Designer Baby

by Aaron Elias Brunsdon

  “It’s no one’s business. We will speak to them in our own time. Our concern now is to bring him home safely,” Jayson replies.

  “This can screw things up in Bangkok...We just can’t talk to the media about it. I don’t see why we should give it away for nothing anyway.”

  Vicky jokes that we should sell the story and put the money into our son’s private education fund.

  “Yes, you think I could get half a million bucks for it?” I reply, half jokingly.

  “You’re not Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, be happy with fifty k,” she jokes.

  But as they say, “a good story is worth the chase” and the chase was far from over. A few days later we are chosen to do a fashion editorial piece for the Sunday Telegraph, to run in the paper the following week. The piece is to commemorate the seventy-fifth anniversary of the publication covering fashion. The papers pick several legendary Australian designers to shoot a portrait with a model wearing their first design, and Jayson is one of the selected designers.

  We worry at first because the shoot will take place at News Limited’s Holt Street headquarters, the office where the Daily Telegraph, Sunday Telegraph and half of the country’s media publications, like Vogue, lives. The prospect of bumping into JMo or other journos seems quite feasible.

  “The opportunity is good for business. I am honoured they chose me,” Jayson says.

  The story is going to be written by fashion editor Prue Lewington, a personal friend whom we trust. Prue is always genuine and sincere and has minimal connections with gossip writers. She has integrity and writes about fashion. She is well respected in our industry.

  “JMo will probably be lurking around the front waiting for us,” Jayson jokes. I will say nothing to Mr Moran if I see him.

  We arrive five minutes before the planned shoot and hurry past security. I have organised with Myer PR Laura Benson to escort us quickly into the studio.

  “We must avoid JMo at all cost and if you see him before we do, text us at once,” I had briefed her earlier. He is nowhere in sight.

  The photographer and model are waiting at the back of the studio. Prue is seated and interviewing Alex Perry, who has just finished his shoot.

  Jayson waits to be photographed with the six-foot-tall Israeli model wearing his 2004 gold dress. Prue sees to Alex’s departure and then walks to the front of the studio to greet Jayson and me. She shows us pictures of her two young boys, reminding me of the time when she was pregnant. When we went to Buenos Aires for the first time, Prue and her Argentine husband gave us a list of places to visit. We all love the South American country of Eva Perón. She had recommended we visit gay discotheque Amerika.

  I stay for five more minutes before leaving for an important meeting. Jayson and Ellie promise to take a taxi back to the office when done. I am confident they are safe with Prue.

  Prue Lewington interviews Jayson on the gorgeous first dress he designed, in 2003, which is inspired by Maria Callas. The interview lasts about fifteen minutes. Jayson shares with Prue stories about his premier collection and other inspiring moments of his career, including the La Scala dress Linda Evangelista wore that year on a catwalk.

  “It sold incredibly well, despite the one-thousand-four-hundred-and ninety-nine-dollar price tag some eleven years ago,” he says.

  When the interview is over, Jayson gets up to leave but Prue corners him, shutting the door and leaving the two of them alone.

  “Jayson, there is one last thing I need to discuss with you. It’s about the baby story.”

  The moment is awkward. Prue asks Jayson and me to consider a tell-all story about our baby.

  “It will run prime page, a picture of the three of you, the Sunday after the birth,” she says. “I would love to write your beautiful story.”

  Jayson is absolutely silent, having been briefed to handle it this way. “Don’t say a word to a soul,” I had reminded him earlier. In fact, he doesn’t utter a word, except to say he would discuss with me and come back to her on it. Part of him wants very much to tell her everything about our baby, knowing Prue would have understood our embargo position.

  He rings me as soon as he leaves the office.

  “You won’t believe what just happened.”

  I am aghast when he tells me.

  “Prue is the perfect person to write it but we just can’t take any risks, can we?” I reply.

  I ring Melissa from Myer PR again, a friend I can always rely on and who is forthcoming with advice. We are one of Myer’s stable, and three lines of our fashion brand are exclusive to Myer in more than sixty stores nationally.

  “If you don’t consider Prue’s genuine offer, others will continue to hound you, trail you and hunt you down one way or the other. Aaron, pray it won’t be an intimate time when they strike. You don’t want a picture of you in the papers with a version of what they know. Put it this way, Prue is respectable and she will only do you both justice.”

  “It’s just that we have much at stake and it’s not long before we leave,” I tell Melissa.

  We are not entirely comfortable to talk. We decide to keep under the radar for now.

  27

  Baby Whisperer

  The apartment has been a mess ever since we started packing for our trip in ten days’ time. There are baby products everywhere, bags and bags full of stuff, enough for three babies, and food to feed an army. There are six full suitcases, no doubt overloaded.

  “Thank god for business class,” I tell Jayson.

  “Thank god for Qantas,” he replies.

  Leona and Jeremy, whom we now consider family, introduce us to mothercraft nurse Chris Minogue. Chris has been a saviour to us both. Nicknamed “the Baby Whisperer”, the early forties, big-breasted woman with a motherly figure is beyond exceptional in her work. She has worked with hundreds of Australian couples, including many stars and celebrities. We are thankful when our friends gift us a session with her in preparation for Thailand.

  “She is gold, Aaron. What you get from her is priceless,” Leona says to me. “She is the fix-it nurse and will help you streamline parenthood. You will get sleep and be ready to run the show with her help.”

