'The mafia own that place.' The cheque didn't bounce so I didn't care. It was over. I was out of there. Could I get my life back?

# Chapter 5: 1994–1996

I paid cash for a brand-new town house in Hawthorn, walking distance to Camberwell Junction. There was money left over. The old Hawthorn tip was over the back fence with plans in place for a huge public park. Shirley checked the place out and was suitably impressed. 'Thank God you're back on this side of the Yarra River.'

'I agree. It was great to be near the CBD for a while but never again. Hawthorn has always been a favourite. It's hard to believe I can afford it.'

'You deserve it. You took a huge gamble and it paid off. How's your sex life? I've been reluctant to ask since Phillip pissed off. You had so much on your plate with that stupid nursery. Did you seduce the truck driver?'

'I was too tired to even consider it.'

'Rest up. We are going to be so busy.'

Being free of the nursery and having lots of money in the bank didn't help my state of mind. I was desperately unhappy in my new home. The past haunted me. What happened to all the fun stuff like having parties, playing the field, meeting people and laughing heaps? But . . . was that what I wanted? Party time all the time? When Shirley suggested a house warming, my refusal shocked her. Eventually, my mind cleared. I was ready to meet my soul mate. Where was he? My mind dwelled on a proper relationship, not just sex. Real couples settled down. I didn't belong anywhere. There were times when I felt so miserable, dying from loneliness seemed inevitable. Four moves since Tom died made me question my addiction to moving. Was my life on constant rewind? What next? Another job? Maybe buy a business? Going over and over it didn't help. Answers escaped me.

A book called _The Game of Life_ by Florence Scovel Shinn was reviewed in one of those alternative newspapers. That was it! I had to read that book! Why? Who knows? My gut feeling was in overdrive. The bigger book shops had never heard of it. Eventually, Dymocks advised me that I would find it in an esoteric book shop. There was a small place in Glenhuntly Road that had crystals and angel cards in the window. They might be able to help. An hour later I was in the shop. The book was there! Driving home, excitement and anticipation gripped me like a kid on Christmas morning. The review said the book was life changing. I couldn't wait. Settling myself on the couch, the first few pages were devoured. The words were completely unexpected. I started to sniffle. The book got worse. It was bullshit. Pathetic whimpering and moaning gradually became uncontrollable sobbing. I couldn't stop crying because I couldn't stop reading. After bawling my way through the stupid book, it got shoved in a drawer, out of sight. I hated that book. Disappointment devoured me. Reading that sort of crap was never going to change my life. My mind went over and over it. The book and my opinion about the book filled my mind. The book took over my life. It was shoved in the drawer on a regular basis but always retrieved.

The book was about God. I didn't believe in God. What was happening? Was this an epiphany? The book said that God could do anything, nothing was impossible. What a load of rubbish. There was no way I was willing to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. I absolutely hated the bloody book but could not leave it alone. It was thrown across the room frequently until my treasured Lladro porcelain figurine was beheaded. The assertive agnostic in me kicked, screamed, cried and cursed for what seemed like forever before falling on her knees. God took over my life. I was obsessed. After brainwashing myself, I could repeat whole paragraphs of the book with my eyes closed. The Truth had landed in my lap. God was my real Father. He would never abandon me. He would look after me. God's love was unconditional. This was a brand-new experience. Nobody had ever loved me like that, ever. There was more. If I wanted to attract my perfect partner, my love also had to be unconditional. The book told me what to say if I fancied someone. _'If this person is my divine selection, please make him mine under grace in the perfect way or show me the right one.'_

Shirley was my only real friend. Shirley was different, she understood me. I would buy her a copy of the book. She would love it. My friend read the book. Shirley did not love it. The silly woman didn't even like it. Her reaction was completely different to mine. 'You're losing it. You need a good fuck. That's the greatest load of rubbish I've ever read. Truly, I don't care what you read if it makes you happy but honestly, there are better solutions. It's a long time since Phillip. You've had a lot on your plate but sex will fix it. I'll have a dinner party next week.'

'Please do not invite me.'

'Don't give me that crap. You're the guest of honour.'

Shirley rang me again a couple of days later. 'I've teed up this red-hot guy to sit next to you. He's divorced, good looking, charming and loves to fuck.'

'I haven't got enough energy to even think about it.'

'That's okay. You can always pretend you're a virgin and say no.'

'I will. Please tell me that you haven't made any promises for me.'

'Ummm . . . not really.'

'Be serious, Shirley. You know what I mean. I do not want the man to arrive at your place equipped with an erection.'

'Please don't worry. If that happens, I promise I will handle it for you.'

She giggled. I joined in. It felt good to laugh.

Shirley's two-story unit in Cheltenham still had some seventies clutter but it always looked good. It seemed like a long time since I had bothered to dress up and put makeup on. The result was okay. Shirley introduced me to several people including the man sitting next to me. He did not have an erection. Shirley noticed me checking him out, rolled her eyes and licked her lips. 'Andrew, Annie is a good friend of mine.' His gaze swept over me. 'Well, hello there.' It was him. Amazement swept over me. I recognised my perfect partner immediately. This man was my soul mate. His eyes undressed me as he raised my hand to his lips. It was love at first sight for me. My heart pounded. Andrew was tall and handsome, wavy brown hair and hazel eyes. One of his eyes was not quite right but he was still drop dead gorgeous. Black trousers and pale blue shirt completed the picture. His quiet voice oozed sex appeal. 'Let's get the formalities over and done with. Are you in a relationship?'

'Not this week.'

'Good. I am recently retrenched but my administration skills are excellent. Divorced, bitchy ex-wife, teenage daughter and unwell mother. Mum needs help, I live with her.'

He stared into my eyes and watched me simper like a school girl. Breathing deeply, he used my hand to cover his erection. It had appeared gradually but was becoming noticeable.

'Now you know it all, would you like to come all over me?'. We could have been down behind the shelter shed at school. I wished we were. While considering his query, my eyelids lowered, my tongue licked my lips. My titters forced me to look in his eyes. 'Yes, please.' His gentle kiss made my body blush all over with anticipation.

Maurie and Phillip faded completely from my mind. They were never my soul mates. Ron would always have a place in my heart but this was different. Nerves upset me when I first met Ron. Sex was all about him. Only dirty girls like sex. Ron showed heaps of patience because he probably felt sorry for me. Life was different now. Falling into my own bed with Andrew that first night was inevitable. It felt right. Doubt was out of the question. Andrew was my soul mate. We were made for each other. It was like synchronised sex.

Shirley rang the following afternoon. 'How was it? Are you out of bed yet?'

'It was wonderful. Andrew is my soul mate. I love him so much.'

'You're kidding! What's with the love bit? Love is just bull shit for suckers.'

'You don't mean that.'

'Yes, I do. What have you got in common with Andrew? You both like sex. Big deal!'

'But Shirley, you don't know him. He's perfect.'

'I used to work with him. Nobody's bloody perfect!'

'The book says we are all perfect.'

'For fuck's sake, burn the bloody book.'

'I love the book.'

'I'm sorry, darl. I know. I'm just worried about you. Please back off a bit. Just enjoy the sex.'

Affirmations would help Andrew find another job. He liked to drink a lot. Unconditional love meant it was up to me to see him differently. Human beings are born perfect. It was my responsibility to ignore his behaviour and see only his flawlessness. The book said so. I read it daily.

Another little book was delivered to my letterbox. It was from an organisation called Unity. They had a village in America but their Australian branch met every Sunday in Canterbury. The book was printed monthly. Going there one weekend could be good. Nobody I knew talked about God. It could be good to meet some like-minded people who believed in miracles.

Andrew and I rarely went out anywhere together. We only went to bed. Sometimes we'd meet at Casey's to have a dance. Real dates like going out to dinner or the movies were never suggested. After a few weeks, I wanted more. My soul mate agreed to meet me for a drink at a pub in Hawthorn. It was busy. We settled on a table for two, Andrew bought the wine. He looked good, always wore his black trousers after dark. The casual look was a change for me. Andrew did not like jeans. Being assertive was my goal. My stomach was churning. What would I do if he dumped me for being too pushy? 'Andrew, are you happy with our relationship?'

'Yes, of course I am.'

'I'm not.'

'What's the matter?'

'It's a Clayton's relationship.'

'What's that?'

'The relationship you have when you're not having one.'

'Meaning what?'

'I'd like to see more of you.'

'That is impossible.'

'Why?'

'My mother is not well.'

'I understand that but she told me the other day that she's feeling better.'

'What are you talking about? You haven't seen her for ages.'

'I know. We got on very well the day we met so we chat on the phone from time to time. I rang her last week to check on her health.'

'Why didn't you tell me?'

'What for? Your mother thinks I'm a good influence in your life. She knows I would like to see more of you. She agrees that our relationship needs to move forward. I'm excited about the next level.'

Andrew chewed the corner of his bottom lip. His eyes squinted. When he licked his top lip, his right eye blinked rapidly. It looked like a nervous tremor. My lies were playing havoc, messing with his head and his self-assurance. His mother and I did not chat but he would never question her.

The relationship continued. Andrew called in more often and was super attentive but nothing else changed. Moving forward was never mentioned again. I started to feel like a doormat, used and abused. Should I try again? Would he change? My gut told me to accept the situation and concentrate on seeing Andrew's perfection. Idolising Andrew but ignoring his faults was a problem for me. The situation was my fault. The book said so.

Sometimes I wrote love letters. _Dear Andrew, I thank God for loving me through you etc._ Shirley was upset, her eyes widened. 'You're an idiot! You shouldn't have done that. If you ever get to be famous, he could blackmail you.' I rang him. My voice was pleading. 'Andrew, please send my letters back.'

'I can't do that.'

'Why can't you do that?'

'They are not your letters. They are my letters.'

'I wrote them.'

'You sent them to me. They belong to me now.'

My heart fluttered. Andrew did care about me. He probably read my letters every night. This was proof of his love. However, the risk of being blackmailed was a problem. Andrew already had stacks of letters so I decided to do things differently. I kept writing letters to Andrew but I didn't mail them to him. On my sane days, which didn't happen often, I burnt the letters and recited a prayer from my book. ' _I loose and let you go. Andrew. You are free and I am free.'_ My sanity was never consistent so as soon as my behaviour turned feral, I would phone him to make sure he hadn't left town.

Andrew's mum treated him like an eight-year-old. That was his age when his dad went to the milk bar and didn't come home again. I should make that clear. He didn't come home again, ever. Nobody set eyes on him ever again. He just deserted the family. Andrew hated his father. His mother seemed to be in a time warp. 'Got your handkerchief, son? Will you need a jumper?' Andrew laughed about her strange anxieties.

My soulmate borrowed my accumulated self-help books. He bought me a beautiful framed print of an old-fashioned girl. The background was murky. He talked about his thoughts. 'Her name is Divinity. She reminds me of you. The background could be the tip over your back fence. You're emerging from your gloomy past so you can show your divinity to the world.' I was intrigued. Was this a turning point? Would Andrew like to move in with me? The next question was a wake-up call. Did I want his mother in the spare room? No.

At this stage of my life, I didn't own a computer but the local library had one. The book delivered to my letterbox from Unity fascinated me. However, more information was needed before going anywhere near their meeting in Canterbury. America had some fanatical religions that managed to get lousy publicity. I googled Unity to get some background. Unity Village is located just fifteen miles from Kansas City, Missouri. They own 1,200 acres: huge fountain displays and award-winning gardens. The property is home to a golf course, hotel and conference centre, book store, coffee shop, nature trail and indoor and outdoor wedding and reception venues. The website was all about spirituality plus you can do anything, nothing is impossible. It was worth a look.

The following Sunday, it only took fifteen minutes to drive to Canterbury, find the address and wander in the foyer of the building. About fifty people were standing around chatting in the main hall. A man approached.

'I'm Pastor Bob. Welcome to Unity. I don't think I've seen you here before.'

'My name is Annie. This is my first visit.'

'How did you find out about Unity?'

'I live in Hawthorn. Somebody put a small book called The Daily Word in my letterbox.'

Pastor Bob beamed. He was a big guy with blue eyes that revealed his personality. He turned me towards his followers. 'Attention everybody! Please help me to welcome Annie to Unity.' Everybody clapped politely. Pastor Bob continued. 'I think you'll do better than that when you find out why Annie is here. We've been doing letterbox drops for years. Annie is the first person who has ever come to Unity as the result of one of our little books in her letterbox.' The crowd's reaction was astonishing. It was like their team had won the footy. Everybody stamped their feet and cheered then jostled each other to form a queue. My feelings were a mixture of amazement and confusion. There was no way these people were genuine. They didn't know me. They didn't know I was a dirty girl who loved sex. They didn't know I used to fuck around. These people thought I was normal. I was good at faking normal. My best friend would insist this room was full of virgins. She would advise me to never come back. My plan had been to sneak in, sit up the back, listen to the spiel, assess the situation and sneak out. The service was good but after it was over, the decision was made not to hang around and chat. After making excuses, I ran away. These people seemed enthusiastic, even passionate about me becoming their next best friend. I needed time.

A golf club in the country advertised for a manager. Andrew was thrilled. 'This is it! This is my job. You'll have to help me.' He loved golf. At one stage, he had managed a tennis club so he had the expertise. We made up affirmations. My testing was relentless. 'I have a wonderful job in a wonderful way. I give wonderful service for wonderful pay.' He didn't own a car even though he had a license. He probably didn't believe in drinking and driving. Why would he if a woman was willing to be his chauffeur? I drove him to the interview. The club was only an hour from the city but the setting was striking. It was hilly with a creek near the quiet road. Surrounding bush seemed hushed and peaceful. The village was deserted. Andrew was elated when the interview was over. He gave me a huge hug and covered my face with butterfly kisses. Excitement made his words run over each other. His voice was breathless. 'I was brilliant. You are brilliant. It didn't sound like me in there. I knew all the answers. I'll get this job. I know it. I am going to love it. I'll have to buy a car.' He got the job. We celebrated, in bed.

Everything went well for the first few months then Andrew started socialising at the golf club. My phone often rang after dinner. 'I'm still at work having a drink with the members.'

'It's 9.30 pm. You've got a long drive home. Are you over the limit?'

'No. I'll be right.'

I would ring him back the next morning. 'Are you okay?'

'Why wouldn't I be?'

Before long, they sacked him. Andrew was angry.

'Bastards. I know the guy who bad-mouthed me to the committee. I haven't done anything wrong.'

In my mind, there was no doubt about the situation. Andrew drank himself out of the job. The car was sold. Guys like Andrew should not be on the road. I still loved him. His behaviour made no difference to my devotion. He was depressed and did not want company. Our relationship, if you could call it that, was tested. Trying to forget my soul mate was impossible. He called in now and again, always paralytic. When our love making was over, my soul mate would insist that we were just friends. I always fell into the void, the chasm, the gulf of the unloved until I found someone else to cling to. When the new guy had worn out his welcome, my friend always welcomed me back. We would be lovers for a while. The cycle repeated, over and over. My free will did not exist. Common sense always lost the battle when the voices in my head argued non-stop. 'He loves you. Give him a call. The poor guy must be missing you.' My raucous, sarcastic tone would interrupt. 'Don't be so bloody stupid. You're an idiot.' Sometimes, I would mentally start to walk away. It was impossible. Surrender was inevitable. The phone call was always made. My behaviour was compulsive, maybe obsessive. I had no idea how to fix it. The ache of distance between me and Andrew gripped me with fear.

Shirley rang regularly. She didn't seem surprised when I told her that Andrew got the sack. 'When he used to work with me, the boss got rid of him. He's an alcoholic, Darl. You don't need him in your life.'

'Listen Shirl, the sensible part of me knows what you're saying is true but my emotions are out of control.'

'What about I set you up with someone else? Would that help?'

'No. Please don't, no way.'

By now I was attending Unity regularly. Pastor Bob had sort of adopted me. He and his wife were Americans. It was no secret that they were former drug addicts. After they went to rehab, they both studied to become Unity pastors and were working in Australia for two years. They still attended twelve step meetings here because they loved smoking cigarettes and needed to stop. They invited me to their rented home in Box Hill for afternoon tea. We chatted then Bob's wife excused herself and retired to their office. Bob wanted to know everything. He listened to me talk about the epiphany and my ultimate surrender to God. My honesty was inevitable. 'I'm addicted to God.'

'That's probably not a bad thing but be cautious.'

'Why?'

'There's an old saying. Be careful what you wish for.'

'I've heard that.'

'You must also be careful what you pray for.'

That statement hit home. Unexpected tears were threatening, blinking helped. After rummaging in my handbag, one of Andrew's letters was handed to Bob. 'Please read that and tell me what you think.' Bob read it, smiled at me and shook his head slowly from side to side. 'Please don't mail this today. If you wait until tomorrow, you might change your mind.'

'Andrew's letters don't get mailed very often these days. If my crazy days stretch to a week, I don't have a choice. By then my feelings are compulsive. Making sure Andrew knows how much I love him is super important to me. However, when I have a sane day, like a normal person, not obsessive, any accumulated letters are burnt.'

'You're addicted to this man.'

'I figured that was the problem. It's good to have somebody confirm it. Of course, it's my fault.'

'What on earth makes you think that?'

Eyes closed, my words were in a hurry. They were racing each other. They all wanted to win. I had never confessed before.

'Andrew is perfect. After all, he's a child of God. I try very hard to give him unconditional love and see his perfection but I'm just not good at it. He drinks too much because I can't see him sober. If only my mind had the vision of the eyes of Christ, Andrew would be healed.'

'Whoa, shush!' The sound startled me. My eyes opened. Bob grabbed my hands and held them still.

'Do you think Andrew would stop drinking if you believed he was perfect?'

'Yes, of course. The book says so. It would be wonderful.'

Bob looked dumbfounded. 'Your thoughts about Andrew will not change his behavior on a permanent basis. You could believe he was Jesus reincarnated and he would still be an alcoholic.'

'But the book said that my work was always with myself.'

'Exactly. Unconditional love is a goal to change you, not your friend. Andrew's habits are none of your business. Accept him as he is or get out of his life.'

My gut churned as I started to sob. Bob handed me a box of tissues. Five minutes later, I blew my nose and muttered. 'Women like me need rehab.'

'The whole world needs rehab and the world needs people like you. Do you love yourself unconditionally?'

'No.'

'Please make that your goal. Andrew is a child of God but he does not deserve you.'

Unity had a library. The book said that feelings about the ache of distance were familiar for some people, in the love of the unreachable dead. I read those words over and over. They were scorched into my brain back then. It still doesn't make sense. Tom was dead. He was unreachable but that didn't worry me. The man who worried me was alive but elusive. The sane part of me believed Pastor Bob but the brainwashed idiot child in me still wanted Andrew to stop drinking. Looking for answers was exhausting and depressing. Life was boring. Filling in time drained my brain. Shopping in Burke Road every day for the rest of my life was not an option. Perhaps another business did make sense. After all, with God in charge, I couldn't lose.

Shirley and I met for a drink. She was concerned. 'Owning your own business is hard work. Remember the nursery?'

'Of course, I do.'

'What sort of business are you thinking about?'

'Something completely different to the nursery. A sandwich bar with short hours, not much work and lots of money would be good.'

'A sandwich bar is still labour intensive.'

'It's not seven days a week and besides, knowing the Truth makes everything different.'

'Are you referring to your book?'

'Yes, I am. God gives us whatever we want. All we must do is ask. If we believe, it will happen.'

'Did you ask to meet your soul mate?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Do you believe Andrew is your soul mate?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Did you tell God you wanted an alcoholic for a soul mate?'

'No, I left the details to Him. Think about it, Shirl. Andrew must be my soul mate. My father and my husband were alcoholics. My soul attracts alcoholics to mate with me. It's a fatal attraction. I'm reading heaps trying to find out how to change my feelings so I can piss Andrew off.'

'Andrew is wrong for you. Piss him off now.'

'I can't. I'm obsessed with him. I must help him. He deserves to be happy. I can't just change. I've realised my behaviour is compulsive. I truthfully try so hard not to ring him but it just doesn't work. I must dial his number. He might knock on the door, drunk of course, at ten pm. I don't hesitate. He always wants to go to bed and I can't say no. Andrew is an addiction.'

'That's weird. I've never felt like that about a man.'

'I'm not the only one, Shirl. When a woman gets bashed up by her drunken partner, she goes to a refuge. She refuses to press charges then goes back to the man who belted her. Most people call this type of woman stupid. Apparently, a lot of them are very intelligent. They don't have a choice. Their children are put at risk because their mothers' behaviour is compulsive. There are thousands of women with the same problem. Nobody seems to have the answer.'

'Are you sure? Everybody thinks those women are idiots.'

'It's all in the name of love. They don't appear to have any free will and neither do I.'

# Chapter 6: 1997–1998

Camberwell Road was busy and close to home. One shop that was for sale had a lot of appeal but the asking price was astronomical. An existing sandwich bar in Canterbury was not far away and the price was right. Because the business was losing money, my bank insisted on a projected cash flow. Charles was still my accountant. He explained the procedure. I went home and did the work. My figures showed that the shop would remain a losing proposition. This devastating result was handed to Charles. 'What should I do?'

'Keep looking around. You'll find another shop.'

'This shop feels right. Just tell me how to change the projected cash flow so it shows a profit.'

'That's ridiculous.'

'Tell me what to do.'

'Changing the figures on paper won't change them in the shop.'

'I know that. I. am. not. stupid. Just tell me what to do.'

Charles shrugged. 'You need more turn-over.'

It didn't take me long to manipulate the figures. The man in the bank was thrilled. 'This is the best loan application I have ever seen.'

I stood, hands on hips, in front of Charles' desk. Maybe I was trying to look like a suburban version of Wonder Woman. He studied my folder. 'Even if you worked 24/7, you could not make that many sandwiches. Please just forget it.' His advice was ignored. My mind was made up.

The shop needed a new name so God was asked for ideas. Out of the blue, I was given a whole new brilliant concept called FAXA Sandwich. Thank You, God. It was all I talked about, thought about and dreamt about. Delusions of grandeur surfaced. I, I, I, it was all about me. I could do anything, nothing was impossible. A fax machine was installed. An Australia-wide company was my choice. Charles didn't think it was necessary. I told him it would be essential once the business was ready to franchise. Shirley thought the catering side of the business would need promoting. She didn't understand God. He would do it all. Black tee shirts with FAXA on the front were ordered. I paid to have a trade mark designed. A huge sandwich, complete with bolts of lightning in super bright colours, looked incredible on the huge front window of the shop. The trade mark was repeated on both doors of my white sports car. My number plates were now FAXA 1. Fax machines were relatively new. People were in awe of my idea. They called me an entrepreneur. 'She had an idea. She believed in it. She did it.' I couldn't wipe the smirk off my face. Colored catering menus including my trade mark were dreamed up and distributed. I reveled in my own publicity. Thinking back, this was a huge, stupendous, ridiculous ego trip that became a miserable far-fetched way to lose money.

The local council was not friendly. Two weeks after opening, one of their employees started to make absurd demands. The woman was bossy.

'Please try to understand that we answer to the Health Department. They have the power to close you down. If you want to deliver sandwiches, you'll have to have your car refrigerated.'

Shock made me catch my breath. I felt like screaming at the stupid bitch but caution ruled. 'Yes, of course. I've been making enquiries and getting quotes.'

'Do not deliver anything until it's done. I'll give you another week.'

'That's fine. Thank you. Nice to meet you.'

The stupid woman looked confused. She'd been spoiling for a fight. Her expectations were ludicrous. I did not expect to be delivering hundreds of sandwiches daily and travelling long distances. She returned the following week.

'Have you had your car refrigerated yet?'

'No, I haven't but I did speak to the Health Dept. I asked them if I could pack the sandwiches in plastic containers leaving room for frozen water bottles to control the temperature. My deliveries will be local of course. They called in yesterday, inspected everything and gave me the go-ahead. I suppose they'll write to you.'

'Who did you speak to?'

'Oh dear. He left me a card but when I looked for it this morning, I couldn't find it. The containers are in the kitchen. Would you like to have a look?'

Her eyes glittered as she stared at me. She recognised bull shit but was wary of calling me a liar. Unexpectedly, her body relaxed and she managed a tiny smile.

'Sounds fine. Haven't got time to have a look. All the best. Goodbye.'

