Is This My Beautiful Life?

by Jessica Rowe

  Home began to call me back. I missed Sydney’s big bright blue sky and her footpaths strewn with fallen jasmine and frangipani flowers. But most of all I missed my family, who understood me best of all. I had spent much of my young adult life running away and wanting to ‘grow up’, but now I ached to be back in their embrace. I was considering a whole new career away from the media because I had become disillusioned working for Nine News in Melbourne. I wasn’t cut out to be a daily news reporter. I didn’t have the killer instinct to get the story regardless of the cost. I had no desire to camp outside people’s front doors and try to interview them about the death of their child, husband or wife. I didn’t want to get into strife from my boss because I didn’t have a picture of the victim while our competitors had managed to get one from the family. I hated my job, and wanted to go home to Sydney.

  However, the stars aligned one evening when I got the opportunity to read the news updates because the usual presenter had called in sick. Freakishly, the Network Ten Sydney news director, Mike Tancred, happened to be in Melbourne visiting his extended family when he saw me reading a sixty second update. The following week I got a phone call from Mike asking me if I would be interested in reading the Five O’clock News for Channel Ten!

  ‘Ummm, well, I will think about it,’ I told him, doing my best to keep a cool voice when all I wanted to do was scream yeeeess down the phone! He flew me up for an audition and I was offered the job later that afternoon. It was the biggest break of my career: the opportunity to co-host the main news bulletin for the Ten Network. At the age of twenty-five I thought I had finally made it!

  I moved back home briefly, into my small bedroom that was still lit by the bright street light sneaking in under those same bamboo blinds. It wasn’t long before I found a unit to rent at Coogee Beach. If I stood on tiptoes on my balcony I could see the white bricks of the surf club. The smell of the sea air cleared my head and the salt spray smeared the windows of my new unit. Each morning I would drive into work to do updates through the day and then present the news from 5 to 6pm each night.

  Initially I wasn’t very good. I had a look of sheer terror on my face, like Bambi caught in the headlights. It was a miracle that my voice came out at all. I couldn’t hear anything apart from the thudding of my heart. All I could see were the giant shoulder pads of my luminous lime-coloured jacket.

  My father would leave a message for Ten’s receptionist, Karen, after each news bulletin. He did this because Karen recorded every viewer comment to be then sent out to all the news bosses and station management the following day. Dad would try to put on a different accent for every call he made. However, it didn’t take long for his cover to be blown.

  ‘Helllloooo, that girl in the bright jacket is very good …’

  ‘Thank you sir …’

  ‘Can you pass that on?’

  ‘Yes sir and can I have your name please?’

  ‘Yes, it’s John Rowe.’

  Dad kept calling though and Karen kept letting me know that he had left another message. Slowly, through practice, I improved my news presenting and had some extra voice training to work on my intonation and to make me sound more relaxed.

  During those years I made sure I didn’t get pregnant. I carefully used condoms, the pill and, if all else failed, the morning-after pill. My reckless sexual abandon was typical of a selfish and self-absorbed twenty-something, and it was probably helped along by the fact that Mum hadn’t had an episode in hospital for a few years—it was time to kick up my heels and make up for lost time. For me, it was all about instant gratification and wearing the best shoes! I had no problems picking up the phone and asking a bloke out on a date as I had nothing to lose, and in my mind plenty to gain.

  But on turning thirty my carefree smile was gradually replaced by a feverish, bunny-boiler, please-love-me look. Most of my girlfriends were married and had started their own families. I became tired of being the plus one at dinner parties and was even wearier of laughing off the ‘what’s a nice girl like you doing without a boyfriend?’ comments. I wondered what was wrong with me. Was I too pushy? Too threatening? Too desperate? Yes, yes and yes.

