Not Your Ordinary Housewife

7





In the days that followed, I was still digesting the fact that I’d just shot my first hardcore session, but Paul’s mood had changed immediately. He became affectionate and loving, his sombre disposition instantly evaporating. It seemed I’d inadvertently stumbled on a way to make him happy, perhaps because it had been a while since we’d had sex.

Ken dropped off the prints, saying how stunning I looked. Paul was ecstatic. As I flicked through the photos self-consciously, I felt detached: this wasn’t the real me, it was me posing in a prescribed artificial manner. I knew my face and I thought it obvious—from my eyes and my mouth—that the expressions were faked. Yet I seemed to be quite photogenic: I looked better than I did in real life. My ego had been stroked, especially after Paul proclaimed it the hottest porn he’d ever seen.


Greg had seen the prints too and loved them. He phoned with further details about the movie: titled Let’s Make Love, it was to be shot by an AFI-award-winning cinematographer. It would be a combination of talking heads—the psychologists—interspersed with simulated foreplay and intercourse—Paul and me. It was to be a soft-core, R-rated self-help video for premature ejaculators, focusing on the ‘squeeze technique’, a way of preventing premature ejaculation by squeezing the base of the penis. The only word uttered by either of us would be Paul saying ‘squeeze’.

It worried me that Dory might learn of my movie role and I cringed, imagining her reaction. But we’d use fake names and I knew she didn’t frequent video shops—I’d just have to risk that someone else might see it and tell her.

With the signing of the film contracts a week later, Paul’s mood soared even higher. He continued to refer to Dory as being vengeful and spiteful but at least the talk of her imminent demise abated, as did talk of Francine’s alleged machinations. I knew, however, that it wouldn’t take much for them to reappear.

I was relatively relaxed as we began shooting that same month. I knew how to pose and everyone assured me the camera liked me; along the way, I had overcome any qualms I had had about performing sex on screen.

After a problem with window glare at the original location, I offered Greg our house, believing the bush setting would provide attractive production values. Several days were spent shooting, including outside filler footage. By the time we wrapped, Paul and I were totally comfortable with our own nudity and the notion of being watched by other people. We shot both R and X versions, Greg promising that the latter would be used only with our consent.

Despite the occasional calls from the males present for me to try and enjoy myself, I felt no sense of arousal whatsoever. I had learned from Ken how to play to the camera and I seemed to have developed a knack for making it look real. I doubted that even Paul realised I was acting; I’d learnt a repertoire of facial expressions and postures, and was simply going through the motions.

Greg seemed pleased with the footage. He said I looked great and he was thrilled that Paul was able to maintain his erection as if on command. Greg would be editing it and we would still need to do promotional shots with Ken; he would then let us know the release date.

Our fee was welcome too, but we argued about how it was to be spent.

‘So now we can go on a holiday,’ said Paul.

I assumed he was joking: we needed to save. We’d been going backwards financially; I couldn’t believe he was even suggesting this. He pestered like a child, saying we hadn’t had a real vacation in ages and he wanted to see Sydney.

I was feeling guilty—we’d been living in Warrandyte virtually rent free for the past year: ‘It’s just not right—we promised to pay Dory.’

‘She’s loaded,’ said Paul dismissively. ‘She can afford to do without the income.’

But on my next visit, I offered Dory the rental arrears, explaining that Paul was working as a film extra. She declined the money, saying that perhaps, when he found a steady job, she would accept it.

‘I’m doing this for you and Shoshanna,’ she said, ‘not him.’

‘I know, but he’s my husband and I love him.’ I wondered whether I wasn’t trying to convince myself with such affirmations.

‘I don’t care about Paul—he’s a nasty piece of work—but I don’t want to see you and Shoshanna suffer.’ Dory’s voice quivered with emotion.

Her words reverberated in my head. By now, I was ambivalent about my marriage: I felt guilty for staying with Paul, but I wasn’t a quitter and I’d committed to a shared life with my soul mate—the man I loved, or thought I loved. Giving up on that would be admitting defeat; it would mean acknowledging I’d made a mistake and that Dory was right. My pride was preventing me from tossing in the towel. Everyone knew marriage had its ups and downs, but my natural optimism had me rationalising that things would improve.

I also believed that Shoshanna needed her father. If Paul suffered psychosis, I wanted to support him—I knew he was capable of being highly functional, and I believed that together we could overcome that.