She had obviously decided to put me in her too hard basket. I was happy about that.

Six months after opening, over the counter business was not brilliant. Fax orders were slow. Efforts to promote the business had been minimal. My one-track mind had God in charge. Success was inevitable. I must have been delusional. Location of the business was ridiculous. It was surrounded by antique shops with no passing trade. In those days, as far as I was concerned, it would not have mattered if the shop was trading in the middle of the Nullabor desert. Location was irrelevant to God. My interpretation of the Truth might have worked if Jesus owned FAXA. I was only a first-year disciple. Normal common sense had deserted me. My faith might have been fearless but it was bloody stupid. Despite the facts, I was not alarmed, not even apprehensive. I had brain-washed myself into oblivion.

It was time for my second FAXA. My mantra consumed me. 'I can do anything, nothing is impossible.' Maybe I thought I was God. Since the Phillip fiasco, the accountant and I usually got on well. I told him my plans for a second FAXA. He was shocked. 'You're barely breaking even. Give yourself twelve months at least.' Once again, I would not listen. After a quick look around, my decision was made without consulting anybody else. The owner of an empty shop in Kew was contacted. I introduced myself as a successful business woman. 'I own FAXA Sandwich in Canterbury and I'm looking for a second shop to rent. You have a sign on a property in Halifax Street.' The man's face lit up. 'That's right. The lease is three by three by three.' He gave me a guided tour of the empty space and told me the rent amount. The lease was drawn up and signed. It was my responsibility to fit out the shop.

Only hours later, without warning, a light bulb exploded in my head. Fear, dread and disbelief devoured my self-confidence. My poise and dignity disappeared. I struggled to understand my bizarre behavior. I was an idiot. The accountant was right. The business had not been established. This was another ridiculous location. On the ground floor of a new, nearly empty building, it was off the main drag. My gut wrenching, absolute panic was kept strictly private. One of my daughters, Lyn, kept Canterbury going. Somehow, the floor to ceiling fit out at Kew was eventually finished. The huge front window was covered with my trademark and the doors opened. It looked very professional. People wanted to know if Kew was the head office for FAXA. Business was slow.

Including the kitchen area, the shop was huge. I tried to attract more customers. Two sausage roller machines were purchased. They were popular back then but my problem was getting people in the door. Bulk chocolates were bought, bagged and priced for sale. I drove to a couple of 711 shops every morning and left packets of sandwiches on consignment. My body was struggling to keep up with the necessary cleaning. Depression and exhaustion were gradually taking over my life again. Casual staff helped. 'How are you today, Darl? Hope you've got our favourite filling ready.' This delightful elderly couple delivered sandwiches then immediately spent their wages on lunch. A mixture of young, single mothers, obviously desperate for a dollar, took baskets of sandwiches to offices in the surrounding suburbs. Those sales were growing.

One of the casuals jumped up and down when a fax arrived. She waved it in the air. 'Listen to this! It's from some hockey conglomerate looking for tenders for a huge competition out at Parkville. It'll be worth thousands!' I replied and won the contract. Now committed to making thousands of plated up sandwiches on my own, I panicked. The function was on a weekend. Lots of casual staff would be needed for two whole days. It was impossible. My eldest daughter, Alison, disagreed.

'Our friends can help. It'll be fun.'

'That's ridiculous. I've forgotten what fun feels like.'

'Calm down, Mum. We'll set up an assembly line.

'What do you mean?'

'Someone can do the slicing then everybody will do their bit. We'll need a lot of people, one for every filling.'

'Do you mean one person butters the bread, next places the meat, next the tomato etc.?

'That's it. Look, leave it with me. It's two or three months away.'

Maybe things were looking up. Turnover was better. The basket sales made by the casuals were improving. When a big fax order came in from an office a few kilometers away, Sally offered to deliver. 'I can go home via Power Street.' She returned to the shop about an hour later. Bewilderment swept over me as she placed the order back on the bench. My gut filled with a premonition of disaster. My voice was brusque.

'What happened?'

'Power Street finishes at 495. I hunted everywhere for 620. The address on the fax does not exist.'

'So, somebody made a typing error.'

'I doubt it. It was probably a fake order.'

'What do you mean by fake order?'

'Somebody told me last week that one of the local shops in that area did not like you pinching their clients. Power Street is their territory.'

The accusation felt like a slap on the face. In a way, it made sense but it was hard to believe. I had a lot of problems but that one had not occurred to me. My breathing became laboured. 'Nothing we can do. Tomorrow's another day.'

Sally mumbled. 'Can I help you at all?'

'No thanks.' I remembered an affirmation. 'None of these things move me.' We both laughed. It wasn't funny.

That night I lost the plot completely. My sniveling and trembling became shuddering and cursing as I sobbed my heart out. It wasn't God's fault. My work was always with myself so it was my fault. It was always my fault. Guilt stalked me. My life was a fucking disaster. How stupid can one person be? Because I was a first-class idiot, who knows what went wrong? I didn't want to have to fix it, refused to even think about it and didn't want to have anything to do with it.

My eldest daughter, Alison, answered the phone the following morning. By then, I felt very calm. My voice overflowed with authority. 'I have decided not to go back to the shop.'

'What do you mean, mum? Are you running late?'

'I mean what I said. I am never, ever going back to the shop.'

'Are you ill? Do you want me to come over?'

'I am not ill. Will you please listen? I have decided that I do not like the shop. In fact, I hate the fucking shop. I will not go there.'

Silence.

When she finally spoke, Alison's voice was careful.

'Okay. I understand. That's okay. Ummm. Will you do me a favour?'

'Depends. What do you want?'

'Please go in and open the shop. I'll be there by ten o'clock then you can go home and rest.'

'Why do I have to open the doors? I told you I hate being in the shop.'

'I understand if you want to leave, you know, leave the shop but it will be better if you do it properly. Please don't just walk away. I'll be there by ten. I promise. We can talk about it then. Please, mum.' She hung up.

I had been depressed before but this wasn't depression. I wasn't unhappy, just a bit angry, mainly fed up. My behaviour was a bit strange. The scenario was sort of like an out-of-body experience. That's a guess because I know nothing about that sort of crap. The physical I wasn't there but she knew what was going on. She couldn't be bothered having a shower. It was an effort for her to clean her teeth and pull a track-suit on. Toast was considered and rejected. She wasn't hungry so she had a coffee. There was no point in getting to the stupid shop before she absolutely had to. There wouldn't be a queue, there was never a queue. Hopefully, kids would pinch the order of rolls and slices that would have been delivered and left at the door because she wasn't there. Eventually, she drove to the shop. The order was there. After opening the door, she unpacked the delivery. Alison knew how to work in the shop because she'd filled in a few times. Perhaps she could take a couple of sick days until I worked out how to close the doors permanently. Alison arrived at the shop. I returned to my body. She hugged me.

'I've resigned from my job.'

'Why?'

'You know how much I hated working for that smarmy creep. As far as he was concerned it was a hands-on position. His hands, my butt. I'd like to work here until you feel like coming back.'

'You're not listening. I won't ever be coming back.'

'Okay. I'll work here until the shop is sold.'

'I don't know how much I can pay you.'

'We'll talk about that when you feel a bit better. Go home now. Take some food from here, make sure you eat. I'll phone you later. Love you mum.'

Living close to the edge was scary. Even now, my grief is still raw. I argued constantly with this woman who was pretending to be me. Watching this completely different personality was weird. Realising this peculiar woman actually was me didn't help. A stranger had taken over my life. Some days she pretended to be okay. Some days she refused to speak. Some days she didn't get out of bed. Writing about FAXA years after the event was frightening. I couldn't stop crying. I had never allowed myself to remember how unhappy I was. I had never allowed myself to remember how crazy I was. On the days my alter ego had off, I muttered to myself continuously. I spent hours having conversations with God. I knew He wasn't a real person but that was good because He agreed with everything I said. He reminded me that my previous success at Waverley and the nursery happened before I read the book about God. Faxa happened after I read the book about God. Faxa was a failure. What the fuck happened?

My recovery was gradual. Once I stopped trying to work it all out, the other woman, my alter ago, backed off. Maybe she was my identical, schizophrenic twin. I missed her but life improved without her. She hasn't visited me since. I was back in control of my life except for bouts of depression. At least that was a normal feeling, okay to handle. I couldn't be bothered answering my phone or the door. Shirley gave up, called into the shop and spoke to Alison. My daughter advised her to leave me alone. Alison was the only one allowed in the house. She pleaded with me to go to a doctor but I refused. Nobody wants to end up in a psyche ward. Shirley rang and left a message every day. She always laughed about her latest fuck, told me I was her best friend and closed with Love you darl.

Alison was happy running Kew. Lyn was coping in Canterbury. I went back to Kew on a part time basis trying to get my head around the rest of my lousy life. The hockey weekend was a success. Alison and my two other daughters, Lyn and Jane, organised about twenty old school friends to work on the assembly line in the kitchen. My son, Peter, manned the slicer. Everybody had a ball. They ate and drank whatever they wanted, worked hard and laughed a lot. On both days, I managed to deliver the order to Parkville right on time. The money was fabulous but not enough to save the situation.

Selling my home in Hawthorn was essential before speaking to the landlords. I was broke, except for the town house. It had been a cash purchase but the accountant had advised a mortgage when FAXA opened. I had no idea why. Interest in my finances had disappeared. The market was good but the property was passed in at auction. There was not a lot of interest. I'd been slack and had no idea what my property was worth. The agent had put the price on. Straight after the auction, the woman changed her mind.

'The market has dropped. You'll have to lower your price by at least thirty thousand dollars.' Her words stunned me. The woman was an irresponsible idiot.

'It's your price so it's your problem. It stays the same.'

'I can show you similar properties to prove my point.'

'No thanks. I wouldn't go around the corner with you. Get out of my house.'

'You can't go to another agent.'

'Don't tell me what I can and can't do. My solicitor will be doing that.'

She stormed out of the house. I could feel myself sliding into despair with no idea what to do. I was back there. Back in that place where everything was too hard. The family had not been told about the auction. I rang Alison and confessed. She wanted a lot of information and took notes. 'Don't worry mum. Sounds like the woman bought your listing.'

'Meaning what?'

'She quoted you a high figure now she's trying to get your price down. This stage is called 'crunching your vendor.'

'I don't want to give my house away.'

'Trust me, mum. Do you still get on well with your accountant?'

'Yes.'

'What's his name and phone number?'

Charles took charge for the next couple of weeks. I refused to communicate with the woman who had listed the property. Charles rang the owner of the estate agent's office. That gentleman took Charles and me to watch an auction a few streets away. The property was like mine but a bit better. It sold for thirty thousand dollars less than my asking price. The estate agent apologised and lowered his commission. I dropped my price the necessary amount and sold a few days later. The bank was paid out. I had some money invested. It could stay there for the time being. Nobody had to know.

Shirley and I met for coffee. She grabbed my hand. 'Come and stay with me for a while. I promise not to interfere with your life. You said something about doing a course.' I had booked in to study at TAFE. Selling real estate was the only thing that appealed to me. It would take six weeks to become a sales consultant. The industry needed some honest people. Once I got a job, it would be easy to rent a place close to work. Living with my best friend for a few weeks made sense. 'That would be great, darl. I've checked the course out. There's so much to learn. It's a long time since school. It will be head down, bum up.' Shirley nearly choked. 'That position has always worked for me.' It was good to laugh again.

I hadn't been to Unity since signing the lease for Kew. Now it was nearly all over could Unity help? Chatting with members of the congregation did not appeal so I rang and made an appointment with Bob at his home in Box Hill. Appointments were not social visits. They were strictly business. We sat in the study while I filled him in.

'Do you remember me buying a sandwich shop? Can't remember the date but it was a while back.'

'FAXA Sandwich sounded fantastic. How's it going?'

'I'm in the process of winding it up.'

'What went wrong?'

'Who knows? The shop in Canterbury was open for less than twelve months when I signed another lease for a second shop in Kew. My accountant had advised against it but I didn't listen.'

'Tell me more.'

'My confidence was mindboggling. There seemed to be no end to my supposedly God given notions. Everything I said was bullshit but I believed it. My devastating return to reality must have had a catalyst but whatever it was remains a mystery. The world was at my feet applauding my genius when my life changed abruptly. The truth surfaced. There's a song that says I can see clearly now. That's what it was like. At the time, I wouldn't admit it because I felt so goddam stupid.'

'These things happen.'

'The second shop was fitted out even though my delusions of grandeur had disintegrated. Walking out back then would have made more sense. Nobody knew I was broken. Reminds me of Humpty Dumpty had a big fall. All the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put Humpty together again. I tried to fix myself but my enthusiasm had vanished. Praying 24/7 didn't help. The second shop was the result of my irrational faith. It was over-the-top foolish. I was crazy. The whole concept was fantastic but I stuffed it with my strange behavior like deciding that promoting FAXA to the public wasn't necessary. God was in charge. I was a child playing adult games with no hope of winning. God can do anything so it's my fault. What did I do wrong?'

'I told you once before to stop blaming yourself for everything that happens.'

'Thinking back, I wonder about my sanity. I really believed that FAXA would be successful even if it was set up in the middle of the Nullabor desert. After all, God's in charge.'

'With FAXA, you were trying to demonstrate where you were not at.'

'Meaning what?'

'One lady who is now a regular at Unity trusted her faith enough to max out her credit card because God was in charge. The bank was upset when she couldn't make the payments. She thought she knew the truth but she didn't know it with every fibre of her being. That takes a long time.'

We talked for ages but Bob's explanation didn't make sense. My brainwashing had been thorough. Then I started to understand so I tried to put it into words.

'My learning about God was by rote. It was the same as learning my tables for mathematics in primary school. Repetition helped me learn but did I understand what I had learnt? I was like a parrot. My mind was full of platitudes and it still is. Am I right? Is that what you mean?'

Bob laughed and gave me a hug. 'Yes, it is. Love the metaphor. May I use it in a sermon?'

'Be my guest. Thank you for your patience.'

There was more to know but it was enough for now. I didn't feel quite so stupid.

The lease for Canterbury was month to month so there was no huge commitment. The lease for Kew gave me nightmares. Both landlords were told I was broke and each of them was given a month's notice. The guy who owned Kew blustered about his three-year lease that had been signed less than twelve months before. On top of that the rent was well overdue. That shop had been a shell. Fittings cost me a fortune. My attitude was blunt. 'There are two options. Maybe you think the shop can be stripped and I can sell the fittings to cover the rent.' He nodded. 'That's the only option.' Middle aged, always well dressed, this man had never hassled me. He had to be loaded. The building was nearly empty, obviously in the wrong location. I forced a smile. 'I have a suggestion. I'm happy to leave the fittings in exchange for rent owed. That will give you the opportunity to simply lease the shop to someone else with no effort.' He looked confused, blinked rapidly and shook his head. 'I could take you to court.' I wouldn't budge. 'Don't waste your time. I haven't got any money.' It was obvious that this man did not like arguing with a woman. He appeared to be uncomfortable. His voice was soft. 'I'll think about it and call you by the end of the week.'

I had the trademark removed from my car. It was then painted the original white. The number plates were still FAXA 1. People told me to go bankrupt. I refused. I wasn't surprised when the landlord gave in and cut his losses. Months later, he found another tenant and allowed me to surrender the lease. I was blessed. He could have demanded every cent.

Though exhausted and broken hearted, relief flooded my psyche as the doors of both shops were finally closed. My daughters had new jobs to go to. Lyn started work in retail a few days later. One of Alison's customers at Kew seemed besotted with her. He raved about her people skills and organised an interview with a company in Chadstone. She got the job and the pharmaceutical industry welcomed her. She loved it. Everything in the shops that was not nailed down had been sold or traded. My solicitor received the coffee machine in exchange for conveying titles on Hawthorn and my next home. My accountant, Charles, nearly cried. 'You might as well have stood on the end of the pier and ripped up over one thousand one hundred-dollar bills.'

# Chapter 7: 1999

Cash was scarce. Apartments I could afford in the city were sleazy walk-ups. Where would my next move take me? There was not a lot of choice. It was either up the hills or down the beach. The old party days were long gone. My body was no longer capable of hard labour. Late nights did not appeal. The course at TAFE was interesting. Different fully licensed estate agents taught the classes. Shirley went to work and I studied hard during the week. From time to time, a bit of shopping amused me.

One day I was wandering around Southland. While staring in a shop window, somebody put an arm around my waist and kissed my cheek. Before my head turned, I knew. 'Andrew?' He hugged me. My mind raced, hadn't seen him for months, thought about him all the time, missed him desperately. The crazy, stupid bitch in me wanted to fuck him. The indifferent, middle aged, mature woman I was struggling to become wanted to forget him. We had coffee then went back to Shirley's place and did it. My body felt alive again. An unexpected, extraordinary amount of energy made me very demanding. Andrew's staying power had always been amazing. Eventually, we snoozed for a while with our bodies entangled then did it all again. In due course, we chatted while Andrew massaged my back. 'My family is celebrating my mother's birthday at my brother's house next Sunday. Would you like to join us?' The invitation took my breath away. 'Yes, of course.'

When I told Shirley all about it, she was gob smacked.

'Are you sure you didn't dream the whole thing?'

'Absolutely sure but wouldn't mind having dreams like that on a regular basis.'

'You look different. Your face is radiant. There's a soft glow on your skin. Have you got new makeup on?'

'Quit the jokes, Shirl. I don't need cheering up today.'

'I'm not joking, darl. You are glowing.'

'Thank you. I am over the moon, haven't got any makeup on.'

'I'm thrilled for you. Enjoy yourself at the birthday party. Can't wait to hear all about it.'

When Sunday came around I tried on six dresses before choosing a pale blue creation with matching sandals. Minimal makeup and shiny hair helped me look like a picture of health. I called at Southland on the way to Highett. The birthday girl would be given a gorgeous bunch of flowers and an expensive card.

Andrew opened the door at his brother's house. 'You look stunning!' He kissed my cheek, took my hand and led me into the lounge room. His daughter was the first person he presented me to. She was an attractive teenager. I had met his mother and his brother but he introduced me to his brother's wife and a few other people. They seemed to know all about me and treated me like one of the family. My desperate hope for commitment was resurrected. We ate around a huge table in the kitchen. Everybody sang Happy Birthday. After lunch, Andrew and I held hands and mingled. He was a different personality at home. Sober, loving and attentive with a wicked sense of humour. When I was ready to leave, Andrew walked me to the car, got in next to me and kissed me hard and long. His sigh was frustrated. 'I've wanted to do that all day. Please find somewhere to live soon. I can't leave mum and we can't keep doing it at Shirley's place. We need privacy, sweetheart.'

Shirley asked a lot of questions about the party. She had a friend stay the night before so she'd been in bed most of the day.

'I still don't trust him, darl. He must want something. He's not being charming for nothing. Wait and see. He's sweetening you up for some reason. Believe me. You'll know when it happens. Don't give him any money. I'm being serious, Annie. Guys like Andrew rip women off.'

She was talking nonsense. Andrew wouldn't hurt me. Shirley was over protective at times but she meant well. I didn't want to upset her, hurt her feelings.

Shirley and I went house hunting in the Dandenongs. It was a cold, wet, miserable day when we made the trip into the hills. We parked somewhere called Sassafras. Shirley shook her head. 'You're my best friend but if you buy a house anywhere in this God forsaken forest, I won't be able to visit you. It's too depressing to even consider it.' We didn't hang around for lunch. Shirley was right. Living in the bush was not an option.

Newspaper ads for houses near the beach were studied. In the nineties, the Mornington Peninsula was cheap. I rang an agent in Rosebud and asked for a genuine description of one of his listings. It was advertised as A Little Gem. The man was happy to oblige. 'White limestone blocks, deep green color bond roof and wood stained window sills make the house very attractive. It has two bedrooms. The lounge dining area is separated from the kitchen cum laundry by a bench. The bathroom is amazing. The white claw foot bath is stunning.' When he showed it to me, I loved it and the price was right. The little gem became my home. Settlement was short. My real estate property consultant certificate had been issued but it was too soon. Turning up for work every day, meeting people and being charming had no appeal. My head couldn't cope with all the bullshit yet. Real estate was full of it. I left Shirley's place and moved into Rosebud.

Andrew was my first visitor. He arrived in a borrowed van. 'I've brought you some bits and pieces.' He unpacked half a dozen wooden stools and a small book shelf. I was excited. 'That's fantastic. I was going to buy kitchen stools.' We christened the bedroom. When Shirley appeared on the weekend, I couldn't wait to show her Andrew's offerings. 'Isn't it wonderful? He does love me.'

'Don't fall for that line. He's just marking out his territory.'

'What do you mean?'

'Dogs do it. You know. If any other guys come sniffing around, they'll know you belong to him.'

'That's good, isn't it?'

'Don't be ridiculous. It's not the same as a commitment. Is Andrew going to visit regularly?'

'Yes. He's going to have to catch two buses to get here but he's promised to visit often. He wants me in his life.'

'Don't believe it. He's up to something.'

'Who knows? He's doing everything right at the moment. I'm enjoying the company.'

'You're enjoying the sex. Look, I understand but please don't get sucked in again.'

'I adore Andrew.'

'He's a loser.'

Shirley wouldn't let up. We still spoke on the phone at least once a week and caught up occasionally on Sundays. She had moved from Cheltenham to an art deco apartment in East St. Kilda. Her lifestyle was as wild as ever.

I drove to the city so the family could dine together. Daughter Alison rang regularly. She remembered my crazy days and was always anxious about my health. She loved her job. Jane was working at a chemist. I had given Lyn a reference. She was now running a well-known sandwich bar. Peter had finished his apprenticeship. We always went to the same Chinese restaurant and had a lot of laughs. The kids were cheerful.

Andrew did start to visit me often. 'I'll give you some golf lessons. We could have a game down at Eagle Ridge.' We often enjoyed dinner and drinks at the pub. Andrew became popular with the locals. He always had his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, kissing my cheek and whispering in my ear. I loved the attention.

The dole was enough to live on. I bought some new makeup that was being sold by a multi-level marketing company. This sort of business was big in the nineties. The product was good. Cheapest way to buy it was to sign a contract to try and sell it to anybody and everybody. After deciding some light labour might cheer me up, the form was signed. Getting a real job was impossible because I didn't want one. Going to meetings about makeup and learning the rules helped me meet a few people. My door knocking was successful. It didn't take long to establish quite a few clients.

In between Andrew's visits, my life was miserable. After dark, my need to be with my soul mate was worse. Devouring heaps of self-help books didn't help. Once again, talking to myself non-stop became a habit. A doctor diagnosed depression. He prescribed pills. I slept for twenty-four hours and woke up with a massive hang-over. The pills were binned. Life in general was strange. Manic during the day, depressed at night. Scary stuff. Been there, done that. My epiphany still puzzled me. Going over and over it filled in hours, couldn't leave it alone. My ridiculous faith in FAXA was the result of my brain-washed faith in God. Really getting to know God was the next step but how? I was struggling.

Even though my faith had faded somewhat, I often quoted the book that had changed my life. Shirley was expecting a phone call from one of her favourite men. 'He said he would phone at six o'clock. It's ten past six, hate being kept waiting.' My comment was automatic. 'Impatience is a projection of the ego into God's affairs.' Shirley was not impressed. One of the girls at a makeup meeting was having trouble selling her house. She listened to my advice. 'You have to play the game. Tell yourself the house is already sold under grace in the perfect way.' A week later she had a purchaser. Another lady was worried about her husband. 'He's an alcoholic.' I took her aside. 'You must tell yourself that alcohol has no power over Arthur. God is the only power in his life.' Her husband stopped drinking three weeks later but then he embezzled the bowling club. Some people are never ready to change for the better. That was my problem. Since FAXA, I didn't really believe my own bull shit. I needed Andrew with me full time. We could live together and get a granny flat out the back for his beloved mother. That would be wonderful.

One night, Andrew rang and made excuses. 'Mum's not too good so I won't be able to come down next weekend.'

'That's okay.'

'What will you do?'

'There's a good movie on Saturday afternoon.'