  Georgie, my closest girlfriend, was single too, and we spent many nights out together wondering if we would be left on the shelf. If that happened, we promised to retire together and buy a house in Perth with a fancy wraparound verandah, two ancient red-lipsticked ladies talking on our rocking chairs while casting our eyes over a pink Austin rose garden. In the meantime, Friday and Saturday nights had become our candlelit dinner-for-two dates. The pair of us spent so much time together that a gossip columnist speculated we had become lesbian lovers! We laughed at that while eyeing the seemingly shrinking pool of fellas propped up at Hugo’s Lounge in Sydney’s Kings Cross.

  I was hopeless at playing hard to get. I gave my heart away too easily and too often had it thrown back in my face. And after spending a decade trying not to be pregnant, I’d gradually realised that I wanted to be a mother. The idea of a body clock was something I had ignored as nonsense, a conspiracy to stop women following their career ambitions. Now that clock was ticking loudly and I feared I had left it too late and my future would be me, myself and I, along with my tortoiseshell cat, Audrey.

  My career was going along beautifully, at least, and I found myself all dressed up at the best parties, drinking the best champagne, but I had never felt lonelier. On one such evening I found myself glistening in gold sequins but stranded alone at the Logie Awards. My then boyfriend seemed to be hanging out in the toilet with some soapie stars, so I looked around desperately for someone I could talk to at the after party. Suddenly I was clinking champagne glasses with a very tall and charming man named Peter Overton. While he asked me lots of questions and patiently listened to my answers, I wondered why I was not dating a nice man like him.

  ‘I like your style,’ Peter said when he answered the phone a few weeks later. He wasn’t surprised to hear from me because Tony, a mutual friend, had just warned him that I would be ringing.

  ‘Why thank you,’ I replied. ‘Do you want to catch up? Go out to dinner?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Peter. ‘If you like Thai food, there’s a great place called Blue Ginger in Balmain.’

  ‘I love Thai.’

  ‘I’m going to Melbourne to do some interviews next week, so how about this Sunday night?’

  ‘Lovely, great. Seven o’clock?’ I’d decided there was no point stringing this out—there had to be more to life than a conga line of relationships and too many sauvignon blancs on a Friday and Saturday night. I had kissed a lot of frogs and was ready to find my prince and settle down. I rang Georgie to tell her that I was at last going out on a date with a proper grown-up.

  Thankfully I was unaware that Tony had to convince Peter to take me out that first time. As I found out later, Peter was happy and busy in his new job reporting for 60 Minutes, had finally recovered from his divorce and was enjoying ‘playing the field’ a little; he wasn’t looking for another serious relationship. Tony told Peter that I would probably end up married to the local barrister, but I was feeling lovelorn and let down by men so just needed some cheering up.

  Over stir-fried chicken with cashew nuts, Peter entertained me with tales of travelling the world as a reporter for 60 Minutes. We compared stories about working in the media and I reminded him that we had first met many years before when I was doing work experience as a twenty-year-old in the Channel Nine newsroom. During dinner he made me laugh and feel comfortable because of the way he seemed genuinely interested in my life. It also didn’t hurt that he had beautiful blue eyes and strong, broad shoulders. A few hours later Peter drove me home, walked me to my front door and kissed me chastely on the lips.

  ‘Thank you for a fun night,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you next week once I get back from Melbourne.’

  As he said this, I involuntarily crossed my fingers behind my back. I sure hoped he was going to ring, but already I was preparing myself to be disa
ppointed, having heard that line many times over the years. So I was surprised when, a week later, Peter called to ask if I’d like to catch up again in a couple of days. I explained it was my thirty-second birthday and I had organised dinner with my sisters, brother-in-law and close girlfriends. Peter replied that he would love to come along—if he was invited. I worked hard to keep the excitement out of my voice. Wow—he wants to get to know my family and friends. I knew this one was a keeper!

  Peter and I were together for a couple of years before he proposed to me. Early on in our relationship I knew he was the man I wanted to marry, but he took his time. In fact, at one point we almost split up because I wasn’t sure if Peter could commit to me. Understandably, he was gun-shy after the breakdown of his first marriage, but all the while my body clock kept ticking louder and louder and my ovaries would ache when I held the babies of my girlfriends. Would it ever be my turn? Georgie and I still had our regular date nights and lamented that life seemed to be passing us by. Maybe I was being greedy thinking I could have it all. I had a fabulous career, a glittering social life and a kind boyfriend. Perhaps children weren’t going to be a part of my life.