With the movie money spent on some much-needed furniture, Paul thought we should cash in on my photogenic nature. He did a mail-out, with a photo of me included, to Melbourne’s camera clubs, offering nude modelling by ‘the star’ of an R-rated movie. The response was instant, and we charged a premium rate; I was relieved that there was to be no sex and managed to relax a little. Everyone was extremely professional as they photographed me in assorted cheesecake poses. Paul was right: the movie had already led to other financial opportunities.



A month later, Paul’s Canadian cousin, Keuntje, called to say she was coming to Australia. She and Paul were extremely close and I was looking forward to meeting her. Roughly my age, she was a pilot with United Airlines and had swung a one-night stopover.

Keuntje arrived with her overnight case. Stupidly, Paul showed her his marijuana plants and boasted about our sex video. She was horrified, and I knew this news would immediately be relayed back to Saskia. As she hugged me goodbye, she said that she loved me; but Paul told me, after he returned from taking her to the airport, that she’d offered him three thousand dollars to leave me and move to the States, where he could live with her and she would support him.

I felt angry at her insincerity and her disregard for Shoshanna, who by now was eighteen months old—how could Keuntje justify leaving her fatherless? Paul categorically denied he was tempted, saying he’d never desert Shoshanna and me. But I wasn’t sure: it was a generous offer, although it meant living on Keuntje’s Californian ranch. Still, I was pleased Paul had rebuffed her and saw it as a sign of his devotion.

Soon afterwards, however, Paul’s moods became intolerable and I suspected he resented staying with me. His behaviour was deteriorating: I couldn’t rouse him from sleep, and he was permanently uncommunicative. I knew I couldn’t continue putting up with his mood swings and slovenliness. I was fighting a losing battle against overflowing ashtrays, empty beer bottles and unwashed dishes. The house was no longer just mess—we were living in squalor and filth as his smoking and drinking escalated. Often, I’d catch him out lying—over trifling matters, but it always upset me. Most disturbing, however, was the resurfacing of his diatribes against Dory and his renewed plotting of her death. Plotting anyone’s demise was unconscionable—let alone my mother’s—and I begged him to stop this craziness.

I began imagining life as a single parent. I craved a peaceful environment for my child and a caring and trusting relationship with my partner, not one filled with anxiety and stress. My affection for Paul was waning; it pained me, but he was driving me away as he descended into depression.

His constant badgering was leading me to feel brainwashed; I was starting to doubt my own instincts. I wasn’t seeing any friends and so I couldn’t discuss things with them; Paul was my only adult company.

Hard as it was, I would have to admit that our marriage looked like a failure. Finally, I felt I needed to bring all this to a head one evening after dinner.

‘We have to talk . . .’ I hesitated, unsure of what I would say next. ‘Things aren’t working . . .’


‘What are you saying?’ he said, with menace in his voice. Paul reached for his cigarettes as I followed him out onto the patio.

‘You know exactly what I’m saying: I can’t go on like this, listening to your constant carping on about how evil Dory is. Your craziness is driving me crazy.’

‘You think I’m crazy? I assure you I’m totally sane.’

‘Whatever . . . I want to separate—at least until you can get some help to become a decent person again.’ I knew I couldn’t continue to abide the obsessive and sickening hatred he felt for my mother. ‘You can still see Shoshanna whenever you want . . .’

‘But I can’t survive without you two, I love you,’ he said, with tears in his eyes. ‘You’re all I’ve got.’ I knew it was true.

‘You think all you have to do is tell me you love me and I weaken. This time, I’ve decided: get yourself together then, maybe, you can come back.’

I didn’t want Paul to leave—I still loved him—but I thought separating was the only thing that would persuade him to change: all my pleading had failed. I reasoned that, if he saw how serious I was, he would at least try.

‘I’m not asking for much, just stop criticising Dory . . . and show me a little consideration occasionally.’

‘Okay, I’ll move out . . . I’ll find a share household somewhere.’ Paul was crying and it took all my willpower not to immediately rescind my demand. He could be so unpredictable, I hadn’t expected him to capitulate so readily. I had hoped he’d change rather than leave. Part of me was deeply hurt: I wanted him to realise how difficult surviving on his own would be. What I had really wanted was an undertaking from him that he’d reform. But he seemed optimistic and I needed a break from his torment.

Luckily, he found some share accommodation quite quickly. We phoned each other daily. I was delighted to hear he was doing regular work as a film extra, but unfortunately he always seemed stoned.

Our relationship had gone into remission, although he made regular visits to the house. He’d only moved a foam mattress and a few clothes, so it felt as if we were still living together. I called Dory to tell her, hastening to explain that the separation was only temporary. Her reaction was thinly veiled joy—I suspected she didn’t want to appear excited, in case we got back together.