The movie was okay. It was still daylight but the blinds at home had been drawn. Andrew must have changed his mind. He had a key. His mother must be okay. My heart was racing. I pushed open the door with a flourish. 'I'm home, honey.' My body froze. Andrew was sitting on the couch dressed like a woman. I felt like a statue carved out of ice, shivering, melting, out of control. Urine ran between my legs flooding my shoes. I didn't care. Shock consumed me. His bright red lipstick set my heart pounding. My mouth slung open as my eyes moved lower. A red kimono draped his large frame. His long shapely legs crossed at the knees, red high heels seemed sort of sexy. Glimpses of frothy white panties completed the bizarre scene. Erotica swamped my mind as if I was a pervert in a porn shop. Fascinated panic consumed my whole being. What was Andrew suggesting? He radiated a meaningless glamour. This was out of my league, my mind raced with questions. How should I react? His smile was demure, eyelids lowered like a virgin. He pursed his lips and patted the couch next to his body. Normally a macho, extremely sexy male, Andrew obviously wanted to be seduced. I staggered into the bathroom, cleaned myself up, put my dressing gown on and returned to the lounge room. By now the shock had settled, anger and confusion had taken over. Bastard. My commitment hopes were dashed. I didn't want to fuck a woman. My whole body was rigid, fists clenched, head up, shoulders back. Standing in front of Andrew, my voice sounded like a sneer. 'Do you do this often?' His whole body fidgeted, hands clenched and unclenched, he licked his lips non-stop.

'I've tried on your high heels a couple of times when you're in the shower. It was an amazing feeling.'

'Are you bi-sexual?'

'I don't think so. It's just the clothes. I bought these hoping you would like them. Do you think they suit me?'

Was it my imagination? Did his voice sound girly? My anger was melting. I didn't want to lose this guy. Did it matter what he wanted to wear? My mind was racing again. I'd heard of cross dressing but surely men who did that liked fucking men. Refusing to have sex because Andrew wanted to pretend to be a woman was a huge risk. I would lose him. Nobody had to know what we were doing. Andrew was my soul mate, couldn't live without him. Had to go along with it, might enjoy it. Wait a minute, had to know more.

'Do you ever do this in public?'

'No.'

'Have you ever fucked a guy?'

'No.'

'Have you ever dressed like a woman when you've been with another woman?'

'No.'

Abruptly, impatience made my voice loud and aggressive.

'For God's sake Andrew, talk to me. Does dressing up make you feel good? Would you rather be a woman? Do you fancy fucking a man?'

Andrew looked close to tears. 'I have wanted to do this for years. Today is the first time . . . ever dressed . . . like a woman. Don't want it to be my last. Love wearing what women wear but. . . like being a man. Love fucking you. No interest in any other woman. Men don't interest me at all. I want you to be happy.'

My mind was made up. I sat down next to him and whispered. 'Love your outfit. You look super sexy. Can't wait to get your knickers off.' He helped me undress him. Our love-making was as good as ever. That was a relief.

During the week, he rang nearly every night. The phone calls were all about sex. Nobody was told. It was our secret. We became regulars at the local opportunity shops. My wardrobe was chocka with Andrew's clothes: negligees, bathers, strapless dresses, bikini pants and short shorts. We did a lot of role playing. My depression disappeared. It was good to laugh a lot despite the niggling questions that I didn't ask. Did I have to do this for the rest of my life? Could we have sex without playing dress-ups sometimes? Was the novelty wearing off? My sexual performance didn't matter to Andrew. Whatever I did or wanted always worked for him. Andrew was always concerned about his own efforts. Was I happy? Was he pleasing me? He could take his time or speed it up. It was always my choice. My head wondered if he was gay. It didn't seem right somehow. If only dirty girls liked normal sex, only filthy girls liked whatever we were doing. Was there a word for this sort of fucking?

Shirley and I spoke every week on the phone. She knew that Andrew was at the cottage most weekends. I had never mentioned the cross dressing. She had stopped calling him a loser.

'Has Andrew got a job yet?'

'Not yet but he's been for a lot of interviews.'

'Maybe I was wrong about him. Is he treating you well?'

'Andrew treats me like I have always been and always will be the love of his life.'

'Fuck! You're kidding me, aren't you?'

'Andrew is a different person these days. He looks different and he acts different.'

'You'll tell me next that he fucks different.'

'His thinking has changed. He's cut back his drinking because he's developing his feminine side.'

Shirley gasped noisily. 'Oh My God! Please tell me he hasn't made any stupid decisions. If he's having a mid-life crisis, I don't mind talking to him. Real men develop their masculine side. If he plays around with his feminine side, he could end up wearing a bloody dress. He might turn gay or bi or fall in love with a lesbian. The awful possibilities are endless. I feel sick for you! What are we going to do?'

'It's already done. Andrew likes wearing a dress. His behaviour has been accepted and I love him more than ever. Please don't worry, Shirl. Nobody else knows about my love life. It's private and it's still very new for me. Wanted to tell you because you're my best friend. It was a shock. At first, I was embarrassed. Hope you understand.'

'Not really. Just wondering if this is Andrew's reason for sweetening you up. You know, the family day, all that loving attention. Has he been a cross dresser for a long time?'

'No, it's new. Do you know much about cross dressing?'

'Nothing. I'm biased. You know I love good old- fashioned fucking involving a man and a woman in a huge variety of positions. Don't understand why it isn't enough for a lot of people. Some men and women are never satisfied.'

'I understand what you're saying. There's a voice in my head calling me a slut.'

Shirley sighed heavily. Her ability to speak was wounded. She sounded upset. 'Don't listen to the voice. You are normal. Andrew must be having a mid-life crisis. He'll get over it. Just run with the whole thing for a while.'

Life went on. I was still okay with Andrew's fetish. Nevertheless, when he missed a weekend, distrust plagued me. Suspicion was rampant. Then he would be with me again. His amorous attention to my every need always suspended my doubts and convinced me of his devotion. He was full of kinky ideas and always seemed dreadfully keen to give me yet another fashion parade. Playing games was losing its appeal. It was always all about Andrew. He became insistent.

'We can use a different part of the lounge as a cat-walk this time. I can pop in and out of the bedroom to change.'

'That's not new. We've done that before.'

'Please, darling, pretty please. I splashed out and bought some new clothes. If you approve of them, perhaps you could introduce me next time we dress up. Just love to hear your description of my latest selections.'

'Something different does sound good. Okay. Go for it. What time?'

'Three pm sharp.'

I checked my watch, grabbed a book, settled on the couch and started reading. An hour later, soft music started playing what Andrew called his signature tune. It was time. Andrew waltzed through the bedroom door. My eyes widened. I stopped breathing momentarily and felt my heart go into overdrive. The pounding was loud and fast. Fainting was imminent by the time my mind commanded my lungs to ingest some air. The long, blonde wig was a first but it didn't worry me. However, his overall attire was sending shock waves through my torso. My heart was still beating fast, my gut churned and I wanted to pee. My bladder had a problem with stress. Andrew's eyes were lowered but sneaky looks were accompanied by sexy, suggestive lower body movements. The black garter belt and G-string set would have hugged his private parts but they had disappeared. Andrew tippy toed to my side and whispered, 'Models tuck their manhood away.' I was speechless. He wore long, shiny, black gloves covering past his elbows and black fish-net stockings.

Somehow, I survived his new collection. The outfits were all similar. Crotch-less, open front, embroidered panties revealed all. Skintight tops exposed some sort of breast augmentation. The fake boobs really upset me. Would he expect me to fondle them? Confused and angry, I waited until it was over. Andrew was excited when he finally came back to the lounge room in his normal clothes.

'What did you think, darling? I am thrilled with my new wardrobe. The real me has been hidden for years but thanks to you, I'm free. My manhood is still getting used to being banished. Now I've let it out, it can't wait. Please take me to bed.' Could anger and confusion wait? My body was betraying my intentions. As I hesitated, Andrew scooped me up in his arms, carried me into the bedroom and undressed me lovingly. His kisses were gentle but lush. It would be stupid to destroy what I might never find again. After all, he didn't have his new gear on now. What was the big deal? Playing dress-ups made him happy. He was loving, caring and passionate. Nobody had to know. I did wonder where he went shopping. It was the only time underwear had been the focus. He took the new stuff home. 'If mum goes to a senior citizens' meeting, I can have a play.'

A couple of months later, the kids came down for the weekend. Alison organised it. Andrew was told I was busy. He had been missing a lot of weekends so I didn't feel guilty. My children all wanted me back in the city. They thought the peninsula was worse than the northern suburbs. We went to the pub for lunch then came back to the cottage. Peter and Alison were lying on the floor playing games. If you lost, you had to skol your drink. I didn't approve but the kids were now adults.

Somebody knocked on the door. Jane opened it. Andrew walked in with another guy. My heart slammed my rib cage. I didn't want my family to know about my lifestyle. Was this guy the lurking boyfriend? Fear made me nauseous. Andrew kissed my cheek. I could smell the booze. He didn't normally drink when he was down here. Grog always turned him into a smart-arse. The lounge room was crowded. He spoke. 'It's about time I met you lot. I'm Andrew, the boyfriend your mother doesn't like sharing.' I smiled politely. Andrew checked everybody's name. They all shook hands. His presence reminded me of the clothes in my wardrobe. My mind supplied a vision of Andrew sneaking in the bedroom. I caught my breath. Andrew parading in front of my family in a dress was my worst nightmare. I should have moved the fucking clothes. That's what they were. Andrew's original fucking clothes. He introduced the other guy. Neil was supposed to be a golfing buddy he had known for years. The two of them had played eighteen holes of golf at Eagle Ridge that morning. Neil couldn't take his eyes off Andrew. I excused myself and went into the bathroom. Alison followed me.

'He's a creep, Mum. You could do a whole lot better.'

'I know.'

'We have to make a move. It's getting late. It was great until Andrew decided to crash the party. What a nerve!'

'He doesn't usually just barge in.'

'He'll make a habit of it if you let him. Get a real job, Mum. You've got your certificate to sell real estate. Make a lot of money and move back closer to us. Please, Mum. You don't belong down here.'

My mind raced. Where did I belong? I hated the outer suburbs. The inner suburbs had served their purpose. There was no going back. When people asked where I came from, I shrugged my shoulders. However, Alison was right. The suburbs were better than here. 'I'll phone a few agents next week.' Alison hugged me. She organised her siblings. They said their goodbyes and drove off ten minutes later.

Andrew whispered in my ear. 'It's been too long. Please tell me I'm welcome next weekend.' I said 'Okay.' Of course, I said okay. All robots do what they're told. Performing exclusively for alcoholics was my job. Andrew and his friend didn't hang around. As soon as they left, the blubbering started. I couldn't stop crying, my long-term denial was crumbling. Andrew had a boyfriend. Neil couldn't take his eyes off him. The bastard had hardly opened his mouth but his presence was creepy. Reminded me of one of the characters in 'Underbelly.' Big, with bulky muscles, dark slicked back hair, suspicious eyes and a permanent leer on his face. He looked dangerous. I hated him. Shirley had been right about Andrew. He knew obsession ruled my behaviour. He'd been calling the shots for a long time. Playing happy families had been a ploy. He needed privacy and a partner to play his girly games. My cottage and my body gave him the confidence to look for what he really wanted. Neil drove a flash car and wore expensive clothes. No wonder Andrew was no longer interested in opportunity shops. He could hang around Hampton Street. His lover would pay the bills. His lover would have sourced the new collection. His lover was a sleaze. Our relationship had to change. He had to take his fucking clothes home or I would take them back to the op shop. Anyway, they were no longer his fucking clothes. He had flashy new clothes for his fucking fetish. I wanted a normal bloke who didn't expect me to pander to his outlandish needs. If Andrew didn't agree, I'd lose him. Might never get over it. However, the thought of sharing my soul mate with a bloke made me want to throw up. The thought of Andrew cheating on me with Neil would not go away. There was no choice. I had to be strong. Then he rang. 'I'm really sorry, darl. Mum's not too good. We'll have to make it the following weekend.' I spat the dummy.

'Forget it! My decision is made. I want a normal relationship with a normal man. Don't want to play your games. I'm going to bag up your clothes and return them to the op shop.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I refuse to play second fiddle to Neil. Your golfing buddy can't take his eyes off you.'

'You're wrong. Neil's just a mate.'

'Don't lie to me. You declared your drinking was no longer a problem. You were drunk last weekend.'

'Only had a couple.'

'How very convenient it must be for you to have Neil as your chauffeur! You're an arsehole, Andrew.'

After slamming the phone down, the tears flowed again. Five minutes later, another phone call. 'Sorry, Andrew. I still love you.' I switched the phone off straight away then questioned my sanity. The obsession was ridiculous, heart breaking bullshit. I would have to get over it. There was no alternative.

# Chapter 8: 2000–2001

The following day, the owner of the largest real estate office in Rosebud took my phone call. After introducing myself, my speech came straight to the point. 'I'm a qualified sales consultant looking for a position selling residential real estate. You have the largest office in this area with a lot of photos in the window.'

'I don't need any more staff.'

'What a pity. I understand the Commonwealth Employment Service will pay you to hire me. Family matters have prevented me from working for a long time. My problems have been solved so it's your lucky day.'

'Do you mean you've been on the dole?'

'That's right.'

'Interesting. Give me the phone number of your last employer.'

'This will be my first job selling real estate.'

'What did you do for your last job?'

'I owned a sandwich shop.'

'How long ago did you do the real estate course?'

'It's probably over twelve months. It wasn't difficult.'

'I suppose you can have a job if you're not going to cost me anything. I'll interview you tomorrow then organise the paper work with the CES. If what you say is true, you can start next week.'

Everything relating to my new employment fell into place. The following Monday, the owner gave me some background on his business. Ken had a silent partner and a huge rent roll. He was about sixty, married and balding, suit and tie man.

'This office has about five hundred listings for established houses ranging in price from $40,000 to $340.000. Our monthly sales usually top thirty. You'll have to put up your own signs. Do you know how to use a power drill?'

'Yes, of course.' That was a lie. Couldn't be that hard.

'Your first few days will be spent making appointments and looking at properties. The sales guys are busy. You're on your own.'

The houses in Rosebud and surrounding areas all started to look the same. Many of them were dumps. The land was cheap. Dad and his mates had hammered a few nails and produced a shack with four walls. When the family grew up, they wanted a change and expected a quick sale. Some of those houses should have been condemned. Asbestos was all over the place. Our commission percentage rate was much higher than the city because the properties were so cheap. It was necessary to invest in a mobile phone because lots of clients lived in Melbourne. We contacted them at the company's expense. The boss' phone bill must have looked like the national debt.

The auction of a charming cottage in the back blocks of Rye was my first listing. The vendor wanted $60,000 plus. I thought that was reasonable but nobody agreed. On auction day, the property was passed in at $56,000. I joined the vendor in the cottage. The boss was harassing the would-be purchaser. They eventually agreed on a price. The boss smiled.

'We need ten percent deposit, sir.'

'I don't have a cheque account.'

'Got any money?'

After fishing in his pockets, the man pulled out a fifty-dollar note. The boss snatched it.

'That'll do. Bring the balance to the office on Monday morning.'

Contracts were signed. Everybody, except me, was quite sure the purchaser would do a runner. When he walked into the office on Monday morning, there was a spontaneous round of applause.

Selling real estate in Rosebud was bizarre. I had been taught that ten percent deposit on the signing of the contract was mandatory unless there was a prior arrangement. The boss here seemed to have his own rules. Sales consultants spoke their own language. Buyers were liars, ice cream lickers or tyre kickers. You were supposed to encourage the vendor to sign the authority to sell by overpricing the property. It was called buying the listing. Then you had to get the price down by crunching your vendor. That had been my problem in Hawthorn. Apparently, the practice was rampant. From time to time, people phoned and wanted to speak to somebody who had left the office to work elsewhere. The standard reply was a shocker. 'I'm sorry. Unfortunately, he passed away last week.'

There was a young guy in the office. He was good looking with lots of brawn and no brains. He talked an old couple into signing an authority to sell. The time he was given was six months instead of the usual sixty days. I queried him. 'How did you do that?'

'Easy. I put my arm over the number of days and just showed them where to sign.'

I dobbed the bastard in. The boss smiled and shrugged his shoulders. I lost my cool. 'That guy is a disgrace to the industry. No wonder people think real estate agents are crooks.'

The boss ignored me. My fists clenched, nails dug into the palms of my hands, my whole body stiffened. I decided to demonstrate that it didn't take six months to sell a house. It was ludicrous. My sales had been regular but could always be better. I wanted success and I wanted it now. There was nothing to lose. The same words were repeated over and over every night and every morning. 'I baptise everything I do a success. My success is big, powerful and irresistible. Nothing succeeds like success. My success is followed by even greater success etc.' Those words are embedded in my brain. They worked. I ran for a week and sold five houses. SOLD stickers were visualised across our boards. A fake I am delighted feeling was summoned. By the end of the week my whole body felt limp like a rejected rag doll. It was exhausting. The boss and the rest of the staff wanted to know what my secret was. I shrugged my shoulders, laughed and ignored them. At the time, I didn't realise that using willpower meant my own psyche was being attacked. My body felt like I'd been bashing my head against a brick wall.

Shirley was excited about my success in the new job. 'Five houses in a week. That's unbelievable! If you do it every week, you'll be a millionaire in no time.'

'I won't be doing it regularly. It's exhausting. Don't forget the houses down here are cheap.'

'Do you like the job? When you first started, you weren't sure.'

'Love it. Couldn't go back to office work.'

'Have you made any friends?'

'Not really. They're all blokes and believe me, you wouldn't want them in your diary.'

'You haven't mentioned Andrew lately.'

'I know. Even thinking about Andrew makes my gut churn. It's hard to accept.'

'What's hard to accept?'

'He barged in one weekend when the kids were down. He had a guy with him.'

'Fuck! The lurking boyfriend! Why didn't you tell me? What's he like?'

'I've been too upset to talk about it. He's Andrew's chauffer and golfing buddy. The bloke didn't take his eyes off Andrew. He wasn't flirting like a girl. He was being protective.'

'Oh My God! How could he bring his butch boyfriend to your place? Why would he do that?'

'Maybe it's all in my mind.'

'I doubt it. How are you, darl? How do you feel about the whole thing?'

'It's confusing. I'm not coping all that well.'

'I want to help. What can I do?'

'It's for the best. He's wrong for me. I just want to see him. The only thing that stops me dialing his number is visualising him with his butch lover. If it wasn't for that creep, I wouldn't hesitate. Fuck! This obsessive love won't go away. I go to bed, hug the pillow and pretend he's with me. I feel dirty. Only dirty girls love like me.' When I paused to breathe, Shirley yelled into the phone.

'Stop! Please stop! There is nothing wrong with you, darl. You are an attractive, intelligent woman. Andrew is an alcoholic arsehole. Give yourself time. You'll get over him.'

'I doubt it.'

'Trust me. And remember my motto. The only way to get over a guy is to get under another one.'

No matter how bad things were, Shirley always made me smile.

Makeup orders were still being filled for regulars but I was too busy selling real estate to look for more customers. Then a client referred a friend. Laura lived in Tootgarook which was only a few kilometres away. She was interested in selling the product. Signing people up was the way to make money with any multi-level marketing company so I made an appointment with her.

It was my day off. Laura's unit seemed small but it may have been the impact of the huge travertine table that dominated the living area. That table turned out to be her pride and joy. Somehow Laura didn't look like a sales person. The pale face and quiet voice made her seem shy. Maybe she was worried about something. After a short chat, I handed Laura a blank contract to have a look at. It was only two pages but she studied it for ages. Her hands shook as she cleared her throat. 'Clause 9 concerns me.'

'Really? Most people don't bother reading those forms. They just sign them. Give it to me for a sec so I can see what you're worried about.' This was a pissy little MLM company. The contract was a formality. I was puzzled. It wasn't worth the paper it was written on. People just signed them so somebody at the top of the pyramid felt virtuous. 'It says you have to be of good character. Don't tell me you robbed a bank! You look okay to me.'

Laura licked her lips as her eyes darted around the room. She seemed to relax then her upper body stiffened as she stared at me. Her words trembled.

'I don't think you realise that I was not born a girl.'

My jaw dropped. Lost for words, I examined her face. Perhaps there were tell-tale signs but I had no idea what to look for, no idea what to say. Gob smacked, way out of my comfort zone, my feelings floundered. Having a cross dresser for a lover had been stressful enough. This woman was born a boy. Now she was a girl. My expertise in that area was bugger all. Laura spoke again. 'I'm very sorry. You look astonished. It's flattering for me when somebody has no idea I'm transsexual.'

I absorbed the vaguely familiar word she had used to describe herself. This person was terrified. Poor cow! 'It's not a problem, Laura. Why does the contract concern you? Your change of gender has nothing to do with your character.'

'Some people would disagree.'

'Okay. If you sign the contract, do you want the people you work with to know about your change?'

'It would be better if the other sales ladies and my customers know nothing.'

'Great. It's okay with me, my lips are sealed. Sign on the dotted line.'

'Okay, but there is a condition. I need to know how to contact the boss, the person running the show. Meeting whoever it is and explaining my concern is important. If they don't want me on their team, they can rip up my contract.'

'Okay. A nice man and his wife are in charge. If it was me, I wouldn't do what you are suggesting because it's not necessary. However, it's not me and you have to do what's right for you. You are going to love the selling and all the girly meetings. Personally, I will be happy to have you on my team.'

I gave Laura details of the couple she wanted to speak to. We talked for a while. She seemed to need someone to share with. Before I left, she promised to ring me after her interview.

When Shirley picked up her phone that night, I told her all about my day. She was shocked. 'Fuck! You must be doing something wrong. Why are you attracting these weird people into your life?'

'I am not doing it on purpose.'

'Has she had that sex change operation?'

'Yes. They really drill you before they okay it.'

'Who does? What do you mean?'

'A whole heap of shrinks had to agree that she could have a vagina.'

'The thought of it makes me shudder. Did you ask her if she's used it? Has she had a guy give her a girl fuck yet?'

'I wouldn't ask her something so personal. She did tell me that her boyfriend dumped her after the op because he liked boys.'

'That makes sense. Did she have to change where she worked?'

'She's a qualified engineer, used to be with a huge company. All the staff was told about the operation, warned to treat her well and not make smart remarks. She stayed for a while, took her super and left.'

'Was she a pro? You know what I mean, a sex worker?'

'What makes you think that?'

'It's common sense. When she was younger, she would have been charging. Older guys pay well for toy boys.'

I laughed. 'Do you pay your toy boys?'

'They can't afford me. I am priceless. Money can't buy my expertise. I'm trying something new with a couple of strawberries and a can of cream. Do you need details?'

'No, thank you. I've already had way too much information this week. Would you like to meet Laura?'

'God, no. What a stupid question. Have you heard from Andrew?'

'No.'

'The world would be a better place if he decided to have the operation and got it chopped off.'

'You are outrageous.'

'But aren't you delighted I'm your best friend? I reckon I taught you everything you know.'

'You're right. No wonder my life is a disaster. Maybe the entire fiasco was your fault. I was swearing too much and living a lie. Now it looks like Andrew is gay. What does that make me?'

'If Andrew is gay, it makes no difference to who you are. I did a bit of checking. Not all cross dressers are gay. Some of them are straight and married.'

'Really? That is the best news.'

'Why? Does it change the way you feel about Andrew?'

'No. It changes the way I feel about me.'

'What do you mean?'

'I feel more normal if there are other women who indulge their guy by pandering to any fetish he fancies. Women like me are targeted to fulfill any bastard's demands. I've been doing it all my life because I don't seem to know any better.'

Shirley chatted on about another fetish she fancied. Her frustrated longing for a fireman cheered me up.

Back in the office the following day, life was filled with normal conversation. A new client told me all about her divorce, including the property settlement. Her husband had kicked her out of the family home which she had paid for. She was an attractive, well dressed bundle of nerves aged about forty. 'It isn't fair. The bastard spent all my money then stole my house. I need somewhere to live but rentals are dumps around here.' We inspected a lot of properties. She loved the first one I had chosen for her. We kept going back there. She was nervous about auctions.

'Will you do the bidding for me?'

'You must do that yourself. I'll stand next to you and be supportive. Only you can decide how much you want to spend.'

Laura rang me during the week. Her interview had been successful. The couple in charge of the network was delighted to welcome Laura to the team. She was thrilled. I thought Laura was a gutsy lady. She had to find new friends, new job, new lover, a whole new life. I told her we would catch up at the next training night.