  One Saturday morning Peter left my unit early to help Mum move some computer equipment downstairs in her terrace. After waiting impatiently for her to open the front door, he exclaimed, ‘You know, I’ve got more important things to be doing today!’

  ‘Really? Like what?’ Mum said, surprised by his uncharacteristic bluntness.

  ‘Like picking up an engagement ring for your daughter!’

  ‘Oh my god! Come in quickly—the computer won’t take long and then go!’

  Peter went to the jeweller to pick up the ring and then drove to my father’s house to ask his permission. Dad agreed immediately, but Peter explained he was going to wait until next weekend to propose. However, Dad told him to ask me straight away, otherwise he wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut! Like me, Dad loved a chat, especially if there was exciting news to share around.

  Just as I stepped out of the shower I heard Peter knocking on my front door. Wrapping a towel around me, I didn’t even have time to rub the panda bear mascara from under my eyes as I let him inside. Suddenly, he swept me into his arms in the narrow hallway where there was barely enough room for the two of us. Just as Peter started to speak I began to float above him, watching him hold me. I couldn’t hear what he was saying as I was in shock, observing the scene from a distance. Wait a minute—did he just say what I think he said?

  ‘Pussycat, you make me a better man. Will you marry me?’

  I shot back down into my body. ‘Yes!’ I screamed.

  We married on a blindingly bright blue afternoon, the twelfth of January 2004, on a balcony overlooking Bondi Beach. As Peter and I exchanged our vows, the perfect wave was forming behind us. Squealing with joy, I threw my arms into the air and then around my new husband’s neck as the reverend declared us married. We kissed on the lips, and as I opened my eyes, all I could see was Peter’s blue, blue eyes. In his steady gaze, I knew the perfect life lay ahead for us.

  We clumsily made our way around the dance floor. The pair of us pressed tightly into one another as the DJ played ‘What’s New Pussycat’, our Tom Jones bridal waltz. Clutching the twinkling train of my dress, I leant against Peter’s chest, even in heels only just reaching his chin. In that moment, under the moonlight, I had never felt safer, wrapped in my husband’s arms. At last I had found my life partner, someone who I knew I could always count on, the man who would be there to look after me. As the rest of the bridal party joined us, I closed my eyes to imprint this moment into my memory. My good, golden-haired man would keep the vampires from the door. Everyone I loved, everything I needed, was sealed in this glittering, candlelit restaurant. Outside the full moon shone down onto the ocean, casting its blue, shimmery spell over us all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Opening the curtains of our beach bungalow, all I could see was bright white sand. Once my eyes adjusted to the light I took in the palm trees lining our path to the beach, and under one of these were two dark teak beach chairs with a small table in between them. That would be our spot during our ten days in paradise.

  ‘Petee, come on, get up! Oh my god, wait until you see this—it’s so beautiful. Come on!’

  A wondrous time lay ahead, starting with our honeymoon in the Maldives, where the azure water was luminous even in the dark. Soon after we got home from our beach bungalow overlooking the lagoon I stopped taking the contraceptive pill. Peter and I had talked for a couple of years about how we wanted to be parents. Now there was no time to waste: I was 33 years old and Peter was 37, and we were both ready to bring a new soul into the world and help her take fledging steps. Not that I knew I would have a girl, but secretly I hoped to have a daughter. Women had been a strong force in my life. I had two sisters, Harriet and Claudia, whom I adored, and a mother who loved us fiercely.