Soon after Paul’s move, Saskia phoned to say that she and Vlad were planning to visit Melbourne, accompanied by Paul’s half-brother, Rudi. She intimated that Keuntje had given a grim report card of her son’s circumstances and she wanted to see for herself first-hand. Paul’s contact with his mother in recent years had been minimal—a handful of phone calls and two letters in the two and a half years since we’d left Holland—but he was clearly excited at the prospect of seeing her again and was hoping they might fund his attendance at art college.

Despite my reservations about her, I was happy for her to bond with her grandchild. Paul temporarily moved back with me, to facilitate Saskia seeing Shoshanna. He picked them up from the airport and took them to their suite at the Rialto. When he first brought them to visit me—Saskia dressed in her French designer clothes and Patek Philippe watch, and Vlad looking like an advertisement for the larger man’s GQ—both seemed uncomfortable in our relaxed surroundings. They were obviously unimpressed with our bohemian lifestyle; Saskia clearly found our house and the surrounding bush distasteful and disapproved of my op-shop-chic décor. I felt judged and humiliated, even though I was clearly doing my best.

A few days later I returned from a visit to Dory’s to find everyone in the lounge room. Instantly I knew something was awry.

‘We’ve got some great news,’ Paul said, excitedly. ‘I’m moving back to Europe and we want you to come.’

‘What? I can’t believe this.’ Paul’s revelation had me in shock. ‘Australia is my home—I love it here—I don’t want to live anywhere else.’

‘Well, I’ve decided. I’m going. Mom’s bought me a one-way ticket, leaving in two days, and we’ve reserved tickets for you and Shoshanna.’

‘But I haven’t agreed to go.’

Apparently, Saskia and Vlad were willing to help us, but only if we were living over there. My dreams of his attendance at art school, with their assistance, had evaporated. Paul’s expression was determined and I knew it would be futile to attempt to change his mind.

I was livid that I hadn’t been consulted. ‘Why didn’t you discuss it with me first instead of presenting me with a fait accompli?’ I was being bullied, my sense of powerlessness compounding my anger. ‘I thought our separation was temporary. What kind of a marriage is this where an international move isn’t discussed between spouses?’

But Paul wasn’t listening to me. ‘Mom and Vlad are going to enrol me in a Swiss hotel school, and you can live in Amsterdam and visit me on weekends. It’s a fantastic offer,’ he said.

‘Hotel school? You’ve never mentioned a career in hotel management before—you’ve only ever talked about wanting to do art.’ I was really confused. ‘It seems totally insane. And Switzerland?’

Paul was animated as he explained how his parents would pay for his tuition fees and our accommodation. ‘Shoshanna will love it there and Mom will help you look after her,’ he said. ‘You don’t want that hateful witch, Dory, getting her hands on our daughter.’

‘Even if I wanted to go, I can’t imagine how I could pack up the house with an active toddler. What about our two cars? And where would I put all our stuff? I have no-one to help me.’ I told him I needed to be near Dory; she’d bought the house for us to live in. ‘We can’t just leave; I can’t just pack up my life here.’

Paul often spoke of his mother’s broken promises and her pathological neglect of him, yet now he was proposing we trust her in an undertaking of massive proportions, when things between us were at an all-time low. I didn’t want to be at her mercy.

For the next two days, Paul hounded me. His parents came for a meeting with Dory, who said that, if I left, she’d be forced to sell the house. My heart ached for my mother; I couldn’t desert her. Still, I felt trapped in what felt like a tug of war: my marriage or my mother.

Finally, I told Paul to get himself settled and I would re-assess matters then. Maybe I’d go for a few months. He continued to pressure me mercilessly, reassuring me this decision was best for all concerned and that I could trust Saskia.

‘Promise me you’ll book your ticket,’ he said, telling me that Vlad would lose his money if I didn’t confirm a date. As he saw it, all that was left to do was to dob Francine into the authorities. ‘They’ll deport her, so she’ll be no more threat to your inheritance.’

I told him emphatically that there was no way I’d stoop that low. If he wanted he could call them, but I found it disgusting; I wasn’t a dobber—it wasn’t my style. ‘Anyway, Dory’s money is no concern of yours,’ I reminded him.

So with a heavy heart, I drove Paul and his family to the airport two days after his announcement. I felt empty and angry: how dare he put me in the position of having to move continents again, and on such short notice. He was talking as if I’d undertaken to go, but I doubted I could leave.


I called in to see Dory on my way home.