My nervous client bought the house she wanted at the auction. 'Thank you so much. I love it. You are the best real estate agent ever.' One week later, her solicitor rang. 'Ms. K. does not have enough money to settle. The auction was rigged. You told her to keep putting her hand up. She became confused.'

'I presume you are joking.'

'This is a very serious matter. It's your fault.'

'Ms. K. knew exactly what she was doing.'

'You're the one who knew exactly what you were doing.'

We argued, but not for long. This sort of crap happened in the real estate industry but I was not guilty. 'See you in court.' I slammed the phone down. Peter, the nice agent in the cubicle in front of me, stood and shook my hand. 'Well done! They won't bother you again.' And they didn't. The only time Peter acted grumpy was when the tourists took over the peninsula, especially at Christmas. 'If another family comes in the door, I'm not taking them anywhere. They're just filling in time between the beach and the movies.'

One of the women selling makeup also ran a singles club. She organised regular house parties at her home in Dromana. One Friday she rang and offered me free entry on the Saturday night. I would have to be the door keeper and collect fifty dollars from each person as they walked in. I said okay and got permission to invite Laura. The woman agreed. She knew nothing about Laura's private life. Laura was delighted with the invitation.

It was always busy on the weekend. We didn't do many open inspections because we had so many listings. That Saturday, I drove around showing people my choices for their requirements. After two sales, I quit for the day and went home to shower and change.

The sexy dress, high heels and lots of makeup were chosen on purpose. Andrew had been the girly one. At some stage during my time with him, I had started to agonise about my appearance. Was I acting butch? Did I look masculine? Was I swearing too much? The list was endless and I was over it.

The house in Dromana was easy to find. The hostess welcomed me. I settled at my desk in a comfortable chair with a list of names and a locked tin box for the money. Twenty people were expected. If they all turned up, it would be a worthwhile night for the hostess. Laura arrived in a long, black dress with sky-scraper splits up the sides and lots of cleavage on show. Her fur coat was to die for, if you like fur. She stopped and stood maybe ten inches from me. Laura had no trouble with close. 'That's a beautiful fur coat, Laura.'

'Thank you. Most people ask me if I realise how many animals have been killed so I can wear this coat.'

'Do they really?'

'Do they ever! I always ask them if they realise how many animals I had to sleep with to be able to afford this coat.'

My smile was forced. Later in the evening, two men I didn't know approached me. They looked okay but made no effort to introduce themselves. One played quiz master. 'I've been told you invited Laura to the party.'

'That's right.'

'She's not a woman. She's a bloke.'

'Do you think so?'

'I'm sure. People like her should not be invited to singles parties.'

'There are more women than men here. If you don't like Laura, talk to another lady.'

'That's not the point.'

'What is the point?'

'She's a bloke dressed up as a woman.'

'Laura is a woman. If she happens to be a lawyer, you could end up in court for slander. Get a life!'

I turned my back and wandered across the room to join Laura. She was sitting next to a man called Royce. He'd been introduced to me at some stage but I didn't really know him. He had plenty of short blonde hair and a cheeky face. His check shirt and jeans flattered his trim body. Laura had good taste in men. Royce had his arm around her shoulders. As I got closer, I realised that they both looked head over heels in love. The hostess played some slow music. A young woman rushed across the room, pulled Royce off his chair and into her arms. Her skirt barely covered her bum. She seemed to know Royce. It was embarrassing to watch her get up close and way too personal. Her extremely sexy and suggestive movements belonged in the bedroom. Royce seemed uncomfortable. Laura looked startled, close to tears. I sat next to her. 'Don't worry. He's not interested in her. She flirts with everybody.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. Do you like Royce?'

'He's gorgeous but he doesn't know everything you know. About me, I mean. Should I tell him?'

'It's early days. Do you think you need to?'

'He's taking me out for dinner next week.'

'Great but don't seduce him yet. Keep him on hold for a while. When you decide to have sex, you'll have to tell him first. I wouldn't leave it till the last minute to let him know what's happened.'

'I don't understand. Why do I have to tell him?'

'Could be wrong. It's just my gut feeling.'

'I'm not sure.'

'Maybe you should talk to one of those shrinks you told me about.'

'They're full of negative shit.'

Royce returned. I gave him his chair. He and Laura only had eyes for each other. I was exhausted. After saying goodnight to the hostess, it was time to head home. Thought about ringing Shirley but it was too late. She knew all about singles parties. In the nineties, they were huge in the city. There was always a shortage of males so sometimes men were invited to attend for free. There was a condition. They were expected to mingle and keep the women happy.

Work was always busy. I had been talked into entering an auction competition. A couple of fully licensed agents were coaching me after hours. It was all a bit of a joke but why not? I had managed to win the southern region which took me into the grand final. It was coming up and it was a big deal.

An office in Mt. Eliza advertised for another sales consultant. It was a posh area so the commissions would be high. The only problem was the final of the auction competition was only a couple of weeks away. Roger interviewed me for the job in Mt Eliza. He was balding, brash and up himself but he listened when I talked about what concerned me. 'I have entered the Novice Auctioneers' Competition. It's run by the Real Estate Institute in Victoria. I'm being coached by two fully licensed agents. Because I won the southern region, I'm in the final next week. Is that okay with you?' He stared at me. 'How come you entered?'

'Cynthia, the receptionist in Rosebud, talked me into it. She thinks I'll be a great auctioneer and my boss agrees.'

'Aren't you nervous about it?'

'I tell myself that I can do anything and nothing is impossible. Did you know that city agents in the finals no longer sell properties? They practise auctioneering all day, every day. Apparently, publicity for the winner will be gold for their employer.'

I think my entry in the competition got me the job in Mt. Eliza. Roger seemed impressed. He didn't attend Southern meetings so he knew nothing about what the industry was doing. I had to give four weeks' notice in Rosebud so I was still working there when the final happened.

The boss drove me into the city. I looked the part in my new black suit. The REIV function room seemed vast but after a second glance, I realised it wasn't huge. Floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city gave an illusion of space. It was packed. One would-be-auctioneer had made an excuse and didn't turn up. The man with the mike called my name. I walked across the stage, gripped the microphone. My breathing was rapid and shallow. I was conscious of trembling hands, dry mouth, tense shoulders and an accelerated heart rate. I opened my mouth. Jaws moved but no words came out. Staring at the back wall, I rocked back and forth heel to toe and considered faking a faint. Somebody started to clap. My boss was standing and stamping his feet as his hands thumped a bass beat. Everybody joined in. The applause took the sting out of my stress.

The microphone rested on my chin. I strutted back and forth across the stage. The crowd calmed down. A smile lit up my face as I scanned the room and welcomed everybody. Public speaking was easy. My body had reacted to the rivalry. I hated losing, anything. I was a long shot. My performance wasn't brilliant but my property description got a lot of laughs. The winner was a young guy. He was a city agent, polished and word perfect.

I was disappointed but not surprised. The Rosebud staff thought runner-up was pretty good. The local Chinese restaurant hosted my combined celebration and farewell.

# Chapter 9: 2002–2003

Mt. Eliza was like another world. The highway firmly divided two very different regions of the popular, esteemed address. Exclusive and expensive beachside properties boasted tennis courts and swimming pools. Local ladies joined the 787 Tennis Club. Their phone prefix had to be 787. Water views were spectacular. A modern mixture of housing estates occupied the more affordable area on the other side of the highway. Most of those blocks of land took up two thirds of an acre. Humphries Road separated Mt. Eliza from Frankston South. Nobody wanted the Frankston address. People living there liked to say they lived in Mt. Eliza North. Some of the houses were dated and dark. Internal brick walls were popular. Billiard tables and wet bars seemed compulsory. Every house had a burglar alarm. Over time, I managed to set a few alarms off but it wasn't a big deal. They weren't wired to the police station or anywhere else so nobody took any notice. Further down the peninsula, agapanthus plants had been declared a noxious weed. In this area, they were referred to as Mt. Eliza tulips. Footpaths did not exist so there was a country feel in the area. Infested with real estate agents, the competition was fierce.

My new job was in an up-market office. The chosen few photos in the window were highlighted by expensive frames. Introductions completed, I spent my first couple of weeks inspecting properties and finding my way around the area. Fiona was in sales, aged forty odd, butch style hair-cut, snooty attitude and mannish clothes. An older agent, Henry, looked distinguished with thick grey hair and expensive but old-fashioned suits. He drove an ancient Mercedes with a polished wooden dash board. Gossip was his favourite pastime. 'Fiona is upset because you live in Rosebud.'

'What's wrong with Rosebud?'

'There's probably nothing wrong with Rosebud. She refers to Somerville as Slummerville.'

'Stupid stuck-up bitch!'

I'd only been working in Mt. Eliza for a few weeks when Roger told all of us to share cars and have a look at a new listing. It was in well-known Sunnyside Road. The Morning Star Winery was on the corner of Nepean Highway and Sunnyside. The winery used to be a boys' home but now catered for weddings, birthdays, anniversaries and any other celebration. Guest rooms were plentiful. The house we were looking at was further down towards the beach. Roger was raving on about the location of the 'traditional brick residence'. His words puzzled me. The place had been covered with fake brick cladding which had been popular in the sixties. It was an eyesore waiting to be demolished. Roger obviously needed glasses.

The other problem with the area was the nudist beach at the end of the road. There was only a narrow strip of sand and that was always chocka with very old, flabby, nude men. They ambled backwards and forwards letting it all hang out as they swapped their latest porn magazines. This was all gossip of course but it was enough to want to set rabbit traps in the bushes.

Laura rang regularly. Her conversation was boring because it was always the same. 'Royce and I are together but we are just good friends. I'm not ready to tell him yet and I'm not game to have sex with him until he knows.' Without warning, my normal sympathy went missing.

'For God's sake, Laura, stop acting like a virgin. I know you've got a brand-new vagina but your behavior is ludicrous. Don't ring me again until after you tell him about your sex change. You wanted to be a girl so act like one. Cry a little, pout a lot and spark his empathy. If you don't, you'll lose him.'

She rang me back a few days later. 'It's been 24 hours since I told Royce about the operation. He had trouble believing it, thanked me for telling him and said he needed time to think. He hasn't phoned. You were right because he did have to be told but I'm so scared he'll never come back.'

Laura was panicky, kept talking. Royce had confided in her. His wife was horrible. He hadn't had sex for years, could be impotent for all he knew. I was about to interrupt her waffling when there was a loud banging in the background of the phone. Laura's voice was tense.

'Just a minute, there's somebody at my front door.' Two minutes later, she was back. 'It's Royce. I'll ring you tomorrow.'

The following day, Laura rang again. 'He can't live without me. We're still fucking. I'm going back to bed.'

Shirley was gob smacked. 'He sounds hot. Why would he fancy someone like her?'

'She's a nice person. She feels as if she has always been a girl.'

'Why did he leave his wife?'

'She used to belt him up.'

'Only guys do that sort of crap. The woman he was married to must have been butch.'

'I don't know and to be honest, I don't really care. I'm too busy to be bothered.'

My real job was frantic at times so I stopped selling makeup. I didn't have time for the meetings and my regular clients had lessened. Selling houses was much more lucrative.

Mt. Eliza had some fascinating surrounds. Sweetwater Creek is still Frankston's astonishing secret. We had a listing in a dead-end street that ran off Nepean Highway at the top of Oliver's Hill. Sweetwater Creek blocked the end of several streets. The creek was at the bottom of a gully filled with ferns, shrubs and all sorts of vegetation. There were wooden walking trails complete with staircases ranging from about four to twenty steps. Bridges could transport you to the other side of the gully. It's a stunning nature reserve on the edge of a suburb that is still trying to clean up its image. It was an area where houses were easy to sell. Clients fell in love with the peaceful setting.

In Rosebud, I had been given a computer sheet at the end of every month. It showed sales details including dates and amounts to be paid. Henry told me that Roger paid when and if he felt like it. I was amazed. 'Does anyone complain?'

'Not really. He always pays eventually.'

Every month I handed Roger a sheet of paper showing my calculations of the amount of money he owed me. Standing at his desk, my arms were always crossed in a defiant pose. 'That's what you owe me. I'll wait for the cheque.' It worked every time. My behaviour sent shock waves around the office. The women whispered when I demanded my earnings.

Door knocking for listings was unheard of in Mt. Eliza. The women glared when I was successful. One property in Old Mornington Road was a huge scoop. That area was known as the golden mile. Roger was gob smacked. Listing a house with that address was usually his domain.

Roger decided to employ a young woman in her early twenties. Tania had recently left the army and wanted a job in real estate. She was brash, loud and hot-headed. Her hand would grab the phone as soon as it rang. I insisted the receptionist take all calls and share incoming phone enquiries equally between the sales consultants. I didn't fit in and I didn't care.

The houses in the Ranelagh estate were classy but not huge. The estate was beachside and not far from the village. These properties were all different with beautiful gardens. It was easy to get lost finding my way around the streets but the houses were popular with my clients. The Ranelagh Club was built on the cliff back in the twenties. It was part of an estate which was designed by international architect Walter Burley Griffin. The estate was based on a model popular in the USA. Original land owners became club members when they purchased property there. It was looked on as a seaside resort and country club. Melbourne's successful professional people would build their holiday houses and enjoy the exclusive land and water based recreation activities. The club has six tennis courts, pool tables, clubhouse dining and facilities, boat houses and BBQs on the beach and sailing lessons available with the Ranelagh Yacht Club. These days, it doesn't matter where you live. The Ranelagh Club has members living all over the world including Dubai, Noosa and of course, Melbourne. Everybody knows everybody.

Laura kept in touch on the phone. She and Royce had moved in together. Laura had bought land on the peninsula, designed and owner built their house. They invited me to see the result. It was a great place and they looked a devoted couple. I was happy for them, but jealous. Laura was living my dream. She was with her soul mate 24/7. She asked me to pop in any time. It didn't happen. Her phone calls eventually stopped. When Laura came into my life, I had been happy to help. However, being her next best friend was out of the question. Concerned about my own swearing, Laura's language made me blush. At times, she took my breath away. Forget the excuses. We had nothing in common.

Being an auctioneer still appealed. Roger paid a bloke who blustered a lot. Eventually, I figured there was no harm in asking. 'My CV includes qualifications as an auctioneer. Would you be willing to employ me in that role?'

'How much do you expect to be paid?'

'You know I was runner-up in the final of the REIV Novice Auctioneers' Competition last year.'

'How much?'

'Auctions take a lot of preparation. Make an offer.'

'I'll let you call the Koornang Road auction listed for Saturday week but only on a trial basis.'

'How much?'

The offer was pretty good. He agreed to pay cash. Nervous tension took over my body. Ten days dragged like ten years. Blue sky and puffy white clouds welcomed the crowd. I was inside the house chatting to the vendors. Roger approached. 'They're all out there waiting for you,' he said, flashing his I'm-glad-I'm-not-you-smile. Blood pounding in my ears, I called the numbers. Roger was penciling for me. I ignored him, didn't trust the man. The house went over the reserve. When I knocked it down, spontaneous applause filled my ears. I was thrilled. A woman auctioneer was brand new on the peninsula. Roger punched his fist in the air. A heart attack seemed imminent.

Calling auctions every weekend was mentally exhausting. In the nineties, the industry allowed vendor bids which were commonly called dummy bids. If the bids were called at high speed, people did not know that nobody was making a bid. The auctioneer was just pretending. Sometimes, friends or family would play the game for me. The highest bidder was always taken into the house to negotiate with the vendor who was rarely told what was going on. I used to have nightmares about having to pass the house in on a dummy bid. Who would I take inside to talk to the vendors?

My twentieth auction was a charming property on a cliff overlooking the bay. It was a popular choice. About one hundred people were gathered on the lawn. The crowd set my heart racing. Twenty or thirty was normal. This was scary. My gut churned, deep breathing stopped me wanting to throw up. As usual, Roger was penciling. Because hype would consume me if there were real bids, I spoke to Roger in advance. 'Please remember who I take the last bid from before the break.' The bids were real. The pace was reasonable. I settled and established a rhythm until it was time to break. I announced that we would consult the vendors. Drinking a glass of water calmed me down. When we walked back out, doubt consumed me. Leaning towards Roger, my voice whispered. 'Was it the tall, blonde guy over on the right?' Roger's face dropped. He looked mortified. My stomach churned. I hissed at him. 'Do you know or not?' He shook his head. I wanted to slap him. Knowing the amount helped. I closed my eyes, filled my lungs, pointed at the tall blonde guy and tried to confirm the bid. The man shook his head. 'It wasn't me, darl.' I rolled my eyes and scanned the crowd. 'Come on guys, I need a hand. I'm probably the only person here who can't remember. If you want this house, please put your hand up and confirm your bid.' A guy stepped forward and called the right amount. Nobody objected so I thanked him and declared the house was on the market. There were no more bids so I sold it. It was a good price. I apologised to the vendors and left. Trusting Roger had always been out of the question. My stupidity bordered on insane. I retired from the auction game and concentrated on sales. Roger was sheepish. He asked me to do another auction a couple of weeks later but I was over it. Calling auctions made my insides churn. There were too many problems. Besides, auctions interfered with my selling time. Commissions were more lucrative and less trouble.

By now I had discovered some of Mt. Eliza's history. It was sub divided at the same time as Frankston. Mt. Eliza remained a small township. Compared to Frankston, it didn't have much going for it. The land was high and full of gullies, water views were cliff top, there was no transport and access to the beach was difficult. Then the wealthy people looking for an affluent private lifestyle found it. Sir Edgar Coles bought 27 acres in 1937. His family built Hendra on 1.7 hectares of it. It was a single-story house with a walled swimming pool. It was on the market during my time in the area. I took an interested client through but it was old-fashioned and terribly tired. It had been luxurious in its day. Things like heated towel rails stood out as well before their time. However, refurbishing would cost a fortune. The boomerang shaped exterior had no appeal for me. The Coles family had been cutting the surrounding 27 acres up and developers were being encouraged to build. Mt. Eliza was changing. The average guy and his family could move in. It was no longer exclusive. Many well-known wealthy people had beautiful homes beach side. They had old money. New money was not welcome. People renting had no money. That was worse. Mt. Eliza was snobbish like that. Sir Reginald Ansett owned over 11 hectares in Kunyung Road. The property was called Gunyung Valley and included a helipad. The owner wanted easy access to Ansett Airlines in the city. Developers paid 14.5 million for the privilege of cutting up that estate. Mt. Eliza was still a posh address but its exclusiveness was fading.

Real estate agents in Mt. Eliza were not friendly. The clients listed their properties with every office and there were a lot of them. No agent was given a sole authority. Sometimes clients offered an extra couple of thousand dollars cash to the sales consultant who was successful. It wasn't uncommon for the principal of one office to march down the street and storm into another office to abuse the competition. An agent who worked fifty metres away rang me one day. I knew him from Rosebud. 'Have you got time to join me for coffee?'

'Sure. I'll meet you in the bakery.'

'We can't meet in Mt. Eliza.'

'Why not?'

'My boss will accuse me of divulging his secrets.'

'Your boss is a nutcase. I hear he's gay.'

'Your boss is an idiot. He's definitely gay.'

'Where will we meet?'

'The Tanti pub in Mornington isn't far. Can you be there in half an hour? I have to get out of here and talk to someone sensible.'

'Why?'

'Because I want to kill my nutcase of a boss.'

'See you soon. Take deep breaths, count backwards starting at thirty-nine. If you lose track you have to go back to the beginning.'

We had our coffee and bagged our bosses until Brian felt better. He was a good-looking guy. Shirley would have unsuccessfully tried to seduce him. Happily married, he was an extremely successful agent. He had worked for the competition in Rosebud. There had been a lot of rivalry down there but the brutal back-stabbing between agents in Mt. Eliza was far worse. None of the bosses set a good example. They fought like cats and dogs.

Roger asked me to make a special effort to sell a new listing that belonged to his doctor-friend. I could not find the relevant file. 'Do we have a sole authority to sell?'

'That's not your problem.'

'What do you mean?'

'This sale is very hush-hush. Please make sure that only very genuine buyers are shown through.'

One of my clients absolutely loved the property. She made a great offer in writing. Though usually quite bossy, on that day she was full of praise for my help. Roger took the offer to the doctor's house then reported back to me. 'It's not enough. Ask this woman for the full amount.' My client arrived in the office. I told her the offer had been rejected. The woman immediately asked for a second contract note. She made another written offer. It was the full amount, the asking price, huge, epic, through the ceiling. Roger insisted it was my turn to visit the doctor. That was odd, very odd. The doctor sighed and shook his head. 'No thank you. That was an interesting exercise but I was just testing the water. Roger knows that. I have not signed anything.' My shock probably showed when weak excuses were made to my client. She stamped her foot and screamed. 'Get me a copy of the authority to sell. I'll be showing it to my lawyer.' I backed away from her and tried to explain. 'My boss tells me he has mislaid the form. He's very sorry.' Her words became insulting. I shoved Roger's business card into her hand and fled the scene. I could never decide whether the boss in Mt. Eliza was dumb or ruthless. Henry commented. 'He's all smoke and mirrors.'

Ignoring snooty Fiona in the office was difficult. She often created problems. Written offers had to be kept in my briefcase because she would rifle my desk. Rosebud had rules. Details of written offers would be put in a book at reception. The amount was not revealed. Other agents were advised to tell their clients to make their best offer. There were no rules in Mt. Eliza so I decided to use a verbal form of the system I knew. Fiona did not like my explanation of what was fair. She tried to bully me.

'We are supposed to be working for the vendor. You have to tell me how much your offer is.'

'If the vendor wanted an auction, he would have asked for one. Get your best offer!'

Hugging my briefcase, I turned on my heel and left the office.

My people pleasing days were over. When Andrew departed my life, my patience became non-existent. Making money and being successful had to have pride of place. Being able to afford to move back to the city was now my top priority. I was bitchy. The need to be loved was overwhelming at times. The position of soul mate was still vacant. My attitude to men was not encouraging. Life was miserable even though sales contracts were being signed. Shirley had noticed the change in me.

'I'm worried about you, darl. I know you're making a lot of money but you're not having any fun.'

'That's not a problem.'

'We haven't seen each other for ages. I'm working on your days off. You open houses every weekend. I miss you.'

'I'll be back in the suburbs soon.'

'Do you still miss Andrew?'

'I'll probably always miss Andrew.'

'I can't believe you've given up sex.'

'The experts say I'll always be attracted to alcoholic arseholes. Decent guys bore me stupid.'

'Have you tried fucking a decent guy?'

'Faking an orgasm for a boring man is not really the same as making love to your soul mate.'

'Boring men can be encouraged. Remember Phillip from the nursery?'

'I prefer to forget Phillip. If it's necessary to behave like a tramp, count me out.'

'If you don't use it, you'll lose it.'

'I've heard the rumours. Who cares?'

I sold a heap of houses in Mt. Eliza, did my sums and was nearly there. My old investments had earned good interest. Once they were cashed, there was enough money to shop for a house.

Roger agreed to give me two weekends off supposedly for family reasons. He blathered but said okay. I rang Alison. 'Would you like to come house hunting with me next weekend?' She screamed.

'Oh my God. Have you got the money already?'

'I certainly have.'

'You are amazing. Where do you want to look?'

'Fairly near all of you but nowhere near where we used to live.'

'Thank goodness. Noble Park was always down-market. Now it's a dump.'

'I want something better but . . . can't afford Waverley.'

'What about we have a look at Dingley?'

'Of course! Dingley would be perfect.'

We inspected a lot of houses over the two weekends. Living in Carlton had made me aware of my need to be able to walk to the shops. I had followed that trend in Brunswick and Hawthorn. Even Rosebud filled the bill. Most of Dingley was over-priced. There was only one property that I was interested in and could afford. It was in the older, original Dingley and of course, walking distance to the shops. The newer areas on the outskirts were full of neat, boring, three-bedroom spec homes. They were very ordinary and very suburban. I didn't want to live there. Mind you, my first reaction to the thirty-year-old building that I ended up buying was apprehension. My face screwed up at the ugly mission brown paint that had dominated the seventies. It covered window sills, doors, fences, concealed guttering and the double carport. The brick was sort of bright orange with black flecks and the roof was flat. The concrete slab continued under the front door forming a big veranda with a couple of brick pillars. God, it was awful. As soon as the agent took us through the front door, I realised the house was owner built. When a place looked okay but not quite right, it paid to be cautious. Mind you, it was at least thirty years old and still standing. The floor plan was good. Two bedrooms, one up-dated bathroom, large lounge, separate dining and a kitchen with a walk-in pantry. We parked over the road. Alison thought it had potential. 'Maybe you could trick it up?' I laughed. 'The mission brown has got to go and the ghastly bricks can be rendered. Give me twelve months and I'll double my money.' My offer was accepted. Nobody else wanted the ugly duckling.