  Once our regular life began, so too did the plan to have a baby. Along with lots of sex, I prayed to the goddess, made a wish upon countless stars, read my horoscope and ate lots of leafy green vegetables, all in the hope of creating our own child. We had a huge mortgage with a perfect baby room set aside, but suddenly there was a glitch in our plan: at the age of 35, my body was letting me down. I was shocked at how hard it was to become pregnant. Naively I had thought that once I stopped taking the pill, my regular menstrual cycle would behave itself and my body, with a little help from my husband, would make a baby. I had imagined having a baby would happen quickly, easily and with little fuss. It was natural after all, wasn’t it? However, each month when I saw the dark red blood on my white lacy underpants, I knew I had failed again. It was a personal failure. Everything I had previously wanted I had made happen through hard work and sheer force of will. This time my crash-through approach wasn’t working.

  The hormone specialist had diagnosed polycystic ovarian syndrome. It meant I didn’t ovulate every period, and my body only produced a few eggs a year. There was no golden egg on day seventeen of my 28-day cycle. And there was no way of knowing which months were good for baby-making and which were rotten. Peter and I could keep trying and trying but time was against us. My husband’s job as a reporter for 60 Minutes meant he was away from home for eight months of the year. His jet setting and my flawed biological clock had conspired to drastically reduce our chances of naturally conceiving a baby.

  Everyone around us was pregnant or had young children. Jealousy and resentment sat heavily in my stomach each time a couple told us their good news. When Georgie, who had got married a few months before I did, told me she was expecting her first child, I was happy for her but upset it wasn’t happening for me. Forget both of us being left on the shelf: now I was going to be the only one without a baby. The anger bubbled away inside of me. What was their secret? It seemed so unfair. I grew fearful it would never happen. Friends told us we needed to have a lot of sex, every day, and we just needed to relax. But when someone tells me to relax I get even edgier. And being uptight was not helping me get into the mood to have sex for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

  Sex loses its spontaneity, joy and hotness when you feel like you are fucking to a timetable. And I didn’t feel very sexy with my bottom elevated on a pillow just moments after Peter had come inside me; I had read, heard or maybe imagined that having your hips elevated keeps sperm inside you for longer, and those millions of little swimmers deserved the best chance they could get to meet the golden egg. All the research I had done consistently said that if you’ve been trying for a year to conceive, and for six months if you’re 35, and you were still out of luck, then it was time for expert help.

  So after twelve months of compulsory sex, damp pillowcases, relaxation attempts and dirty weekends away and still no baby, Peter and I knew we needed to seek medical intervention, IVF. At the age of 35, my body was not following orders. I had assumed that being a woman also meant being a mother, so if I couldn’t be a mother, what sort of woman was I? Th
is aberration had never been a part of my plan. Despite well-meaning friends and family reassuring me that I would fall pregnant because they ‘had a feeling’, I was terrified that being a mother was never going to be part of my life. Did now switching to science mean that I was a cop-out? Was I being punished for wanting too much? Should I start investigating adoption?

  Thankfully, our fertility specialist, Dr Raewyn Tierney, helped rein in my whirring mind with her practicality and kindness during our first appointment. She had a gentle face that oozed compassion, and her very presence said, ‘But how are you—really?’ Really, I wasn’t coping at all, but I was well rehearsed in hiding behind the mask required by my job when I got into costume for my role of reading the news each night: designer suits, thick studio make-up and plenty of hairspray so nothing looked awry.

  I couldn’t look directly into Dr Tierney’s brown eyes during the meeting, otherwise my tears would begin and never stop. A part of me wanted to drop my carefully manicured facade while I was there in her office but I still wasn’t ready to reveal my vulnerability and desperation to her or to anyone just yet. Dr Tierney used her black felt-tipped pen to point to the simple diagrams on the pamphlet, clearly showing the different stages of treatment involved in IVF. Focusing on her explanation was a good way of keeping my increasingly anxious thoughts under control.

  ‘And once we’ve got Peter’s sperm we’ll just tap the good ones on the head and team them up with one of your eggs,’ Dr Tierney continued. My mind was full of information about drugs, blood tests, ultrasounds and injections. But the information I desperately needed was something the doctor was unable to tell us. All that mattered to Peter and I was whether the treatment would work. Would we ever have a baby?