‘Good riddance—you’re better off without him,’ she proclaimed, barely masking her joy. She described Saskia as an unbelievably selfish woman, saying that, if she really wanted to help, she should pay for Paul’s tuition in Melbourne. I agreed.

‘Can’t you see how bad he is for you?’ she asked. ‘You become like a different person. He manipulates you constantly. Just forget about him.’

I supposed I would have to try to; I knew I didn’t want to live in Holland again.



Slowly I set about getting my life back on track. I’d been earning reasonable, but irregular, money modelling for the various camera clubs, and knew I could survive financially. Dory, who of course had no idea of my activities, had also generously offered to help me. But the problem was that I was missing Paul. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was craving—certainly not the pressure he put me under or his mess—but he had a gentle, intelligent side. And his wit—it had been ages since I’d laughed. Wasn’t all that what I’d fallen in love with?

He phoned me after a few weeks. Apparently, things hadn’t quite panned out as planned. On their return to Holland, his parents discovered their car wash was going through a rough patch and they didn’t have the money for hotel school in Switzerland after all.

‘What a surprise,’ I said sarcastically, as my fears were confirmed. Nevertheless, his parents were funding his apartment in Amsterdam and his enrolment in a programming course.

‘Computers?’ I queried. ‘But you don’t have a mathematical brain.’

‘I’ve done aptitude tests and apparently I do,’ said Paul arrogantly. ‘Plus I’m getting a modelling folio together . . . And I’m seeing a shrink.’

I was thrilled. Finally, Paul had heeded my advice about getting professional help.

Saskia had also bought him a whole new wardrobe; I was pleased, remembering how Paul had a propensity to look unkempt.

‘Oh, and you’ll never guess who I saw at my optometrist in Amstelveen . . . Xaviera Hollander . . . you know, The Happy Hooker.’

‘Wow. Of course I know of her.’ I’d read her book when I was seventeen—everyone had been reading it. ‘She’s iconic.’

‘Yeah, she’s a national treasure,’ he said.

He then began pressuring me to book my ticket, saying how much he was missing Shoshanna and me. But I insisted that things were still too uncertain for me to relocate to Amsterdam. He badgered me, arguing that I had to come: Saskia had leased a three-bedroom furnished apartment and bought baby items.

Then he flew into a rage, rebuking me for allegedly breaking my promise. ‘You selfish witch—I knew I couldn’t trust you!’ he screamed, accusing me of doing ‘this’ deliberately, just to hurt him; I assured him I was just being rational. He asked if I’d dobbed in Francine yet, but I told him again that I wasn’t going to.

‘You’ll see—she’ll inherit Dory’s money, and it will be your f*cking fault,’ he railed.

I’d had enough. I told Paul to stop verbally abusing me and hung up.

As the months passed, I carried around a sadness; I felt bereft. I saw virtually no-one except Dory, visiting her twice a week with Shoshanna.

‘Don’t you think I know that Paul wants me dead?’ she asked. ‘I’m not stupid. Any fool can see he’s only after money. Nikki-le, you’re such an intelligent girl—can’t you see what a terrible person he is?’

‘It’s not that simple. I know he’s not perfect, but he has many good traits.’ I reminded her of his tragic life and how I couldn’t just desert him: he could be so tender and loving. ‘You should see Paul and Shoshanna together—they adore each other. It would break his heart to lose her . . . Besides, I just feel sorry for him.’

‘Exactly!’ she said. ‘That’s his modus operandi. He works on sympathy, taking advantage of your good nature. He’s controlling and manipulative.’

Dory was close to tears as she recounted how she and Egon had raised me with so much love and such decent morals. ‘We came to Australia with a suitcase, after surviving Hitler. We’ve worked so hard, and Paul has the chutzpah to think he has a right to my hard-earned money. I have scrimped and saved so that we can be comfortable. Anyway, one day it’ll all be yours. He’s a psychopath—there’s no other word for him,’ she said. ‘You’ve done psychology . . .’

I was trying to remember my lectures on psychopathy. I would have to look up my old textbooks when I got home.

‘Was the sex really so good that you’re prepared to overlook everything else?’ she asked.

She and I had never discussed my sex life before, but I answered her honestly. ‘Maybe to begin with . . . but lately, we hardly ever sleep together, let alone have sex,’ I confided. ‘Anyway, it’s never really been about the sex.’

‘I would have picked him as gay,’ she said abruptly.

‘Well, he says he’s not. Maybe he’s confused—he dresses up when he’s stressed.’

‘What, he’s a cross-dresser?’ asked Dory in her forthright manner.