Roger agreed to let me put a photo of my Rosebud cottage in the window at work. The idea was to save having to pay commission to an agent in Rosebud. The receptionist referred a middle-aged woman to my cubicle the following day. Over-powering perfume seemed to clash with her designer clothes. She was not friendly. 'I'd like to inspect the cottage in Rosebud. There's a photo in the window.'

'I've got time to take you there now if you like.'

'Don't you have to phone the owner and make an appointment?'

'That's not necessary. I am the owner.'

'I beg your pardon? What on earth do you mean?'

'I. own. the. cottage.'

'That's ridiculous. I don't want to talk to the owner. I need an agent.'

'I. am. the. agent.'

She clicked her tongue, rolled her eyes and stormed out of the office. The photo of the cottage was removed from the window, listed in Rosebud and sold quickly. My old boss didn't charge commission.

After resigning from real estate in Mt. Eliza, all the staff signed a farewell card and took me to lunch. I was surprised. Maybe they were celebrating my departure.

# PART TWO: LIVING WITH MS 2003–2016

Subconscious secrets

#  Chapter 10: 2003–2004

After unpacking a few boxes, I sat down and rang Shirley. She knew about the move and was expecting my call. 'Welcome back to the city! How's Dingley?'

'Suburban but not too bad. Haven't had time to check it out yet.'

'You sound weary. Moving can be exhausting.'

'I've decided to retire.'

'Don't be ridiculous. You're way too young.'

'Sixty plus is not young. It's not even mature. It's just old. For God's sake, can you believe they are willing to give me the aged pension? The last few months have been exhausting. I do need a break.'

'Why don't you have a check-up with the local doctor? He might be your type.'

'Being tired has nothing to do with being sick. I don't get sick, ever. When are you coming over to check the place out?'

'How's next Sunday for you?'

'Sounds good. Do you want to have lunch at the Dingley International?'

'Does Dingley have its very own international hotel?!! How super!! Do celebrities stay there? Maybe they'll give me a memorial stool.'

'Like the Rialto?'

'That's where we should go. Just for old time's sake.'

'Count me out. My bar hopping days are over.'

'Maybe you need some vitamins.'

'I eat well, don't need vitamins.'

'Maybe you need a good fuck.'

'I wouldn't even have enough energy for the missionary position.'

'What about your interest level?'

'It would be like letting a bloke that I don't know have a party on my body without an invitation.'

'Oh my God. What are we going to do? You are not well, darl.'

'I have to hang up. These boxes are driving me nuts. The sooner they're unpacked, the better. My body does not need fixing. See you Sunday, Shirl.'

Shops and the community centre were walking distance but life in Dingley was mind-numbing. Joining a book club seemed like a good idea. The facilitator welcomed me. Her voice was fake posh. 'We're very social in Dingley.' Another lady with blonde tips in her hair tried to stifle a snort. Clare was in her fifties, black slacks, red top, lots of jewellery and an infectious laugh. The rest of them were a down market version of the Mt. Eliza mob. After we'd crucified the book of the month, Clare and I went for coffee. She was a golfer and looking for a partner. 'There's a small nine holes golf course walking distance from here. They organise mini comps every week. It's fun. You'll meet people.' We agreed to have a casual hit the following week before any commitment was made. Andrew had given me some lessons on the peninsula but I'd call myself a hacker. Drinking coffee with Clare was good fun. We laughed a lot. As a result, my energy improved. It had to be Clare's influence. I hadn't laughed like that for a long time. Shirley was still my best friend, maybe my only friend. She made me laugh but it was always about sex. Clare was happily married and talked about anything and everything except sex. My instinct told me her life was good. Would that ever happen for me? Not having my soul mate around was heart-rending. I still missed Andrew. The dirty girl in me adored him. Out of the blue, I knew what my problem was. The same old symptoms were there: lack of energy, feeling off centre, often angry about nothing and tension headaches. A lot of the same old FAXA crap that was around years ago had resurfaced. Depression was gradually taking over my life. I wasn't talking to myself yet but the warning signs were pushing my buttons. Shit!

In a way, depression was good news. By the next morning, I knew what to do. It took me a while to recover after FAXA but that was different. Some part-time work would cheer me up. I showered, got dressed and checked the mirror. My navy skirt always looked good. The white jacket with navy trim was smart but not too over the top. I drove up the street, parked the car and walked along the strip shopping. There were three real estate offices. One was part of a popular franchise. The guys were dressed in matching blazers. Frank, middle-aged and charming, owned the shop in Dingley and two others in neighbouring suburbs. He seemed hassled but willing to listen. I introduced myself, gave him relevant details and asked for part-time work. His face lit up. 'Will you open some houses for me? It's weekend work.'

'That would be great.'

'Fantastic. Do you want cash?'

'Yes, please.'

The job was great. Of course, handing in all the leads to the office made me resentful. My ego still wanted the accolades. I had been reduced to a nonentity but the appreciation shown by the boss cheered me up. 'You can have a full-time job whenever you want one.' Frank also showed his gratitude with extra cash every time one of my leads resulted in a sale.

Clare and I had our hit of golf. We were both hackers. Though exhausted after playing nine holes, we decided to play in one of the mini comps once a fortnight. By the time we ordered coffee in the club-house, the place was packed. We grabbed the last table. Five minutes later, a guy approached. He was middle-aged, ruggedly handsome, dark wavy hair and solid build. His casual clothes suited him. He placed his hands lightly on the back of our spare chair. 'I'm sorry to interrupt your conversation.'

Clare smiled at him. 'That's okay. What can we do for you?'

'My name is Ben. Do you mind if I join you? This is the only spare chair in the place.'

'You're welcome, Ben. I'm Clare and this is Annie. If you prefer, you can take the chair and join your friends.'

'I'm here on holidays . . . don't know the guys I played with.'

I felt sorry for the man. 'Please sit down, Ben.'

He sat between us. Clare was curious. 'Where are you from, Ben?'

'I live on my own on the south-east coast of New South Wales. My wife died a couple of years ago. This is a perfect opportunity for me to chat to a couple of gorgeous ladies. Are you both married?'

My eyes blinked. 'I've never heard a more honest pick-up line. Clare's happily married. I was widowed twenty years ago. I'll be your friend but without benefits.' Clare giggled. Ben looked self-conscious. The situation was odd. My rambling continued. 'What are you doing down here? Why visit Dingley? Do you know people who live here?'

'Every now and again I take myself on a holiday hoping to meet a nice lady. The Dingley International Hotel sounded upper-class. I figured there would be tourists from all over the world staying there. The food's good but it's just a suburban pub. Thanks for understanding. I wasn't hitting on you. May I have your phone number?'

I laughed and gave it to him. We chatted for another fifteen minutes then Clare and I left. Even though exhaustion worried me, Ben's efforts were intriguing. He was a country guy. His lack of sophistication was appealing. Walking to our cars, Clare told me she hoped Ben would call me. Maybe, maybe not, I wasn't holding my breath. Ben rang that night. He asked me to choose a restaurant and have dinner with him the following night.

Ben picked me up in his rental car. I had booked at the popular Thai place in Patterson Lakes. We talked easily. At the end of the night he walked me to my door, kissed my cheek and promised to ring the next day. When we spoke on the phone the following morning, he begged me to see him again before he flew home. We went to the movies, held hands and ate popcorn. This time he walked me to my door, kissed my cheek, hugged me and handed me an A5 size photo of himself. 'I don't want you to forget me. Will you come and visit me in Merimbula? You can have your own bedroom of course.'

'That would be nice, but not yet. I've been really tired lately . . . need to take it easy for now.'

'Can I ring you?'

'I'd like that.'

After another hug, he was gone. I wouldn't miss him but he was good company. He decided to ring me three or four times a week, every week.

Shirley and I caught up at the Dingley International because the food in their restaurant was the best in Dingley. She couldn't believe Ben had stayed there because of its international status. However, when I showed her his photo, she was impressed. 'This could be it. Maybe this is a new respectable beginning for you. Ben doesn't look like he'd indulge in girly stuff.'

'I don't know, Shirl. The dirty girl in me is still lurking. What if he can't do it?'

'Listen! I am an expert on who can and who can't fuck. Men who look like Ben have professional skills. Trust me, he could hire himself out and make a fortune. I'll have an orgasm right now if I stare at this photo much longer.'

Thank God for Shirley. She could annihilate my depression with a few sentences.

Steve's call was out of the blue. He used to work for the opposition in Mt. Eliza. The man had a great sense of humour, dark hair, matching beard and gorgeous blue eyes. He now owned his own agency in Surrey Hills. I was surprised at his offer. 'I heard that you're semi- retired. What a waste! How about working for me?'

'Surrey Hills is hours away from Dingley.'

'You'd only have to visit the office once a week to keep things legal. Letterbox Dingley and work from home.'

'What about commission?'

'I'd be happy to go halves. Okay?'

It was a great offer. 'Sounds good to me.'

Shirley was thrilled that I had a sort of normal job. 'Thank God for that. You must be feeling better.'

It didn't take long for Steve to organise brochures and business cards. I resigned from doing open inspections. Working for two agents at the same time was impossible. Frank said he would welcome me back, whenever. My letterbox drop was put in order using a map showing the names of every Dingley street. Walking was restricted to one hour per day. Though feeling more contented, my energy levels were still a problem. I started walking, the phone started ringing. The first sale was quick and easy. A young couple had outgrown their house and didn't like the local agents. My heart pumped like the good old days. I was chatting to the purchaser when her grand-daughter approached us. Mandy was about thirty. Pretty face, no makeup, cargo pants, striped top and a toddler in tow. Her voice wobbled with nerves. 'I want to sell a rental property here in Dingley.'

'Are there tenants in the house?'

'Yes, but their lease is up. They pay the rent every month.'

'Would you like me to handle the sale for you?'

'Yes, I would.'

'It will be a pleasure.'

'I'm on holidays from Perth, returning home next week. Will that be a problem?'

'That's fine. I'll open the house weekly and fax the results every Monday. The tenants will have to be told.'

We inspected the property then Mandy signed an authority to sell. The people renting the house were not happy and would not co-operate. Every week, I faxed Perth, mainly with problems. The tenants were given notice.

I believe that any house will sell if the price is right and the vendors are relaxed and positive. Mandy always seemed very uptight. She practised some sort of therapy so maybe she was into new age stuff. Once the tenants were gone, I sent her a very positive fax. _I do hope you don't mind but I have removed the negative energy that was left in the house by the tenants. The property will sell soon._ Mandy was thrilled and grateful. The house sold on the last day of the month. I told my boss in Surrey Hills what had happened. He stared at me, eyes wide.

'How did you do it?'

'Do what?'

'How did you get rid of the negative energy?'

'What do you mean?'

'I didn't know you were into black magic.'

'I had to give the vendor a good reason to believe the sale was about to happen.'

'You made it up?'

'It usually works.'

His sense of humour kicked in. He laughed. Then he ran around telling everybody in his office all about it. I cautioned him. 'It won't work with everybody. The wrong person will label you a fruit cake or an idiot.' My letter box drops were completed without any more success. Shirley thought I should set up my own business and rely on black magic full time.

All that walking had been like hard work for me. I didn't feel unwell but my body was permanently exhausted. Lying down regularly helped a bit. Then the balance problems started. In the beginning, they were treated like a joke. When my steadiness deteriorated, people could not understand my care free attitude. Fear was never mentioned but it was skulking in my gut making me paranoid about the inevitable fall. It was a strange feeling. Walking with my arms out stretched on both sides of my body must have looked ridiculous . . . like a kid pretending to fly. Alison was concerned. 'Please go to the doctor.'

'Will you please stop worrying? It will all go away. There's no rush. My body doesn't get sick, ever.'

Golf gradually became more difficult. I struggled to keep up with the group. When my right foot began refusing to leave the ground, the only option was to drag it. Swinging my leg out to the side helped. One day we were half way round the course when my body sort of crumpled. It simply refused to work. I sat on the side of the fairway. The others were a few metres ahead of me. Clare glanced back, screamed, dropped her golf bag and ran towards me. "What's the matter? Have you hurt yourself?' I was humiliated, felt like an idiot. Other women gathered around. Tears threatened. 'Please keep playing. I have to have a rest then . . . go straight home.' Clare rang the club-house. When the golf buggy arrived, she came to the car-park with me and insisted on following me home. That was the first time I noticed any difficulty getting into my car. My butt sat on the seat, my body turned to the left as my left leg swung into the car like it always did. My right leg didn't seem to know what to do. It stayed on the ground. I had to lift it into the car. How long had that been happening? Driving was not a problem. Clare helped me into the house. Shock had overwhelmed me. My eyes didn't want to stay open. Clare rang and made an appointment for me for the following day. She liked the local doctor. My voice mumbled. 'Not keen, hate bad news, no news is good news. It will all go away.'

The local doctor was a lady. Her surgery was light and bright. She looked like a movie star with attractive, shoulder length wavy hair and clothes to die for. Her forehead creased. She listened to me recite my symptoms, nodded her head and told me what to do. 'Please walk across the room, heel to toe.' That was the old sobriety test. I stood up and tried my best. Arms waved as I fought to keep my balance. My feet fell over each other. A chill gripped my chest. I had to work to breathe. The police would have locked me up. This was so much worse than my mind had allowed me to think. The doctor took my arm and led me to a chair. 'You need to see a neurologist. Your brain is not telling your feet what to do.'

'How do I get to see a neurologist?'

'I'll give you a referral. Doctor W. is very well known. He is based at Cabrini Hospital in Malvern.'

'That's a long way from Dingley.'

'He goes to Como Hospital in Parkdale once a week.'

She handed me a referral. I took the envelope home, studied it and made the call. The specialist's receptionist told me she could not make an appointment for me until I had an MRI at Monash Hospital. She organised that and Monash mailed me the details.

The hospital was busy. There were people everywhere. Young kids, elderly patients, mums, dads, teenagers and scrubbed up nurses. I found the rooms where the MRI would be done. The small changing area was curtained off. 'No metal allowed, remove your bra.' The MRI machine was like a huge barrel. A woman doled out instructions. Her voice was flat and boring.

'It's very noisy in there. Do not move a muscle. Please choose the music you would like me to play.'

'Whatever.'

'If you don't choose, it will be heavy metal.'

My voice was sarcastic. 'I love listening to hymns. Any hymns, you may choose.'

'That's a popular choice, not a problem.'

The whole issue was a fiasco. The noise from the machine drowned out everything else for nearly an hour. The clanking sounded like heavy metal. No results were offered. The neurologist had a waiting list for appointments at Parkdale. It would be two weeks before I had any answers.

Ben rang frequently so he could follow my every move. 'Come and stay with me for a couple of weeks. I want to spoil you, buy you jewellery, clothes, whatever you fancy. I don't expect anything in return, just want to see you. It might sound silly but I miss you.' Though tempted, my decision was negative. 'Sorry Ben. I'm not going anywhere until after my visit to the neurologist. Maybe we'll catch up later in the year.'

Clare called in regularly. Shirley rang daily. Alison always kept in touch. I had deliberately been vague about my health with Alison. There was no point in alarming family if there was no need. The two weeks flew past.

I didn't like the neurologist. Dr. W. pointed at some white marks on the MRI, announced his diagnosis of multiple sclerosis and rattled off a list of things that would be happening. Shocked, upset and angry, I couldn't get a word in. He lost me when he mentioned that everybody with MS had different symptoms. That statement sounded ludicrous. A whole bunch of different symptoms for the same chronic incurable disease! In other words, if a neurologist sees an MRI with white spots, his diagnosis is MS because he's not sure what's going on. His verdict was an educated guess at best. The whole scenario had to be some sort of cosmic joke.

The nurse from the MS Society was a little round ball of chatty conversation. We were seated at my dining table. She was there to teach me how to manage the prescribed drug. The procedure was complicated. Two days later, the next injection was due. There was only me. Nerves churned the nausea in my gut. Maybe it was the kid in me. My inner, retarded, unloved child could not cope. The voices in my head argued incessantly. The procedure was not a cure. This stuff might keep me out of a wheelchair for a while but there were no guarantees. Becoming a drug addict was absurd. I was living a lie because a doctor thought it was a good idea. Two weeks later, I quit the drugs and returned them to the chemist. People accused me of denial but that wasn't strictly correct. My body was experiencing problems. I wanted to know why. I needed to know why. There had to be a reason. I didn't get sick. It didn't happen. Being diagnosed with a chronic incurable disease was a joke. It was hard to believe commonplace medical practices were the only way to combat this illness. My determination grew. Why had it happened to me? And why at this late age? People think that doctors are infallible. It's a lie. The body is always ruled by the mind. My body was stumbling and falling therefore my consciousness had to be stumbling and falling. It was my mind that needed help, not my body. My mind could be critical occasionally, maybe a bit judgmental, but I was confused. Could my mind really be stumbling and falling badly enough to affect my own balance? Now and then people got upset when my right eyebrow was raised. Shirley said that curling my lip at the same time was a habit. Had my brashness become arrogance? Was my behaviour making me sick?

Though my knowledge of MS was very limited, a friend had been diagnosed in the eighties. Helen was the good Greek girl who married a fair dinkum Aussie who happened to be a mate of my husband. Gary was good-looking. His affairs were no secret to most of his friends. Helen probably knew but she never ever mentioned it. This guy didn't come home for meals because he just about lived at the local club. Helen was demure and attractive. She accepted Gary without criticism. A few months before her MS diagnosis, Helen changed. She became assertive with her husband, seemed like a different person. On a couple of occasions, I was visiting their home and overheard some of her demands. 'You have to come home every night and have dinner with your family. It's a wonder your children recognise you. I am so over your weak excuses.' Gary must have ignored her suggestions. Next time I heard Helen speak to Gary, she was so fed up she was yelling. The ranting continued. A few months later, fatigue took over Helen's body. She was stumbling and falling. Her vision was impaired temporarily. The diagnosis was Multiple Sclerosis. The MS moved quickly. Walking stick, four-wheel walker, scooter and then the dreaded wheelchair. Her husband was shocked. His behaviour changed dramatically. A lot of people were surprised when Gary became Helen's carer. Friends thought he would leave her. His comment to me said it all. He closed his eyes and whispered. 'Guess you get what you deserve.' Helen had developed her symptoms after her consciousness became aggressive. Because I hated being a people pleaser, I had learned to be assertive. Was I now aggressive? The book I had brain-washed myself with years before was all about new age beliefs. It preached its own religion and seemed to work for people who had experienced a lot of love in their formative years. Not having the right child-hood meant my results were disastrous. However, the book had helped me realise that humans are programmed as they grow up. We behave according to our psyche. If I could fill my subconscious mind with love and get rid of the existing crap, my body would probably heal. It wouldn't be easy but I had to try.

I had spoken to friends and family on the day of the diagnosis. Shirley was hysterical. 'I'll be there in twenty minutes.' She dropped the phone. Clare wanted to know what happened next. I kept it brief and promised to have lunch the following week. Alison was speechless for a moment then asked a lot of questions. 'You must have known there was something wrong. Why didn't you tell me? What are your symptoms? What are the doctors going to do?' I apologised, pleaded fatigue, begged her not to worry and asked her to let her siblings know. Shirley was banging on the door. Alison said she would call in the following evening. Ben was due to ring so the phone was switched off. Shirley was welcomed. She threw her arms around me. 'They can't be right. It's a ridiculous mistake. Only young people get MS. The doctor must have the hots for you. He wants to see you again so he pretends you're ill. Cougars are what young men want. Sexy older women are coming out of the closet. Was the doctor suggestive?' I stepped back and put my hands on her shoulders. 'The doctor was a tad girly. He'd probably look good in a dress.' Shirley frowned. 'Fuck!' We chatted for a while and made a lunch date before she left. As soon as the phone was switched back on, Ben rang. I gave him the news knowing he almost certainly had never heard of MS. He asked me to spell it so I did. More chatting was out of the question. Exhausted, I made excuses and asked him to phone the following day.

Over the next few months, I studied my attitude and my beliefs. On my calm and positive days, energy would improve. The high would last for a day or two. Inevitably, something, anything really, would upset me. My attitude would become aggressive. Energy would fade away and my physical condition would deteriorate. Playing mind games was exhausting. It was difficult to stop being bitchy. Being charming was simple but why bother? It certainly wasn't a habit. In the past, there was no point. There was no reason to make the effort. Changing my mind was now imperative. Being nice to anybody and everybody sounded easy but I gradually realised that most people annoyed me. By the end of the year, the simple task seemed impossible. Low energy meant constant rest breaks were essential and some days my legs seemed to be encased in concrete. Life was like a see-saw. It was better. It was worse. It was improving. It was hopeless.

# Chapter 11: 2005–2006

My efforts to be charming were discussed with Clare. Sharing with my best friend would not help. Shirley wasn't big on being charming. She would think I had lost my mind. Clare was enthusiastic about something called kinesiology. 'Monica is miraculous. I see her regularly. She waves her arms, talks to herself and puts right all my concerns.' I laughed. 'Sounds like black magic to me but anything is worth a try.'

The appointment was made at a private address in Waverley. My eyes wandered as I lay on a massage table. Costly furnishings and a large display of modern art filled the room. Monica didn't look like a witch doctor. She was obviously a business woman. Her straight skirt, tailored top, minimum makeup and bobbed hair gave a qualified impression. She started to move around the table waving her arms. Her body jerked spasmodically. Before long, Monica started to explain my feelings. 'Pain from your past is lodged in your mind and your body. Do you get angry with people? Are you often impatient and short tempered?' She spoke quickly, did not wait for a reply.

'Maybe you feel irritated, sometimes infuriated? Your life is probably reasonable until you see yourself as criticised. Is that when your personality changes? When something out of the blue upsets you?'

'You could be right.'

'Do you just whinge a bit or do you really lose it?'

'It depends.'

'Talk to me', she demanded. 'Does your voice become nasty and sarcastic? Do you sometimes think you sound vicious?'

'I won't put up with idiots.'

'Don't judge. We all do silly things sometimes. A lot of people have taken my advice and changed their lives. I can tell you what to do. It won't be easy but it will be worth it.'

She walked backwards and forwards next to the massage table.

'You have to dismiss the sad story in your head. Your subconscious mind is full of garbage.'

'Wait a minute.'

'What's the problem?'

'I've been saying affirmations for years.'

'Affirmations would be a waste of time for you.'

'Please explain the sub-conscious mind to me. It's important.'

'We'll have to talk about that another day. Listen carefully.'

'Why can't we discuss my subconscious mind today?'

'First things first. Learning how to feel your feelings is top priority. It will take the rest of your session.'

Her voice deepened. She sounded strong-minded and determined. 'Close your eyes. Let your body relax, stop all the thinking and just feel the feeling. Really focus on the feeling, stay with it, don't judge, don't ask why, stay present. The negative feelings come up to be put out. Use your emotions, express your feelings, cry, yell, scream, bash the pillows and get it all out. It's the only way to release your sorrow. Positive behaviour can be toxic. Negative feelings buried in your gut will poison your body. You've got MS, haven't you?'

'Did Clare tell you?'

'Of course not. I can feel it.'

I returned home expecting miracles. Every day, first thing in the morning and late at night, I practised being very still. The question was always the same. How did I feel? Often tempted to give up, my inner child had to be encouraged to hang in there. Staying with my feelings, focusing on them and ignoring the stories in my head sounded easy. It wasn't. None of these things were possible because the stupid feelings refused to surface. One day, out of the blue, it happened. Sobs racked my body. My heart was pounding hard and slow, breathing was difficult. The feelings were simply grief, pain, misery, sorrow, anguish. The bitchy stuff like anger, hate and rage didn't get a look in. The sessions went on for weeks. When the need to unload those horrible feelings finally faded, my peace of mind was still not perfect but life seemed better, for a while.

