Life for Poppy and me was settling down nicely. I had a home to be proud of, family around me and money coming in. Work on the Gold Coast was unique because of the casino—men from all over Australia and Asia would visit just for the privilege of losing huge amounts of money. I, of course, was always happy to help. So it was not uncommon to receive a phone call from a punter wanting me to visit them at the casino. While I hated doing call outs, debt dictates the day’s events, so often I would throw caution to the wind and visit for a two-hour minimum at $600.
Gamblers are funny creatures. I imagine it is much like other addicts, you’d be sitting and chatting with a client, then you’d see the restlessness stir within them. Their ears pricked up and their spine stiffened as though the tables are calling their names. All of a sudden their sexual urges were gone and their need to throw money away overrode their hormones. Gambling bored me, but I was happy to hang around, provided I was being paid. I can honestly say that of all the casino clients I’ve visited over the years, I have never spent more than twenty minutes in the client’s room.
Often if they started losing, they’d even ask me to disappear for a while under the guise that I was bringing them bad luck. When the winds were blowing luck, they’d throw me fifty-or hundred-dollar chips as a reward. Some were even stupid enough to ask me to hold their winnings for fear they might be tempted to blow it. Obviously my bra absorbed the odd chip or two, much like a dryer does with socks. They never got back the same amount as they deposited. Let’s face it, it would have been nothing to slip off to the ladies and never return, so it was a small price to pay for keeping their chips warm.
I remember one sorry gambler, just sitting at the bar and every now and then giving me a $500 chip, saying, ‘Go play red for me.’ What would possess him to trust me? But I would wander off obediently, knowing that I was fighting a losing battle; if I played red and it lost I would come back empty-handed, while on the other hand if I played red and it won, I may also come back empty-handed. It was a no-win situation. So I pocketed the chip, watched a table and sure enough, that little thief of a ball landed on black. So I returned and told him he’d lost, but he didn’t care one iota. This went on for ages, back and forth. After about an hour, he told me he was out of chips. I felt so sorry for him that I handed him all his chips back and asked him to retire for the evening with his savings. I assumed he would be happy and thankful at my honesty and money management, but he was furious. He marched right past me and put the lot on zero and lost, then he returned to his barstool, content.
Now it was my turn to be furious, not at him but at myself, for my honesty. I had just given away $3500, which at the time was twenty-three weeks’ rent for me.
Before the night was out my client told me that he was getting over a very bad break-up so was on a self-destruct mission that would hopefully end with his demise by drink or suicide. He could no longer live knowing that his ex had had a termination without his knowledge because she had career and financial priorities. He no longer trusted women and he hated money. All I could do was commiserate as there was not going to be any changing his mind. So instead I helped him lose another $8000—$4000 found a new home in my bra.
26
Politicians and Sex
By the age of twenty-one I was surrounded by family—all my brothers were a short drive from my house, or more specifically my fridge. Dad had a lovely apartment overlooking the ocean that he shared with his new bride, who I didn’t mind at all. The frost on our relationships had started to thaw. It wasn’t quite warm welcomes yet, but it was heading in the right direction. Every Friday my father and stepmother babysat Poppy so that I could go out and let off some steam. My favourite spot was a high-class disco that adjoined one of the major hotels on the Gold Coast strip. I had been going quite regularly for a while. I knew all the staff and management. Occasionally I ran into the odd client but it didn’t bother me, they seemed to respect that it was my night off and that I appreciated some discretion. Little did I know, however, that one client in particular had mentioned to the manager my occupation.
One Friday night I was dancing up a storm as I always did, when the manager, David, took me aside.
‘Annika, you certainly have a fan club. Men stand at the bar and ogle you dancing. I’m sure you already know this, but you are one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen. There is one punter in particular who wants to buy you a bottle of champagne, but he wants to drink it with you in his room.’
‘Look, I’m not a prostitute. Who does he think he is, propositioning me like that? And as for you, David, are you pimping for me now?’
‘Annika, darling, I know that you work under the name of Cleo in Sanctuary Cove. I’m trying to help you. This guy is very influential.’
I was temporarily gob-smacked. I felt small and violated. ‘Why who is he? The prime minister or something?’
‘Not yet, but the election is only around the corner.’
I was shocked, flattered and curious all at the same time. I sat there thinking for the longest time. ‘Well send him over, I want to talk to him first.’