‘Well, not all the time.’

‘Oy. That my daughter should marry a transvestite. He’s not going to have The Operation, is he?’

‘No, don’t be ridiculous!’

‘It’s not so crazy,’ she said. ‘Plenty of faigeles do.’

At home, I went straight to my third-year psychology textbook on abnormal behaviour. I read the definition of psychopath and my jaw dropped—for all intents and purposes, it was describing Paul: the disregard for others, the lying, the ignoring of society’s rules, the lack of empathy, the need for immediate gratification, the charm and empty promises . . . Paul was, it seemed, a textbook psychopath.

With the house now tidy, I had begun extending luncheon invitations. The few female friends I saw let it be known that they disliked Paul. I wasn’t sure how to explain what was happening with our relationship—I didn’t really know. Around this time, I received a call from an American woman, Susan Ginsberg. She was answering one of Paul’s old ads in Readings bookshop for share accommodation. The quirky nature of the text had attracted her. After I asked her if she was related to the famous beat poet, Allen Ginsberg, which she wasn’t, we began chatting; soon afterwards, we arranged to meet.

Over the next few months, Susan and I developed a strong friendship. I liked her enormously. She was a Jewish psychotherapist from New York and we discussed Paul on occasion.

‘He sounds like a really interesting guy with a narcissistic personality disorder,’ she said. ‘He’s clearly bad for you.’

I agreed. ‘But I feel like I’d be deserting him if I stayed in Melbourne.’

‘Hang on, hasn’t he left you?’

I didn’t know any more. I related how he desperately wanted me to move to Holland; how I couldn’t let go of him, even though he said the most horrible things about Dory and had developed an obsessive hatred of her.

She theorised that Paul was trying to create a schism between Dory and me. ‘She’s the voice of reason. But if he isolates you, he can manipulate you to his heart’s content.’

I couldn’t deny she was right. I could see him doing it, but I couldn’t stop myself—I was weak. I had fallen in love with Paul’s potential—his ‘nice’ side. ‘He’s just not the person I thought I married . . .’


‘It’s obvious,’ she stated with finality. ‘He’s your addiction.’

Even though I’d never been addicted to anything, Susan’s explanation was that he’d got under my skin. She cautioned me not to make the mistake of thinking he’d reform. ‘Psychopaths never change.’ I filed that thought away for later.

I explained that, whatever I did, it was never enough. I told her how miserable I was without him; how sorry I felt for him and how everyone had abandoned him. I wanted to do the right thing by Shoshanna, but I didn’t know if I could give him up. She theorised I had a need to ‘rescue’ him—like a stray cat. At her prompting, I made an appointment with a family law specialist. As he saw it, Paul had deserted us, so my custody of Shoshanna would be assured if we got divorced.

Coincidentally, Susan moved around the corner from Dory and the two of them formed a friendship after I suggested a meeting. Dory and I were also developing a new closeness. She took me out constantly—trying to help me fill the void left by Paul—to the theatre and galleries, or arranging visits with her friends, mostly musicians, dancers and artists. True to her word, she also helped me buy a new car—a white Volvo station wagon.

Francine invited us to dinner one night. Here I saw a new side to Dory: we sat on floor cushions with Francine’s dreadlocked Ethiopian boyfriend as he played bongos and smoked dope. He and Dory discussed music—African rhythms and instruments, about which she was well informed from her many tours there with the Bodenwieser Ballet.

It saddened me that Dory seemed so accepting of Francine’s unconventional lifestyle, and yet she was so critical of mine: I assumed she simply applied higher standards to my behaviour than that of others. I wished I could share more of myself with her.

I was still feeling Paul’s absence acutely. He began calling regularly from Amsterdam, distraught and in tears. ‘I miss you and Shoshanna so much—the pain is indescribable.’ Apparently Saskia and Vlad had ‘dumped’ Paul in an apartment; he hardly saw them and had no friends. He’d started his computer course, but admitted I was right. ‘It’s not my thing. I want to do art . . . I want to come home.’

‘You need to figure out where home is,’ I said.

‘It’s any country—so long as you and Shoshanna are there. We belong together . . . but Mom won’t pay for a return ticket.’

I told Paul he couldn’t keep chopping and changing countries and careers. He begged me, promising that, if I paid for his ticket, he’d get counselling. He’d also work on his folio and go to night school. I believed him.

I knew that if Paul stayed away, Shoshanna, now a two-year-old toddler, would have no conscious memory of her father. I didn’t think I could do that to her, so I bought Paul’s ticket, hoping desperately that I had made the right decision.