Ben kept asking me to visit him. I kept putting him off. He told me he knew all about MS. He'd asked his local doctor and she had explained the symptoms. Ben had decided my future. 'Please don't worry, sweetheart. When the time comes, I'll look after you.'

'That won't be necessary, Ben.'

'You'll be okay for a while but most people with MS end up in a wheelchair.'

After making a stupid excuse, I hung up, bashed some cushions and screamed obscenities. Ben just assumed the worst scenario. It sounded like he wanted to take over my life, the sooner the better. I didn't want his help. Getting better was my goal. In due course, guilt nagged. I rang Ben back.

'Sorry, Ben. There was someone at the door. How about I come and visit you for a week in June?'

Ben was over the moon. He booked the flights plus taxis for me to travel to the airport at Tullamarine and home again. Everything went according to plan. He met me at the airport in Pambula. It was a short drive to Ben's place in Merimbula. His house had a bay view of the east coast. Ben wanted to carry me up the stairs to the front door. No way. He hovered behind me in case I stumbled. The man was besotted. My room was on the first level. Ben's bedroom was on the second level. People say that interstate relationships are geographically impossible. From my point of view back then, there was no cooking, no washing his jocks and socks and no housework. Geography was irrelevant. This guy was not my soul mate but he was widowed and generous. He spoilt me as promised. We shopped for jewellery, visited near-by art galleries and did some slow dirty dancing at the local RSL club.

One night we kissed in the lounge room. Ben's hands were wandering everywhere but he seemed uneasy.

'What's the problem, Ben?'

'I may not be able to do it, you know. The doctor reckons I'm probably impotent.'

'How long since you've had sex?'

'It's two years since my wife died. When I told my doctor about your visit, she advised me to get some Viagra.' Shock made me gasp.

'And did you?'

'I took some before. Would you like me to try . . . and do it? You know what I mean?' I could have said no but he'd already taken the stuff.

'Okay.' My bedroom was closer than Ben's. He was nervous but when the Viagra finally worked, he was thrilled with his performance. I was satisfied but wanted to read the label. His timing was off.

The week flew by. Ben perfected his performance. I met his best friend and a couple of neighbours. He cried at the airport. Cheering him up was easy. 'Please come down to Melbourne soon and stay with me.' He looked overjoyed. My time with Ben was good but it was fantastic to be home, on my own.

Shirley was interested in the Viagra episode. 'The man should be ashamed of himself. Talk about false advertising! He looks so good but he's a let-down, a flop. Why can't he do it? What's the matter with him?' She prattled on, didn't wait for answers. I didn't have any. My body needed a break from sex, and Ben. He wanted to visit but I put him off. More serious stuff was on my mind. Why did I have MS?

Clare called in for coffee. We talked about my week with Ben. Sex wasn't mentioned. She liked the jewellery he bought me and asked about my health. 'How are you feeling, apart from the MS?'

'I'm much better since Monica did the black magic bit. She helped me enormously. I want to see her again after the holidays.'

The kids and I went out for Xmas lunch. Peter didn't come. He was living with a woman in the country. The truth was obvious. Peter, Lyn and Jane were like strangers. We had spoken since the diagnosis but I had insisted the MS was not a problem. While living on the peninsula, my desperate efforts to be successful meant there was no time for family. Before my career in real estate, Andrew was my top priority. After he revealed his effeminate side, my cottage was his favourite place. My love for Andrew had always been obsessive. If it was anything to do with my so-called soul mate, compulsive behaviour ruled my life. Alison had always kept in touch but had not forgiven me. She still didn't understand why she wasn't told about my symptoms earlier. My daughters had husbands. There were seven grand-children. I loved them all but I wasn't good at it. We were not close. I had changed. Laughing happened, but rarely.

In a way, the MS was more manageable. For some reason, my balance seemed to improve. Still terrified of falling, slow motion was the rule. My appointments with the neurologist were cancelled on and off but I made an appearance in 2006. Dr W. was not happy. 'Why did you cancel your last appointment?'

'I gave your receptionist plenty of notice.'

'That's not the point. I need to keep track of your progress. Please lie down on the massage table.'

I was supposed to lift my legs while Dr. W. pushed down on them. The right leg refused to behave. It barely moved when I tried to lift it. He tapped my legs to see if my reflexes worked. They did. Permission to get off the table was granted. I sat on a chair. Dr. W. stared at me, raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. 'How are the injections going?'

'I stopped the injections way back. They didn't hurt but the whole process was a nightmare. It was like . . . maybe . . . being a drug addict.'

'Why didn't you ring and let me know?'

'It didn't occur to me. I returned them to the chemist. Maybe they sell them to somebody else. Could you have used them?'

'No, of course not and neither can the chemist.'

'What a waste! All that stuff costs over $2000 month. I got it on the PBS because of my age. How do young people manage? It's a rip-off. You told me it's not a cure. Please tell me again what it's for.'

'It may slow down the progress of the MS. Young people can buy it at a cheaper rate. Has the MS Society been in touch?'

'Yes. They sent someone to show me how to mix the drugs and inject the stuff.'

'Have you been to physio classes?'

'Tried it for a while. The exercises were impossible. Things like lifting my legs with weights strapped on them and practising step-ups with phone books. I could barely walk to the car afterwards.'

'Physio is very important. You must go at least three times a week.'

'I'll try.'

'Good. Now I spoke to you about steroids last year. You were not interested. You must try them.'

'Are they addictive?'

'No. They are not anabolic steroids. I'll organise _Hospital at Home_ at Monash. They'll ring you and make an appointment at the hospital. There are three infusions done over three days. The first one is done at Monash, the next two in your home.'

'I'm not doing any more injections at home.'

'They are infusions, not injections. A drip is set up in your arm. You're only at the hospital for an hour or so for the first one. A nurse visits you over the next two days for the other two. Hospital staff will give you a list of what you have to provide at home.'

After leaving Dr. W's office, it was hard to believe I had agreed to do everything he wanted me to do. My efforts to become a charming, amiable lady were sincere. Some days I didn't feel like being pleasant. Most of the time, there was no choice. My behaviour was compulsive, often nasty. Dr. W. was lucky he got me on a nice day. My efforts with the physio were on and off. After the third corticosteroid infusion, my energy was amazing. I was so excited but after 24 hours, exhaustion returned. It didn't help my goal. Being and staying charming seemed impossible.

I made an appointment with Monica. My first couple of questions related to the supposed treatment of the MS. 'Why have I agreed to most of the neurologist's suggestions?'

'Your beliefs in your conscious mind are constantly being over ruled by the diagnosis. You think you can heal yourself but your subconscious mind was programmed when you were a child.'

'We talked about this last time. Are you saying that all my praying and positive thinking would not have altered that early programming?'

'That's right. The subconscious mind is nearly impossible to change. Most parents believe in sickness, doctors and medication. Your behaviour is compulsive according to your program.'

I stared at her in disbelief. 'Are you suggesting that I'm behaving like a child?'

'Your subconscious mind is in control of your life. It's the same for everybody. Your psyche believes in doctors but your conscious mind is in denial.'

'Do you mean that if you don't get a good program when you're a kid, you can never change what you believe? Your life could be a nightmare!'

'Yes.'

An invisible fist punched into my chest and held there. Then I remembered Bob at Unity.

'The man from church said my belief in God wasn't strong enough. He told me to really get to know God and then everything would be okay. I need to work on that, forgot about it.'

Monica rolled her eyes. 'The first thing you need to understand is God is energy. You control your life. Your existence unfolds according to your subconscious program, good or bad.'

My face locked into a stunned expression, mouth gaped and eyes widened with fear. The stupidity learned in my childhood was still lurking. Free will was a fairytale. Years of chanting affirmations had not and probably never would penetrate my subconscious. The old programs were still intact. My conscious mind was intelligent and confident. My subconscious mind was spilling over with rubbish. The FAXA disaster was inevitable. Success was never going to happen to me constantly. My conscious and my subconscious were in conflict all the time. No wonder I was screwed up. Monica was giving me time to absorb her words. I stared at her.

'I don't like making friends. Why?'

'Can you think of a reason in your childhood?'

'We moved interstate when I was twelve and again when I was fifteen. My parents told my brothers and me not to tell our friends because we would never see them again. And we didn't.'

'Your subconscious has that information. You don't like making friends because it involves risk. You'll get hurt.'

'Oh my God! That makes so much sense. I've been trying to be nice to everybody hoping it will help my healing. It's difficult for me to be charming. It's an effort. Being nasty, judgemental and arrogant comes naturally to me.'

'It's all associated with the problem you have making friends. Nasty people don't make friends easily. Unconsciously, you don't want friends. You have no idea what's in your subconscious mind but your life will reflect it.'

'What am I going to do, Monica? You've opened up a can of worms.'

'You're the only one who might be able to change at least parts of your subconscious mind. Make a list of things that worry you. Try and match it up with childhood stuff. I think it will help you.'

'It will be a long list.'

'Good. Do you remember what I told you last time we spoke? When your real feelings are negative, don't allow them to stay buried in your gut. It's important to feel them. Ignoring them will poison your body. That's why you've got MS.'

'Do you really believe that?'

'You must feel your feelings daily. With all the drama in your life, you've built up another residue of pain and suffering. Please do not bury your feelings again. Don't let some lousy disease throw you off track. I also want you to practise loving yourself. That alone will change your life. There are no quick fixes.'

Love myself? I wouldn't know where to start.

Ben rang nearly every day. He always wanted to know when he could visit. Eventually, I suggested a week in August. It wasn't long enough for Ben. 'Maybe we can make it two weeks. I'll be driving down.'

One week would be enough. 'Let's wait and see how we go.'

The daily phone calls continued. August arrived too soon. Ben rang when he was ready to leave. 'I've decided to stay overnight in Bairnsdale, reach your place mid-afternoon tomorrow.' He rang from Bairnsdale and confirmed everything, excited about the next day. 'See you between two and three o'clock, darl. I've missed you so much.'

The following day was a nightmare. Would dressing up for Ben be a mistake? For me, the relationship was strictly a friendship. The occasional visit was enough. I waffled to myself until lunch time then put on the clothes and jewellery Ben had purchased. Reading helped me relax. At two o'clock, my attention focused on the clock. Three o'clock, four o'clock, time was dragging, eyes were so fixated they felt scratchy. By five o'clock, my alter ego was in control. _'He's changed his_ _mind. This is his way of dumping you_. The voice in my mind kept nagging. _Why_ _would he want to spend time with you? Especially now you've got MS._ It was my lousy self-worth having a bitch. I couldn't even be nice to myself. My phone rang often but there was nobody on the line. As arranged, I met my family at the pub for a meal. Alison frowned. 'Where's Ben? I thought we were going to meet him.'

'Don't know. He didn't turn up.'

'How come? Have you been in touch at all?'

'He rang last night from Bairnsdale. He stayed the night there on his way down.'

'What time did you expect him?'

'Hours ago. He's not answering his mobile, probably gone home.'

'Why would you think that? Did you argue?'

'No.'

She grabbed my arm. 'Maybe he had an accident.'

I stared at her. 'That didn't occur to me. His car could be in a ditch somewhere.'

'You'll have to ring some hospitals.'

The mother role suited her. She was better at it than I was. 'Do you think so?'

'You have to do something, mum. Maybe ring the police.'

I felt like an idiot, made excuses and went home. Guilt was rampant, a familiar feeling. There must have been an accident. My mind was so busy feeling sorry for me, Ben's disappearance had not been handled correctly. Hospitals had nothing to report. By morning my gut was churning. Coffee helped. My phone rang a couple of times but once again, there was nobody on the line. The next time it rang, it was Ben's friend in Merimbula. 'Hi, this is John. Ben gave me your phone number before he left. I insisted because he was travelling alone. Is he there yet?'

'No. He rang from Bairnsdale the night before last but nothing since.'

'My phone rang this morning. There was nobody on the line but the call was from Ben's mobile number.'

'I haven't got caller ID. My phone rang a couple of times early on. There was nobody on the line. I'd better hang up in case he tries again. Please ring me if you hear from him.'

'You too. Have you got my number?'

'Yes.'

Ben's mobile was a new toy. Could his phone be out of range? Mine rang again. I grabbed it. 'Is that you, Ben?'

No answer. 'Ben, I can't hear you. Get out of the car and speak to me again.'

I held my breath until he yelled. 'Can you hear me now?'

Tears were close. 'Yes. Are you, all right?'

He didn't answer. I shouted. 'Speak to me.'

'Lost my way, been driving all night.'

A chill slid over me. 'Do you know where you are now?'

He sounded sort of vague. 'Yes, but I can't find Melbourne. Don't feel right.'

Alison had walked in the door during the conversation. The drama was all too much for me. Talking was impossible. My face looked like a waterfall. I gave my daughter the phone. She managed to find out Ben's whereabouts. It was a tiny place just past Warrigal. He was parked over the road from the pub. I was a mental wreck. Alison made the decisions. She took me to collect him. Ben did not look well. He seemed quite strange. I offered to drive his car to Dingley. Ben's car was new but big and manual like Tom used to prefer. Since he died, my cars had always been small and automatic with power steering and air conditioning. Tom would have turned in his grave after every purchase. I enjoyed his lack of control over my life but it was guilt fodder. My stupidity meant guilt was always part of my life. The drive home was scary. Ben was disoriented with patchy memory loss. Having to change gears constantly made my driving a hazard.

After changing cars at my place, I drove Ben straight to the local clinic. The doctor thought he may have had a stroke. She told me to take him to a place in Frankston so he could have a brain scan. Afterwards, we sat together in the waiting room. It seemed like ages before we were taken into an office to see a doctor. 'I want you to go straight across the road to emergency at the Frankston Hospital. They are expecting you.'

My voice murmured. 'What's the problem?'

'The doctors at the hospital will tell you all about it. I have spoken to your GP.'

'What did she say?'

'She said if they don't attend to you as soon as you get there, you must ring her immediately.'

The doctors at the Frankston Hospital did not waste any time. Ben had a brain tumour. My car was left in the car park so I could accompany him to the Alfred Hospital in an ambulance. Being at the Alfred was like a re-run. They say life sets exams. If you don't get them right, you must do them all again. What the fuck! Tom's demands were awful. He got what he wanted. He always got what he wanted. Why the repeat? Arms crossed my chest and hugged my body. Breathing was difficult. Doctors at the Alfred decided to remove the tumour. They wanted me to sign a consent form. My body started to shiver. There were too many memories at the Alfred. I didn't want to sign. 'We're not married. That's a huge responsibility.'

'Somebody has to sign.'

'We don't even live together.'

'This is urgent. If we wait until his family arrives, it might be too late. There's nobody else, only you.'

My signature was scribbled on the form. They removed the tumour and discovered the whole truth. Ben's body was riddled with cancer. The oncologist gave him only six months to live. The cosmos had decided on a detailed repeat of my husband's situation in 1984. My heart wailed silently. I didn't want to do it again. Ben had not been my husband for twenty-five years. Why the repeat? I wanted to sort out my own life. Why did I have MS? There was no time to fret about a man I hardly knew.

Ben could be discharged but he had to return daily for the next week. They wanted to give him radiation on the brain. They would discuss further action when that was complete. Ben's son and daughter, strangers in my world, travelled to Melbourne and rented a three-bedroom apartment in Punt Road. It was expensive and spacious. No doubt Ben was footing the bill so we could walk to the hospital. He wanted me with him 24/7. His family were an odd mix. The son had a gentle manner. He was married with a couple of kids. The daughter had come out of the woodwork. She had a distinctive style. Her bizarre jewellery, unusual shoes and an out-of-control mop of tight, black, curly hair attracted attention. She had a handsome partner, no kids, hadn't seen her father for years. Ben's solicitor later referred to her as _the estranged daughter_. It was about two weeks before the radiation was completed.

We had another chat to the oncologist. 'You haven't got much time left. We can't fix the cancer but if we organise chemotherapy interstate, you'll live a bit longer.'

Ben blinked. 'What would you do, mate?'

The oncologist didn't hesitate. 'I would definitely have some chemotherapy. It will give you more time.'

The guy must have been working on commission. What about quality time rather than quantity? Ben would have to travel to Sydney or Canberra for chemo and everybody knows the after effects. We talked to a young palliative care nurse who seemed sensible. She looked like a tiny pissed off fairy. After checking Ben's file, she planned a meeting with all of us. She held Ben's hand as she spoke. Her voice was hesitant. 'Please don't quote me. I'll get into trouble.'

'Of course, we won't.'

'If you were my dad, I'd tell you to refuse any more treatment.'

Ben nodded slowly. He turned towards me, grabbed my hand and started to cry. He had my sympathy but I couldn't stop going over the whole scenario. It was weird. What was going on? Why me? Tom's attitude to death had been almost flippant. _'I'm the one who's dying. Do what you're told.'_ Ben was frightened. ' _I'm going to die. Please don't leave me._ ' The two men were like chalk and cheese. Although Tom had behaved like a bastard, he had earned the respect of a lot of people. Twenty years later, I understood why. Compared to Ben, Tom was a hero. Ben was a wimp.

The following day, Ben's son and daughter told me about the plans they had made. The son needed to return to work in Sydney. The daughter wanted to look after her father at his home in Merimbula. She would cook and do the housework. They both thought I should go to Merimbula and be Ben's companion until he died. They had discussed it with Ben and that's what he wanted. I was gob smacked. Nobody had bothered to ask me what I wanted. My first reaction was to scream and yell at these strangers who wanted to take over my life. However, already riddled with guilt, it could be risky to invite more. Guilt about Tom had given me grief for years. Disappointing Ben meant my guilt would escalate. I made the necessary phone calls. Each person objected to my decision. Alison was upset. 'That's ridiculous. You're not married to the man. How long are you going to be away?'

'The doctors have given him six months to live. He's a nice man. I have to do my best.' There was no sensible rhyme or reason for my decision. He was not my soul mate but he was going to die. How do you say no?

# Chapter 12: 2007–2009

Ben's daughter and her partner drove Ben and me to Merimbula. The number of steps at the house was now a problem. I had to concentrate to keep my balance, one step at a time. Ben slept a lot. He was very upset when his hair started to fall out. Depression made him angry. Before long, charming Ben had left the building. My feelings were irrelevant. I was trapped. Ben didn't want me out of his sight. A knot of doubt would not leave my gut. What was I doing here? Had I made a huge mistake? I didn't owe this man anything. My fear of guilt seemed inappropriate.

Ben had a large collection of cymbidium orchids. I was desperate to cheer him up. 'Your orchids are looking beautiful. Why don't you give them away to your friends?'

'What on earth for?'

'The orchids will remind them of you.'

'How?'

'Anything could happen to them after you're gone. You care about these plants so why not give them to people who will appreciate them?'

He grunted and made a few phone calls. People were delighted so Ben was pleased with himself. He smiled over the next few days as his friends expressed their gratitude.

We started having coffee and cake in town nearly every morning. Sometimes, Ben would insist on taking me shopping. Giving away his orchids must have inspired him to buy me more jewellery. I didn't need it or want it but he wouldn't listen. He did not spoil his daughter. She glared at him and stamped around the house. It was a surprise when she confided in me. 'I don't know why I'm doing this. It's like living in La-La Land.'

Ben was very demanding. Resentment brought back memories of Tom's favourite saying. _I'm the one_ _who's dying_. Why my obsessive obligation? What was the universe trying to tell me? My health was becoming a major problem and so was Ben. He expressed his wishes to me concerning his will. 'You have to accept one third of my estate.'

'That's ridiculous. I don't want your money.'

'Why should my kids get it all?'

'They're family. If you leave me any money, your children will be very upset. They'll fight your decision. They will win. I don't want your money. What part don't you understand?'

Ben still insisted on talking to his solicitor about his stupid will. He wanted me to drive him there. I still hated his car but his whingeing won. Reading magazines in the waiting area kept me amused for about an hour. When Ben finally appeared, he looked concerned. On the way home, I found out why.

'My solicitor felt he had to warn me. He thinks you're after my money. When I told him you loved me, he couldn't stop laughing.'

'Who does this man think he is? How dare he make assumptions about my character!'

'Would you like to meet him?'

'What for? Your will has nothing to do with me. Just leave your money to your kids and sign the damn thing.'

Ben had another appointment the following day. I refused to go. It was none of my business. Ben's best friend called in. He and his partner had travelled to Melbourne to see Ben when he was in hospital. They were both divorced and referred to their relationship as _'the left overs'._ Ben had a small blood pressure machine. He and his friend used it regularly. John was a good bloke. His partner couldn't take her eyes off Ben. She was a piece of work.

John had organised a surprise luncheon at a local restaurant for Ben's 70th birthday the following weekend. Ben thought it was just the four of us. About fifteen people had been invited. The food was good. I encouraged Ben to move around the table. It was like a re-run for me. Celebrating birthdays when you had a terminal illness was not my idea of fun. I'd been there, done that. Mind you, my life was not amusing or pleasurable. What did I know about fun? Ben enjoyed the day so that was a relief.

The following week Ben insisted he had to see his solicitor again. 'Please come with me. I want you to meet him. If I don't understand something, you can explain it to me later.' Thank God, I agreed and discovered what was going on. The solicitor had told Ben that he could not change his will. He called the existing will a joint living will. Ben and his wife had made it before she died. Ben was insisting that his solicitor find a way to change the will. He wanted to leave one third to his kids from his first marriage, one third to his deceased wife's children from her first marriage and one third to me. In the existing joint will, one half of the estate was left to Ben's children, one half to his wife's children. Ben's solicitor was consulting with a Sydney barrister to see if there was a precedent to allow Ben to include me. I was furious. They had no right to change a dead woman's will. The solicitor was a con job. Ben was naïve enough to be paying him a fortune so he could play his stupid games. Hands on hips, leaning towards the solicitor, my voice filled the room. 'If you don't stop this fiasco now, I'll report you to the Law Institute. When the newspapers find out what you're doing, the scandal will ruin you.' Then I glared at Ben. 'How dare you! You're the one who's dying but it doesn't give you the right to act like an arsehole. You told me you never cheated on your wife. What do you think you're doing now? I don't want your fucking money. Give me your keys. I'll be in the car.' I stormed out of the room. Sitting in the car, trying to calm down, my anger escalated. Before long, Ben appeared. He apologised before driving to his house.

His daughter was there. My mind was made up.

'I'm going home as soon as I can get a flight.'

Ben pouted. 'What about me?'

'Your daughter will be here with you plus your son and his family will visit.'

'You can't leave me.'

'Yes. I. can. You've changed. I don't have to put up with your behaviour. People who are dying think life is all about them. You're not my problem.'

He pleaded with his daughter. 'Tell her she can't leave me.'

'Let her go, dad. Please don't worry. She's not worth it. I'll look after you.' She smirked at me.

That night Tom haunted my dreams. Was I running away from Ben? Wanting to run away from Tom had nagged me for years. We were married with children. That was supposed to be why it didn't happen. The real reason was simple. I didn't have the guts to leave. Tom bought his beer then doled out the bit of change left from his meagre wage. I would write out my shopping list, price it, add it up then cross out stuff that there wasn't enough money for. There was no point in complaining. My mother obeyed my father. I learnt the lesson. Ben and Tom both used their illness to get what they wanted. _I'm the one who's dying_ was their message loud and clear. Maybe Ben came into my life to teach me that I didn't have to put up with bull shit from the men in my life. Wrong. If Andrew had a terminal illness, I'd be there, no matter what. Ben had never been my soul mate.

I packed my bag and flew to Melbourne the next day. It was great to be home, on my own. Years ago, women had often made comments to me about their living arrangements. 'I love being on my own. There's nobody telling me what to do or what to say or wanting to discuss their problems.' I didn't believe those women, hated being on my own. Now I loved it.

Shirley was relieved to have me home. 'I'm so glad you're back. That arse-hole was never right for you. Was he still using Viagra?' I had missed her straight up conversation.

'He wanted to try it but making the effort would have been too risky. If he started, a Viagra climax might have taken him out on top of me.'

'Oh my God! Is a Viagra climax that good?'

'It seems more powerful. I suppose it gives an impotent man his balls back so he's filled with self-importance, maybe arrogance.'

'I'll get one of my guys to give it a try. If it works so well for an impotent man, imagine the results for a guy who can climax on call.'

Nothing had changed. I sometimes wondered if Shirley would ever stop wanting sex. My interest had waned somewhat.

Alison called in. She had tears in her eyes. 'Mum, you're not going back, are you?'

'No way.'

'How's the MS?'

'It's about the same, hard to judge. Old age is similar. It sneaks up on you and you don't realise how you've changed until you think back to how you were. I'll probably have to get a walking stick soon. I'm scared of falling.'

'When do you go back to the neurologist?'

'Don't know. I'll probably leave it until next year.'

'Your grandchildren miss you. Please come for lunch on Sunday.'

'Love to. See you then.'

Clare hadn't changed. She thought the situation was ridiculous and leaving Ben was the right thing to do. She was still enjoying golf and had gone back to the book club. We discussed my last session with Monica. 'I'm trying to work out why I've got MS, relating it back to my subconscious. I didn't get a chance at Ben's place.'

Nobody could understand my decision to baby sit Ben. I had not known him long enough to put my own life on hold just to suit him. Considering my health, it was absurd. Monica had told me how important it was to feel my feelings daily. I had been living with Ben for over three months. The only time my feelings surfaced was in the lawyer's office on my last day in Merimbula. Prior to that, my feelings had been buried so I could practise being charming.

Monica's instructions were remembered. Lying down, I asked myself _'How do you feel?'_ over and over. It took a while. When my feelings did come to the surface, blood pounded in my ears as I sobbed. My head thumped. It felt like a front-end loader had pulled up beside me and dumped another couple of tons of garbage into my consciousness. My guilt about Tom was still there. Ben didn't get a look-in. Bashing pillows and punching the couch in between bawling my eyes out eventually calmed me down. Monica's advice was right. Feeling my feelings did help. I felt lighter, more alive, even though the process was exhausting. At least three times a week, I got into the habit of relaxing and asking myself about my feelings.

Dealing with my sub-conscious mind was next on the list. Monica had advised me to make a list of current problems and try to match them to childhood events. Some of my whinges had been noted before the Ben drama. Lying down, I observed my mind-body activity for a while. Playing the witness is sort of like meditation. My parents had died a long time ago but I needed answers. They didn't love me. They didn't even like me. I was a bad girl. They were ashamed of me. Why? Hugs were unheard of. Love was a dirty word. My mind drifted.

I'm a kid again. Skinny, short brown hair and a face full of freckles. My father is the boss. He's balding with yellow teeth and a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth. He's wearing baggy khaki shorts. He's always swearing. My mother has short brown permed hair. She looks respectable. There's a big photo of her on the wall. It was taken when she won a music award in her twenties. She had long straight brown hair and big brown eyes. It doesn't look like the same person. My father drives a utility and my mother rides her bike. She's always saying stuff like 'Wait till your father comes home.' We live in Grafton in northern NSW. I'm in primary school, about nine years old. I've got two older brothers. One of them is quiet and clever. The other one is crazy. My father is always horrible when he comes home. If my mother says we've been bad, he pushes us into the back room. His belt is hanging on the wall. He orders us to take our pants off so he can 'belt our backsides'. I'm sobbing and trying to cover my body then I'm crawling like an animal, cutting, ducking, darting, moving back and forth, always hopeful of evading the belt, especially the buckle. I feel like it's all happening now. Bile rises in my throat. I try to swallow but I'm choking. I cross my arms to protect myself. My hands feel the couch. Then I'm back there again. By the time he stops, I've got welts on my bottom, my chest is heaving. I'm told to get dressed but my brothers are dragged into the kitchen. My father makes them stand naked in front of mother and me. I can see them now. They each cross their hands to try and cover their penis. Father is striding around the room screaming abuse and swearing at the boys while mother puts cream on my bottom. Maybe father enjoys the beltings. He does it often. I hate him but I know I deserve it. I'm a bad girl. I'm not sure why but they're always yelling stuff like that at me. They're the grown-ups so they know best. I try to be good because I want my father to love me. He doesn't so I must be bad.

My eyes open. This stuff feels like it's happening right now. It's like the worst time in my life has been filmed in full colour with surround sound. I'm dry reaching. What happened that day? What did we do wrong? The beltings were regular. They were the reason I hated my father but it was confusing because I loved him a lot. Most of the time he was screaming at me but now and again his face relaxed. That only happened in the mornings. Fathers aren't supposed to belt their children. I thought Tom was a lousy father but he didn't belt our kids. He was drunk every night and he was strict but it was hands off. Maybe my father was belted by his father. I know my brothers copied our father and belted their children.

Clare and I chatted often. We talked about anything and everything. Clare and Shirley had never met. They didn't even know about each other. Clare was my sensible friend. Shirley was a wild child. I decided to confide in Clare. She listened carefully to my description of the flashback. Her face twisted as she wrung her hands in distress.

'Why did Monica want you to do this?'

'Going back to my childhood might help me change my subconscious mind.'

'Do you think those episodes affect your life now?'

'My parents must have had a reason to abuse their children. I can't love myself until I understand their behaviour. I value your opinion, Clare. You seem content.'

'Having a childhood filled with love certainly helps. Your mum and dad were probably abused as children. That sort of behaviour is handed on from one generation to the next. They didn't love you because they didn't know how to love you. They did the best they could.'

'It all seems pointless.'

'Not really. There's a little girl in you crying out to be loved. Try talking to her. Little Annie wants you to love her. Think about that while I make the coffee.'

Clare's advice made sense. Monica had told me that loving myself was the answer. By the time the kettle boiled, I was smiling. 'Thanks, Clare.'

'It's a pleasure. Come on, let's be here now. Forget the past. How's the MS?'

'Much the same. The MS Society says that remitting relapsing MS is very gradual.'

'Meaning what?'

'The symptoms may not change too much in the first ten or twelve years.'

'That's good.'

'The doctors haven't found a cure. The drugs the neurologist offers may delay the secondary progressive MS which usually comes next. Nobody knows for sure. I've decided against the drugs. Young people give them a go but at my age, the side effects are not worth it. Nobody seems to care about what causes MS. Some articles mention self-sabotage. The immune system is attacking the body instead of defending it.'

'Does the MS Society help?'

'They're there if you want to talk about it or join a support group.'

'Does that interest you?'

'No way. Being in a support group would be awful for me. I'm working on getting better. Discussing how lousy my day has been could tip me over the edge.'

'I suppose everybody's different.'

It was strange at first but talking to the little kid inside me helped. Shirley was still my best friend. I didn't want her to accuse me of losing the plot so she wasn't told about my very new best friend. Nobody needed to know the details, it was private stuff. Little A and I had a lot to catch up on. The following week, after chatting to little Annie, I was falling asleep in front of the television. Monica's explanation of why I found it difficult to make friends had been on my mind all day. _You don't like making friends because it involves risk. You'll get hurt._ The words must have jolted my memory. Another flashback started.

We're still living in Grafton. I'm twelve years old, finishing first year at high school. I've got lots of friends at school. My mother tells us what father wants. 'We're moving to Burnie in Tasmania next week. Don't tell anybody, it's private. There's no need to say goodbye, you'll never see these people again.' These people are my friends. I'm confused and want to know why I can't tell my friends but I'm not game to ask. It wouldn't be so bad if we were moving around the corner. My mother's right. I never see my friends again. My thoughts jump to Tasmania. Now I'm at the new school. Going to a different school is awful. The work is nothing like what the last school taught. The kids stare at me but they don't talk to me. It takes ages before another kid smiles at me. I end up with a couple of friends but I'm not very popular. I'm fifteen and nearing the end of fourth year when my parents declare we are moving again. I really want to go to university in Tasmania and study to be a teacher. Mother disagrees. 'Don't be ridiculous. We're moving to Brisbane. I'll get you a nice secure job in a bank up there.' There's no point in bickering about it. The same old advice is issued. 'No goodbyes. We're not coming back.' Another lot of friends are left behind. I cry myself to sleep every night.

Opening my eyes, I'm sniveling, catching my breath and feeling bewildered. Why were the family moves so private? Were we running away? What from? Father was a selfish bully but he could hold down a job. Both parents had secrets. They didn't share them with anybody. My brothers and I were not an important part of our parents' lives. Making friends had consequences. Losing friends was inevitable. Why risk being hurt? It wasn't worth it. These thoughts were obviously embedded in my subconscious. This lousy program was running my life. As I got older, a few people called me friend but not too many. Being nasty, judgmental and arrogant came naturally to me. It was my program! My bad behaviour was compulsive. Awful people rarely attract friendly people. Programmed to be horrible, making friends wasn't considered necessary. Nice people would never want to be my friend. Clare was an exception. Miss Congeniality was my name when Clare was around. I didn't even have to think about it. She was the type of person who treated everybody well. She just accepted me. Understanding my subconscious program helped me understand myself. It would be easier to love myself now. Little Annie was part of it all. I was locked in my childhood. There had to be a way out.

I was keeping Shirley up to date with my dull and dreary sex-free life. She didn't approve of my attitude. 'You should be visiting the neurologist on a regular basis. They've studied for years and know what they're talking about.' Shirley went to her GP every week without fail. She liked to have an operation regularly. The flowers, cards and visitors made it all worth-while. Once or twice every year she was admitted to hospital. The problems were many and varied. Her sex life had not slowed down. She was retired and talking about a holiday in Bali, with me. I put her on hold for the time being. Impatient to learn more about my subconscious mind, frustration nagged because the flashbacks were not happening regularly. Being charming still wasn't easy. Little A was doing well. The MS was horrible and my life was boring, boring, boring.

Weeks later, I was meditating, observing my inner body, when the same old question surfaced. Why the ghastly guilty feelings about Tom? They were always there. If there was an occasional interruption, the guilt was always rampant when it returned. Everything Tom demanded when he was dying had been done. Was it because of my relief when he died? Was it because I wanted him dead? If I didn't feel guilty, it would be an enormous load off my mind. The questions were always there. Unexpectedly, I'm sobbing.

_I'm a teenager, look about fifteen or sixteen. My boobs are big and my freckles have faded but I'm still a kid, standing and sobbing. I'm back there, shaking all over, freezing, but my hands are hot and sweaty. Churning feelings in my gut are making me dry retch. My mind is racing, going over and over all the drama. I'm heart-broken. Mum and dad have dumped me, proof they don't love me. They don't even want to see me. When we left Tasmania, my mother rented a house in Brisbane for the two of us_. My father flew to Darwin. He didn't even say goodbye. Mother got me a job in a bank. I hate it. Then she walks in my room and catches me crying again. Her words shock me. 'Don't be a sook. I'll get you sorted before I go.' My whole body shudders. Go where? 'I'll be joining your father in Darwin.' What about me? 'Darwin isn't suitable for young ladies.' Where will I live? 'You can move in with your aunty Flo now you're working.' I can't believe it! I'm fifteen, discarded like a pile of rubbish. Then it happens. I'm living with a crowd of foreigners. Being the outsider in a strange family is worse than being ignored at home. Aunty Flo is my father's sister. She's a stern woman with big, heavy boobs and a couple of chins. Her husband is skinny and bald with googly eyes. He's a milk-man, pinches my boobs every time he manages to get close. I want to punch him. I hate him. Their children, my cousins, wonder why I've been dumped on them. The girl is prettier than me and a couple of years younger. The two boys are good-looking, polite and boring. Maybe they've all been adopted. How can two ugly people have three attractive kids? We have nothing in common, barely speak. I don't belong here. It's like living with a bunch of strangers. _I don't like my parents but I'm desperately home-sick. I want to belong somewhere. Why don't my mother and father like me? What did I do? I tried so hard to be a good girl. My job in the ANZ Bank is horrible, feels like another new school. Nobody smiles at me. Nobody likes me. I've been abandoned. I have been abandoned. The word thumps over and over in my head. Abandoned. Abandoned. Abandoned. The feeling is familiar. I know the feeling. It's the same feeling I had when Tom died._

The message was clear. The message was wonderful. Adult Annie was not guilty. The child in Annie felt abandoned when Tom died. Tom had left her. She had nobody. She was scared. Her father had abandoned her because he didn't love her. Then Tom abandoned her because he didn't love her. I was not guilty. The feeling that I thought was guilt was a little girl's bewilderment and distress when someone important in her life deserted her. Adult Annie wanted Tom dead. Annie the child needed Tom in her life. It was so simple. Did all my problems have such straight-forward explanations? My subconscious mind was obviously full of a little girl's version of events. I had no choice. I was still behaving like a child. For some reason, exhaustion washed over me. My body felt like it had run a marathon. Knowing I was not guilty would make a huge difference to my life. Instead of accusing myself of wanting Tom dead, I could love the sad little girl within. Little A didn't know how to love. I whispered to her. 'Love you, Sweetie. Sorry for not understanding. We'll be okay.' I slept.

Understanding myself was great but it didn't change my behaviour. My patience ran out regularly. Being charming was spasmodic at best. Loving myself through Little A was wearing thin. My subconscious mind had all the answers but Monica was right. Changing the program seemed impossible. Demanding success, by using willpower, was considered. I wasn't game to go there. Observing my inner body made me totally relaxed and could lead to what I wanted. The next time it happened, I recognized the house in Perth. My parents had spent a year in Darwin then moved to West Australia. Still homesick, I got a transfer with the bank and moved to Perth to be with them. I'd forgotten my father didn't like me.

Seeing the house in my mind brings it all back. It's the worst feeling. I'm sixteen, nearly seventeen. My father doesn't belt me but I can hear his verbal abuse. I can see him chasing me down the street screaming obscenities because he doesn't like my dress. Brian, my friend from the bank, is a bit younger than me. Skinny, tight black curly hair, ready smile, flared trousers and a sense of humour makes him good company. He's catholic. My father hates Catholics. He's yelling at me. I can hear his voice. It's all about being born in Scotland and something to do with the orange and the green. 'You make your bed you'll have to lay in it, girl!' Working holidays are popular. I head for Melbourne. I can hear my father sneering at me. 'You'll end up a barmaid.' I can see my mother crying in the corner but not coming near me. I'm turning eighteen. Melbourne looks grey and grubby after squeaky clean Perth. One of my brothers has promised to organise accommodation at the City Arms Hotel, corner Elizabeth and Latrobe Streets. The room has been booked but my brother and his mates have left. They are now renting a house in a suburb called Carlton. I have no friends and no car and I'm living on my own in a second-rate pub at the wrong end of town. The building is grungy, room on its own, third floor, view of a red brick wall. I feel like I'm back there. It's sort of a weird feeling. I suppose I have nowhere else to go. Home is out of the question. I have very little money. My first job in Melbourne is using a ledger machine, the predecessor of computers. I see myself in the office. It's a great job and I love it. There's only one good thing about my room. It's walking distance to work.

The flashback was over but my mind was in overdrive, thoughts racing each other to have their say. Living in the CBD is trendy these days. In the fifties, it was radical, unheard of, strange. That time in my life was weird and lonely. Nobody at work was supposed to know about the pub. Then this girl I didn't know bailed me up. Her big boobs were fashionably pointy allowing her jumper to stretch with the strain of every breath. My boobs were big but I always did my best to cover them up. The girl raised her eyebrows and looked me up and down. Her voice was snooty. 'I want to leave my husband. Please organise a room for me at your hotel.' The girl was a stranger. She worked upstairs in Head Office. How did she know about the hotel? My reply was instinctive. 'Sorry, that's not possible.' Standing tall, she looked down on me. 'You are being ridiculous. It's a simple request.' Her marriage breakup was none of my business. Shoulders back, chin up, my look probably bordered on a sneer. 'The place is fully booked.' I turned my back on her and walked away. Half an hour later, the Managing Director sent for me. Clutching the edge of his desk with both hands, he leaned towards me. Short back and sides, suit and tie, I'd met him before but this was different. His face twisted with contempt, his creased forehead bulged. When he spoke, his upper lip twitched. 'You have been encouraging Mrs. W. to leave her husband. She told me you live in a second-rate hotel, something about you wanting a room-mate. If I had known you were living in a hotel, you would not be working here.' My voice was shaky. 'I did not ask Mrs. W. to leave her husband.' The man glared. 'But you do live in a hotel?' My nod was brief. 'Yes, but I didn't ask Mrs. W. to live there.' I was upset but he didn't care. 'You must leave this building immediately. Do not say goodbye to anyone, just go.' Stricken, in shock after the instant dismissal, I staggered up Elizabeth Street to my hotel room, fell on the bed and sobbed.

Remembering that day makes me snivel. My nose is running, breathing feels laboured. I have never forgotten the day I got the sack. That time in my life was a nightmare. The flashbacks were getting a bit frustrating. My hang-ups about sex had to come up at some stage. They were still gnawing away at me. I tried to imagine my life if I'd had a father who loved me as a father should. My mind didn't know how to imagine such a thing. It didn't know how to go there. Love and a sense of belonging, security and confidence were not in my program. How could I find myself? Did I want to? I was full of crap. Sex was a game I played. Being sexually detached was easy. Give them what they want. Call it love. My confusion made me weep.

# Chapter 13: 2010–2014

Shirley finally convinced me that a holiday in Bali was a great idea. Alison was not impressed. She still played the mother role. 'You hate the hot weather! It's not just humid, it's steamy! I don't think you should go!'

'The resort is air conditioned.'

'The footpaths are a nightmare. I nearly broke my neck on my last visit. You won't cope!'

'You're lucky you've been. If I don't go now, I never will.'

'Have you forgotten about the terrorists and their bombs? Please don't go.'

'We've bought our tickets.'

'What about your health?'

I would not change my mind. The fact that my health had deteriorated considerably was irrelevant. A walking stick was now necessary but not a big deal. It helped my balance. After walking about fifty metres, I would have to rest before continuing. Bali was now or never.

The travel agent talked non-stop in a shared office in Cheltenham. She asked why I needed a stick then waffled on about one of her local clients who knew a healer in Bali. 'Would you like to meet him? He's in touch with Bali all the time.' Why not? Harry was middle-aged with crew cut hair, casual clothes and old-fashioned desert boots. We met for coffee. His wife had been to Bali several times and Harry raved about the healer. Mind you, his wife had eventually died but apparently, she lived much longer than expected. Harry was a masseur. He had big plans. 'The accommodation in Bali is basic. However, before long it will be a luxurious healing retreat, more like a resort.' His business card stated his full name, address and phone number. He also wrote down a Balinese number and told me who to ask for. Feeling intrigued and hopeful, I shook his hand.

The big decision was made to order a wheelchair for Melbourne and Bali airports. Having to be pushed around was embarrassing but there was no way I could manage all the walking. Shirley decided to also order a wheelchair. 'If there are two of us, people won't stare so much.' At one stage, we had been parked in our wheelchairs and told we would have to wait twenty minutes. Shirley jumped out of her chair and went shopping. Not being able to join her really pissed me off. That was the sort of blaming syndrome I was trying to overcome. Loving myself was never easy. Sometimes Little Annie was blamed for the multiple sclerosis. I always apologised and gave her a hug.

Shirley told me she had booked a double room at the resort. 'Are you out of your mind? What about your fetish for fucking?' She laughed. I insisted that she promise to never indulge her favourite pastime unless she was at least one hundred metres away from our room.

A guide met us at the airport in Denpasar, compliments of the travel agent. He spoke good English and obviously knew the area. It was dusk as we drove through a motley collection of villages. When we arrived at the motel in Seminyak, we were pulled up at the gate by a security guard. He flashed his torch around and under the van, looked at our ID then waved us through. We checked in and put our passports and extra money in the safe. Then they took us on a very long walk to a very ordinary room and left us there. Shirley picked up the phone. 'This room is not suitable. It's too small. You will have to find another one so we can move.' Reception told her they were booked out. 'We will see, maybe tomorrow.' The following day Shirley changed her mind. Our room was towards the rear of the building, close to the outdoor dining area, beach and pool. There was a driveway down one side. 'Our guide can pick us up near the room. That will save you the long walk to reception.'

The following day, Shirley went shopping for a few hours with the guide. During the day, exploring the building and surrounds, I discovered the motel had a huge problem. By the time Shirley returned, my gut was churning. Anxious to share, my voice wobbled. 'I can't believe this, Shirley.'

'What's the problem?'

'There are steps everywhere in this place and there is not one bloody handrail in sight.'

'Where are the steps?'

'There are about eight up to the pool, ten down to the beauty salon, six up to the room, ten down to the bar and nine up to the outdoor dining area.'

'No handrails? That can't be true. I'll speak to management.'

'Been there, done that. We discussed the problem. My demands were simple and straight forward.'

'What did you say to them?'

'My exact words were: I want to know why you bloody idiots do not have any handrails in this building.'

'What did they say?'

' _What you mean handrail?'_

'What did you say?'

'You get them at Bunnings.'

'Is there a Bunnings here?'

My voice was seriously sarcastic. 'I don't know and I don't care. Clearly, it's a third world country.'

Shirley picked up the phone. 'I need a handrail. I need several handrails. I need you to install at least six handrails. I need you to install one next to each staircase. I need this done today. I'm a VIP and my friend is disabled. Do what I tell you. Do it now.'

She slammed the phone down and kept talking. 'Obviously, a Balinese person does not need a handrail. Disabled people must stay at home. That is dreadful.'

'People are probably shot at dawn if they develop a limp.'

'Maybe the problem is all over Bali. There are lots of stairs at the shops without handrails. Mind you, I wasn't looking for them.'

'Let's just forget it. The healer might wave his magic wand.'

The food was great and the dining area overlooked the ocean. The beach and the pool were too hard for me to access. A lovely garden, comfortable chair and reading kept me amused, for a while. The second half of our holiday was to be spent in Ubud which was inland. It took half a dozen phone calls to the healer's contact number before somebody answered in English. An appointment was made to see the man himself.

Our guide drove me to what looked like a deserted motel site in Denpasar. Recognising an Australian, the locals gave me priority over the crowd of waiting residents. The interpreter was thick set, looked Balinese and wore casual clothes. 'My name is Joe. Please remove your shoes.' Joe placed my shoes separate to another pile. He ushered me into what looked like an office. The healer sat behind a large desk. My expectations about the healer's appearance had been definite. Everybody knows what a healer looks like. Old man, beard, turban and traditional flowing robe. I was wrong. A young, clean, handsome man wearing what vaguely resembled an air force uniform stared at me. We eyeballed each other then he smiled and chatted to Joe in their own language. He took my hand and squeezed it hard while he nodded his head. Then he dismissed me with a wave. Was that it? What was going on? My positive attitude kicked in. Not healed but not out of pocket.

Joe took me into another office and explained the situation. 'You can be healed but you will have to return to Bali two or three times, stay on site for four nights each time and be treated with massage and herbs.'

'How much will it cost?'

'Eight thousand dollars in advance, plus air fares of course.'

'Is there a money back guarantee?'

Joe frowned but he didn't hesitate. 'Yes, of course.'

The question was ridiculous but my mind was in overdrive. Somebody could kidnap the guru and bring him to Australia. Maybe VCAT would handle it. I had enough experience to present the case.

My first four nights could start the next day. The motel room, large and clean with air conditioning and television, had no hot water. This was not uncommon in Bali. Joe told me to think about it and phone him.

The guide drove me back to Seminyak. He listened to my dilemma but didn't offer any advice. Shirley was out so I went over and over it. Different voices in my head kept waffling on with different opinions. Finally, my patience ran out. I stamped my foot and spoke out loud. 'Just do it. You're here now. If you go home, you'll never come back and knowing you, you'll regret not giving it a go.' Joe answered the phone. He was delighted with my decision. 'That's wonderful. I'll see you tomorrow.'

Shirley had met people and was enjoying the beach and the shopping. Her reaction to my decision was unexpected. 'You don't know this man. You could be raped or murdered. He could be a drug smuggler.'

'You worry too much. I've already booked.'

'I can't let you go. What would your family say?'

'Look Shirl, you are having a good time and I am not your responsibility.'

'I've met a couple from Melbourne who come here often. You must talk to them. They will help you make the right decision.'

Fortunately, her friends agreed with me. 'Go for it. You've got nothing to lose.'

We arranged to meet in Ubud a few days later.

Our guide took me back to the motel site. He didn't say much until he dropped me off. Shaking his head, he told me to ring him if there were problems. My confidence level dropped but it was too late. This opportunity would never come up again. Backing out was no longer an option. Joe knew they would have to wait for their money. He trusted me to arrange payment when I got home. Taking my bag, he led me to my room. I smiled. 'Is it okay to go for a walk sometimes?' The man frowned and shook his head. Stupid question. It was awfully hot and the area looked ordinary, to say the least. Thank God there were heaps of books in my bag. Joe showed me how to work the air con and the TV then he left. 'See you tomorrow.' My stomach dropped but the hero part of me kicked in. 'Did you think he was going to hang around and hold your hand?'

Nobody spoke much English including the people on the television. On the first night, a young Balinese guy came in the room and smiled nervously. 'Breakfast? Eggs?' I nodded my head. 'Okay.' The following morning two lonely hard-boiled eggs rolled around a plate on their own. A full glass of foul tasting herbal liquid and a handful of pills were on the tray. Not even a slice of toast. Coffee and tea were not on the menu. Nobody in the kitchen spoke English. The water in the tiny bathroom area was freezing. I had a wash. A shower was out of the question. Turning into an ice block didn't appeal.

In between regular naps, herbs, pills and massage, reading filled my day. The co-dependent book was alarming. Flicking the pages was enlightening. 'That's Andrew. He did that all the time. He was the co-dependent one.' Then my heart seemed to stop. 'That's me.' A chill slid over me. 'Oh my God. That is so me.' My compulsive behaviour was described perfectly. Apparently, an alcoholic and a co-dependent person could be in a crowded room but they would automatically gravitate to each other. It was all part of the programming.

Two Indonesian guys took it in turns to pummel my body before every meal and again at midnight. After every massage, herbal stuff and pills appeared. Holding my nose helped me to tolerate the smell but the liquid looked and tasted like blood. Only a vampire would go for it. The masseurs chattered in their own language. Previous massages had created some problems for me but not like this. These were painful. Excruciating is a better description. This sort of torture was not on my bucket list. On the second day, my body started to spasm in anticipation as soon as those two guys walked in the door. My pain threshold was supposed to be high but this was a whole new experience. On a range of one to ten, this was ten, having a baby rated one. Hoping for flashbacks, I occasionally tried to meditate, but it was too difficult. The bloody masseurs would walk in the door whenever. These guys didn't even knock and obviously couldn't tell the time. My body always jerked in anticipation. What was I doing here? Nobody spoke English. Two days and two nights had passed. I had two more nights to go. Desperation made me grab one guy's arm and try sign language. Dialing an invisible phone and repeating Ring Joe over and over actually worked. When Joe appeared, my pride disintegrated in a waterfall of tears. My inner child wailed as I covered my face with my hands.

'I want to go home. I hate it here. The massages are dreadful. I can't take any more of their punching. My body hurts. Those blokes don't know what they're doing. Massage is supposed to involve firm stroking. They have thumped me all over. It can't be good for me. Please get me out of here.'

Joe gaped. 'Nobody else has complained. I'll contact the healer. Back in a minute.'

My sobbing filled the room. Joe returned.

'Healing is still possible without the massage, just take the pills.'

The tears stopped. My head moved from side to side. Shock made me blink rapidly as I chewed my lip. Doubt had disappeared. The set-up was a scam. Pull the other one, Joe.

Surprisingly anxious to help, Joe rang a taxi and even lent me some Indonesian currency to put towards the fare. The expensive trip did not faze me. I felt like an abused child being rescued.

Shirley was surprised but very relieved when the taxi arrived in Ubud a couple of days early. She told me she'd made good use of our room while I was being healed. A young, bare chested, Balinese guy decided to chat her up. Thinking it would be exotic and different, she let him have his way. He was so boring, Shirley ended up teaching him a thing or two. She was pleased with herself. 'The man was stunned. He was still yelling for more when I bundled him out the door the next morning.' She didn't want his phone number.

After returning home, the Melbourne contact, Harry, listened to my story. He accepted a couple of hundred dollars and said he would pay Joe for the taxi and my short stay. He was not impressed with my staying power or my level of gratitude. He made weak excuses. 'A Balinese healer might believe more is better. The MS may have aggravated your ability to cope.' I was not impressed. As far as I was concerned, the healer in Bali was a con job.

Alison was not impressed. She could not believe I had spoken to a healer. 'You stayed at his set-up on your own? You're crazy. Anything could have happened.'

'I was going to fly back and see him a couple more times.'

'Did you change your mind?'

'Yes. The massages were frightful and the herbs were foul.'

'They shoot people over there, mum. You could have been thrown in jail and sentenced to death. Promise me you'll never go back.'

'Okay, promise.'

Bali had been a disaster. Meditating was impossible. After being home a week or two, I was more settled. Witnessing my inner body usually took me where I wanted to go. This time, there was no flashback but for some reason, Tom was on my mind. Memories of our early romance consumed me. Being sacked upset me for a while but jobs were plentiful. Another office employed me and I moved to a different pub. It was called the Empire Hotel, located in Latrobe Street. That was where I met and fell in love with Tom. It was more than love. I adored Tom. Thinking back, my behaviour was strange, sort of childish. Our love making was simple. We always did it in the missionary position. Obviously, neither of us knew anything else. I let him do it, always pretended to like it, always asked him if he loved me. He always said yes. The pill didn't exist. I got pregnant twice before we got married. The first time was terrifying, fear consumed me. The abortion was illegal, embarrassing and grubby. Six months later, pregnant again, I asked Tom to marry me. He said yes. My mother and father came to the small wedding. My eldest brother took a long time to convince my father to put a suit on and give me away. The tiny reception felt awkward. Our parents were polite to each other. Tom's parents loved me. They had treated me like a daughter since I first met them. Tom and I talked to our siblings. I had bought a beautiful new nightgown to wear on our honeymoon. Tom decided he had to finish reading 'The Sporting Globe' before he took any notice of me. He often did stuff like that. Why? Who knows? It didn't matter. We were married. I belonged to Tom. I had wanted to belong to somebody for such a long time. Losing the second baby when I was four months pregnant was for the best. We had to save for a house. That's what married people did. I really loved Tom but he only declared his love for me when I asked the question. 'Do you still love me?' Every time Tom told me he loved me, I knew I was his. I was obsessed. I didn't want him out of my sight. Tom was mine. Tom belonged to me. Tom loved me. I loved belonging. I loved being loved.

All these memories didn't really explain my feelings about sex. My stitched-up attitude came across loud and clear. Why or how did these feelings originate? There was something missing. My self-esteem was lousy. Pleasing Tom was my duty. Tom didn't have to please me. If he confirmed his feelings daily, his behaviour was accepted. Sex without the verbal declaration of love was not enough. Tom was not allowed to touch me unless he said he loved me. Men liked to fuck. I could take it, preferably leave it. The declaration of love was the important bit. That was what I yearned for. Love had to be broadcast loud and clear. That went on for a long time. It was nearly ten years before the alcohol took over Tom's life completely. He lost me at about the same time because he stopped declaring his love. It's scary to remember what was happening all those years ago. I didn't like sex so it was never my idea. Tom's genitals were out of bounds. He liked my body but sex was never talked about. Then my life changed. After Tom died, sex became an addiction. I grew up without love, didn't feel loved, ever. If you don't experience receiving love, would you know how to give it? Of course not. Loving my children is a problem. There's lots of pretending but it isn't real. I'm a replica of my own mother. She could never be bothered with my brothers and me. We grew up in a vacuum, just nothingness. No hugs, no kisses, love was a dirty word in her world. She taught me well. If it was up to me, my own children would be starving for love. The random thought made me shiver. How do you learn to love if it doesn't come naturally? I was learning a lot about the program in my subconscious mind but there was more. I was sure that all this crap had culminated in the diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. People who live without love can't stay healthy forever. Life without love results in constant wanting. Wanting to belong, wanting to succeed, wanting friends, wanting to feel worthy. The list is never ending. People think you're tough but the wanting breaks your heart.

The next flashback shocked me. It was early morning. I was still in bed. My interest in men had waned but during the night Andrew had been on my mind. I couldn't stop thinking about sex. The words 'Only dirty girls like sex' still haunted me. Only dirty girls want it. Only dirty girls do it. Only dirty girls like it. Unexpectedly, my body started to jerk. The action was spasmodic. It only lasted for a few seconds but it was chilling. Was it the MS? Had another ridiculous symptom decided to surface? When it stopped, I felt like a little girl again. A scared little girl.

I'm about ten years old. I'm running along the footpath outside the house in Grafton. I'm a bit late home. It's starting to get dark. My hair looks frizzy as if it's been permed. My dress is short and a bit scruffy. I've got bare feet. Loud yelling fills my ears. I'm terrified. My grandmother jumps in front of me and grabs my arms. My feet stumble to a stop. She starts hitting me hard. Now I'm trying to protect my head with my hands. Our parents are away somewhere. Grandma is minding us. Now my grandmother is slapping my face over and over. She's old and wrinkly. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight bun. Tiny black rimmed glasses sit half way down her nose. She has made little crochet collars for every dress she owns. Her knees are covered but her skinny legs poke out like sticks. She keeps screaming and yelling abuse at me. 'You've been down the river. You're a slut. You're a dirty slut. Get inside.' I can't stop crying but I don't know what a slut is. I do know that Grandma doesn't like me. I overheard her talking to my mother one day. It was all awful. She thinks I'm a lazy, cheeky girl with bandy legs. The flashback changes. Now I'm talking to my eldest brother. 'Do you know what a slut is?' He frowns at me. 'Sluts are dirty girls.' I didn't understand. 'Do you mean they don't wash themselves?' He stares at me. 'Sluts are dirty girls who like sex.'

'Only dirty girls like sex' were the words that had become embedded in my subconscious mind. My grandmother had been very convincing. Finding out the truth was a huge break-through for me. I had learnt to enjoy sex but living with the dirty girl image for years had affected me. My hang ups about sex meant my behaviour was strange, sort of frigid, maybe even freezing. Knowing I had never been a dirty girl meant I was worthy. Getting to know my innocent self, helped everything. Loving myself was now easier than trying to love the person I'd been told I was.

The next flashback happened later the same day. It was short and scary. It was the first time a boy touched my body. I didn't think what happened was about sex but maybe it was.

I'm eleven, going on twelve years old. I'm lying in my bed. We live in a large glorified shed on a block of land in Grafton. My father has decided to build a house for the family in his spare time. The house is on the land in front of the shed. It's late. We're all in bed, in the shed. My parents are asleep. Their bed is behind a partition, in front of the side wall of the shed. Another partition separates them from three single beds in front of the back wall. My brothers and I sleep there. No doors mean there isn't any privacy. Both boys perv on me constantly. They are thirteen and fifteen. The night that I was re-living in my head was frightening. There's a tap on my shoulder. I open my eyes. There's a hand over my mouth. My eldest brother is kneeling next to my bed. He moves his hand and whispers in my ear. 'Shush.' My breathing is ragged. Shock makes me want to pee. I feel his arm steal under the blankets. My body stiffens. His hand creeps under my pyjamas and starts caressing my boobs. It's shadowy. It's muffled. It's terrifying. I can hear my father breathing behind the thin partition. Father. And. His. Belt.

A childish mixture of fear and humiliation floods my body. That night had been the first of many nights my brother stroked my body. He was four years older than me, always gentle and loving. However, when he touched me, I remember being scared. I wasn't scared of my brother. I was distressingly afraid, sometimes chillingly petrified, of my father. I remember wondering if I was normal. Thinking about it now makes me sad. Shame washes over me. I did know it was wrong but I loved my brother fondling me. It was the only time I felt loved. I thought that's why he was doing it but I suppose he was old enough to know better. Maybe he just liked touching girls. I don't know. My mother didn't ever cuddle me. My father enjoyed belting me. Anyway, I knew I was a dirty girl but I had not had sex. Sex was being close to a boy but I didn't know the details. I knew that boys used their penis to pee with. I didn't know they liked to stick the thing inside girls. Sex wasn't talked about. I was a bit interested but the details were fuzzy when I was eleven. I was embarrassed when my brothers perved on my body. They even asked mother to buy them a mirror to brush their hair and check their pimples. They always turned their backs and held the mirror when I was getting dressed. It took me a while to realise what was going on. No wonder I grew up hiding my body as much as possible. If I went to the beach as a teenager, I was the only girl covered completely from neck to knee. My bathers were in my beach bag but I didn't put them on. All this stuff probably added to my confusion about sex. It probably also confirmed that I was a dirty girl. It would have been the icing on the cake. Clean girls didn't let their brothers' grubby hands crawl all over their bodies. The hang-up was still there after Tom died. When Ron was my soul mate, I had to work out how to have sex without him glimpsing my body. Then there was the guy I didn't know very well. I only allowed him to remove my panties and my shoes. The light had to be off. He tried to change my mind. I was adamant about keeping my clothes on but I still allowed him to seduce me. Despite the clothes problem, I was happy with my performance. I was sure he enjoyed it. It was upsetting when he didn't contact me. Back then, in my late forties, I saw nothing strange about my behaviour. I was still the little girl trying to please. I remember thinking that if my soul mate was impotent, it wouldn't be a big deal. Love was what I wanted. Sex used to be irrelevant.

My health was not improving. My walking had steadily worsened. One day I realised that a four-wheel walker was needed. My stick wasn't much help any more. If I went too far, walking home was a challenge. The drag of my right foot made my balance disheartening. Fear of falling was paramount. I put off the walker for as long as possible. It made me look and feel seriously disabled. The secrets of my subconscious mind had helped me to see myself differently. Still, learning to love myself wasn't easy. At times, I felt sorry for myself. That wasn't the answer. I was convinced that the Multiple Sclerosis was the result of my subconscious program. However, knowing heaps about my lonely life didn't seem to be enough to heal my body. The remitting relapsing MS had changed. I'd spent a lot of time in remission. I was now having relapses frequently. For nearly ten years I had been looking for a way to regain my health. The result was scary. The MS was unbelievably worse. Never, even in my most horrible nightmares, had I anticipated what was now happening. It was 2014 and my health was deteriorating big time. Every day things seemed to be worse than the day before. Walking was close to impossible. Stooping forward, I shuffled along using the walker like a life raft. My knuckles turned white from the pressure of my grip. Shoulders dropped as my elbows stuck out to the side to help my balance. Now people could refer to me as disabled. The condition and the label were hated.

Shirley drove me to Cabrini Hospital because I couldn't get an appointment at Parkdale. My best friend wanted to speak to Dr. W. 'I don't think you're asking him the right questions.'

'You can't come in with me. You're not my mother.'

'But you should be better by now. You should change doctors. Get another opinion.'

'I can't be bothered. This man is well known with a good reputation.'

I dragged my feet into the neurologist's office. He stared at me. 'How long have you been like that?' My face tried to smile. 'Not long.' An MRI showed the MS had changed from remitting relapsing to secondary progressive. Panic encouraged fear to consume me. Dr. W. prescribed an oral medication. This time there was no hesitation. I knew the dreaded wheelchair wasn't far away. My first dose of Gilenya was taken at the Como Hospital in Parkdale. Clare dropped me there at 8am. She was picking me up at 4pm. They took an ESG every hour to make sure my heart was still intact. My body passed the tests. A woman in America had died after taking only one of these pills. Two weeks of the medication produced no side effects at all. After another two weeks, my body was exhausted. A Mothers' Day function was cancelled. 'Come on, mum. We're taking you to a restaurant.' What a joke. 'Sorry, that's impossible. I haven't even got enough energy to get dressed.' Gilenya was discontinued. The neurologist was still hopeful. 'Another product will be approved later in the year. I want you to have some blood tests first.' In November 2014, the new medication was offered. I looked up the internet. The promised side effects were nausea, vomiting and diarrhoea. What was the point in taking this garbage? It wasn't a cure. It might stop the MS from getting worse. My body was feeling awful. It couldn't possibly get any worse. I refused the prescription. 'Tolerating the disease would be easier than handling the side effects.' Dr. W. was upset. 'Only negative people express opinions on the internet. Positive people get on with their lives.'

The drugs associated with MS did not have a guaranteed good result. Nobody raved about them. It was a bit like being a guinea pig. I stopped seeing the neurologist. Why waste his time and my money?

Secondary progressive MS took over my body. The difference was huge. Life was a nightmare. Falling became more frequent. Even if I didn't hurt myself, my legs did not have enough strength to get off the floor. Fractured ribs and broken wrists required lengthy stays in hospital. My bladder behaved like a tap without a washer. Despite the problems, I was never tempted to try medication again. The four-wheel walker was relegated to inside use only. Distance walking was impossible. Purchasing a power chair helped me get some fresh air.

# Reflections

It was late 2015 before I gave up trying to fix my body. Nothing worked. Maybe acceptance would help. Was I desperate enough to accept defeat? That would be a whole new ball game for me. I didn't like losing, anything. Society believes that without your health you are nothing. For many years, society's belief had been my belief. I was nothing, a second-rate citizen, treated differently. My thinking had to change. Was the multiple sclerosis a blessing? Was the multiple sclerosis the best thing that ever happened to me? Could Multiple Sclerosis finally stop my desperate attempts to prove to the world that I was okay? The decision was made. I didn't have to prove anything to anybody, except myself.

I gradually changed my attitude. Once I accepted the MS and resigned myself to living with it, life improved. My subconscious mind had revealed its secrets to me. I had a better understanding of my behaviour. Being critical of myself was ridiculous. Why take it out on a little girl who had helped me survive for a long time?

Over the years, being desperate for success was heart breaking. Only the will power that I decided to use could have achieved the expected results back then. When you are programmed to fail but desperate for success, you must fight your own psyche. It's called subconscious sabotage. That was the system I used to sell five houses in a week. Stressful, exhausting and debilitating behaviour. It was repeated, without success, at the FAXA Sandwich fiasco. Why did I fail? _I can do anything. Nothing is impossible._ This mantra was repeated constantly. Delusions of grandeur competed with my subconscious lack of self-worth. The problem was I couldn't maintain the constant will power needed. Selling five houses took a week. FAXA went on for months. By the time surrender was unavoidable, I was a gibbering idiot.

There is an interesting analogy. I found two versions of this story. The movie _Shine_ in 1996 told the story of David H, a child piano prodigy (Geoffrey Rush). David's musical ambitions generated friction with his overbearing father. When David travels to London on a musical scholarship, his career as a pianist blossoms. His success clashes with the program in his subconscious mind. He has a breakdown. I could relate to that but the film review used a different language.

The pressures of David's newfound fame, coupled with the echoes of his tumultuous childhood, conspire to bring David's latent schizophrenia boiling to the surface, and he spends years in and out of various mental institutions.

I was shocked. Could fighting your own psyche cause schizophrenia? Has the medical profession considered the possibility? Mental health problems are rampant. If you're depressed, you're given a pill. Nobody asks why you feel sad. Nobody wants to know what you're thinking. Some people have never heard of the subconscious mind. I went to a psychologist, once. She thought I needed cognitive behaviour therapy. It was all about understanding the other person so my reactions would change. I wanted to understand me. That was not on her agenda.

My addiction to alcoholics was unavoidable. My father was an alcoholic. I married Tom, another alcoholic. Then I fell in love with Andrew, another alcoholic. My relationship with Andrew was based on the childhood struggle with my father. Unconsciously, it was a precious opportunity to find relief, fix the pain and get rid of the fear. This relationship was going to mend all the wrongs that had happened in the past. It's hard to believe the intensity of my conscious experience while I was in the relationship. The old emptiness was overwhelming. My childhood terror of being alone was still there. I wanted to get it right, had to get it right because I was frantic, desperate for the love and approval I'd never had. To me love was drama, pain and tension. What should have felt bad, felt good. I couldn't let go of the need to relive the old struggle again and again.

I was and still am convinced that the program in my subconscious mind was responsible for the MS. It doesn't matter what other people think. The medical profession is not interested in the cause. They're too busy treating the effect. Flashbacks had helped me answer a lot of questions. Friends were risky. I didn't want to get hurt. Being nasty didn't attract friendly people. My grief was not guilt. The young girl running my life had been abandoned. I had not grown up. My self-worth was zilch because I didn't love myself. I'd been taught that sex was dirty.

Society says that positive thoughts have a profound effect on behaviour. This is true but only when they are in harmony with subconscious programming. Negative thoughts have an equally powerful effect. When we recognise how these positive and negative beliefs control our biology, we can use this knowledge to create lives filled with health and happiness. The decision was made. If I could learn to really love myself, the rest of my life might be better.

My daughter, Alison, suggested psychoneuroimmunology. I gaped at her. 'What's that?'

'It's been talked about for a while. You told me how difficult it is for you to love yourself so I did a bit of shopping around.'

'Do you know anything about it?'

'Not really. However, I bought a couple of books. I've known for a long time that my self-esteem is terrible. I want to learn how to fix it.'

I decided to google this unheard of long word.

The Australian Association of Psychoneuroimmunology.

EMOTIONAL SUPPRESSION

If we ignore our needs and suppress our emotions our subconscious mind will alert us to the fact that something is wrong, which may result in a physical manifestation of emotional strain.

PNI EMOTIONAL INDUCED ILLNESS

A psychosomatic illness is an emotionally induced illness, which may lead directly to physical diseases, by lowering our resistance, our immunity. Emotionally induced illness is no longer termed imaginary. Managing stress allows us to manage our hormonal response. Our mind and our perceptions affect the whole of our body and its systems.

It was good news. My suspicions were confirmed. There was no doubt in my mind. Stress had been rampant in my life for a long time. The spell of unworthiness had started in childhood. My natural true self and uncomplicated goodness were not reflected back to me from my parents. Consequently, over the years, I persistently looked to others to help me heal the feeling of disintegration within myself. I am gradually changing the neural pathways in my brain. In other words, getting rid of the crap, replacing it with some good memories.

We didn't find a quick fix but I have changed a lot of my unhelpful patterns. I was the child of a selfish loveless alcoholic. My father's behaviour was the only kind of love I knew as a child. When I grew up, that was what I wanted.

Alison and I talked and laughed as we tackled our subconscious minds. Changing the patterns is not an intellectual exercise. Our beliefs must be removed from our subconscious mind using memories and emotions.

There were a lot of things about me that Alison didn't like. 'As I got older, I realised my behaviour was becoming more and more like yours. I was like a re-run of you. I'm sorry, mum, but it was scary. I didn't want to be like you.'

'I know how you feel. I was always so critical of my own mother and now I'm the spitting image of her and our behaviour is identical. I treated all my children like toys. My mother had no idea how to love anybody. She was my role model.'

'Does that make you my role model?'

'Yes. I'm sorry, darl. It's frightening to realise how much influence parents have on their children's lives. I know nothing about love.'

Sometimes Alison and I talked for hours. We were learning, changing and growing.

Are losing hope and holding grudges a prescription for an autoimmune disease? Do you need a strong sense of self-worth to stay healthy? Is living in fear the reason poor health is a way of life for some people?

Alison and I didn't share everything but our relationship blossomed. I started to realise that I could be lovable. My attitude to my children changed. They had a lot to overcome. I started to ask myself questions like _'What's good about me?'_ I now say, _'Thank you'_ to myself for everything, over and over, like a mantra. I practise being grateful. Smiling sends messages to my brain to help me remember all the good things I've done. This exercise fills me with gratitude just for being me. In the beginning, I could not think of one good thing I had completed. There was nothing to brag about.

Buddhism teaches a whole method that acknowledges and seeks to relieve suffering. Its simplicity is exactly what vulnerable people need. It was a huge help.

Clare and Shirley both think I'm like a different person. I've shared heaps of stuff with Clare but my friendship with Shirley is different. She's not well, not happy, in denial. Consequently, her past has been recreated. 'I would never have been seen dead at one of those singles venues. The men were only there for one thing.' The facts have been forgotten. Shirley was at Casey's so often, they gave her a life membership. I giggle and tell her she must try and remember the good times. No matter how bad things were, she always made me laugh.

The power of the subconscious is scary. Multiple Sclerosis still affects my body but these days it doesn't concern me. Worry, stress, depression, all the negative feelings, rarely appear. I prefer positive emotional states such as love, peace and joy. Being able to choose is wonderful. Obsession belongs in the past. The MS was triggered by stress but the disease was a wake-up call. I turn eighty soon. My life is now good. It's a shame I'm a slow learner. Can't be helped. Being happy is a brand-new experience. Writing this book became therapy for me. Once I found the story within the story, it changed my life.

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