  Chris comes to our Elizabeth Bay home three days before we leave for Thailand. She turns the apartment upside down and repacks our entire luggage. She writes a schedule to adhere to from the minute he wakes up.

  “What to feed him at what time of the day, how you bond with your child and what he wears in the day are all in here.” She hands over the journal to us after carefully explaining the contents in detail.

  “Some things are a waste of bag space. It clogs your luggage,” she says when she sees a steriliser in the luggage.

  “You must get disposable ones, they are a lot smaller and easy to use.” She writes us a long shopping list of things to buy.

  “Don’t worry, it’s not brain surgery,” she assures us, sensing how worried we are.

  “We are nervous. We have never done this before,” Jayson tells her.

  “Well, you’re not the only one; thousands have been in the same boat and sailed through. Why should you be the exception?” she responds.

  “It’s nerve-wracking. I want to get it right. I am worried about bathing him because he will be so small. I don’t know how I am going to bathe something so tiny.”

  “I will show you how to bathe him. Stay calm even if he screams – he’s durable so you won’t snap him in two,” she replies.

  Yes, she does show us how to bathe our newborn, using a plastic doll to model the step-by-step routine. She uses one of the teddy bears to show us how to swaddle him afterwards, repeating the demonstration several times until we get a handle on it.

  It is a fun day with Chris. She leaves us feeling more confident, and we have a wealth of information written down to refer to any time we wanted. She tells us to Skype her if we get stuck.

  We need to let loose and let nature take its course. We spend the last few days finishing our packing and ringin
g friends to tell them of our plans in the next six weeks. Finally, we speak to our parents.

  “I never believed I would live to see you both have a baby,” Malcolm says. “In my time, you got beaten up for being homosexual. Look how much we have progressed.” It’s true, in a way, how far the world has come.

  Who can believe this is happening? I have only been waiting for this all my life. Now it’s knocking at my doorstep and soon he will be calling me Daddy.

  It feels surreal. We don’t know what to make of it. We see luggage lined up in our living room, containing baby clothes, food and essentials. We are a big step closer to “Daddy” and “Papa”. I am overwhelmed looking at our baby’s clothes. I look at Jayson and shed a tear – tears of joy they were. Whatever it is I am feeling, it’s inexplicable, because I never thought this day would come when we can actually legally go to Thailand and bring him home without any problems.

  I guess all that had taken place in the last few months had left us shattered, fearing the unknown, worried for our baby’s safety. But the eve of our departure to Thailand is different in so many ways. I feel content, like I’ve realised an accomplishment. We’ve gone through the hard yards, now we just have to sit back, enjoy and let it happen for good.

  “Enjoy parenthood. It’s our lifetime commitment,” I tell Jayson.

  I look up at the stars that night, thanking the universe. As usual, something out there is looking out for us three. Our dream is finally coming true.

  Part 3

  Birth

  “Every person is a God in embryo. Its only desire is to be born.”

  Deepak Chopra

  28

  Last Christmas

  The Michael Bublé carol plays merrily at the Sydney International Airport and his album is prominently displayed at a nearby stand. The stores are bright with decorated Christmas trees and staff wearing Santa hats and kitsch jewellery in the spirit of Christmas. Santa and his helpers loiter around the foyer, distributing presents to young children already laden with new toys they received on the way to the airport. Last-minute travellers are rushing back home to be with their families and will probably make it in time for Christmas dinner. I hum to the Bublé song while we stroll to the first-class lounge early enough to not miss the Christmas breakfast.

  Every Christmas, Jayson and I return home to Ballina in the northern rivers region of New South Wales to spend time with the Brunsdons, his family. Around the Christmas tree are beautifully wrapped presents with silk ribbons. The country home is adorned with mistletoe, garlands, wreaths and tinsel decorations. It is traditional in the family, including me in the last fifteen years, to gather together for Christmas.

  Jayson’s parents Dorothy and Malcolm, his brother Craig and sister-in-law Virginia, his nephew Callan, his now grown-up niece Shea, Jayson and I start the ritual by unwrapping presents, which takes an hour or more. I myself play Father Christmas, having been elected as the distributor of presents. Each gift is wrapped in white paper and tied up with beautiful red polka-dot and striped black-and-white silk ribbon and has a hand-painted card to go with it. Jayson spent a day illustrating the cards and writing Christmas messages in them.

  Being Jewish, I never experienced the tradition of giving presents on Christmas Day growing up, which is why the role of jolly Santa became exclusively mine in the Brunsdon home. I cherish my role and wait patiently each year to fulfil it. My extended family are always grateful for the gifts they receive from us, usually clothes and cosmetics for the women, liquor and Big W or Target gift vouchers for the men, and the expected yearly framed Jayson Brunsdon painting for the folks. Their painting collection grows each year, and each picture is proudly displayed on the walls of the family home, making the place look like an art gallery. Jayson has signed and dated each painting, spanning from the late ’70s to present day. Dorothy delights in showing her friends and neighbours these artworks, which she is so proud of, from her famous son. She tells them the history and stories for each painting.

  “And this one is of our first home in Cromer. Jayson was only fourteen,” she boasts of her young son’s talent to the marvelling guests.

  “I’ll say, this one is of me, his muse for his fashion show in 2008. He named this one ‘Dorothy’.” She glows in pride, making sure she cites the correct date, which is also a reminder of the time in her life when the Christmas painting was given to her.

  Recent years have witnessed a spiralling and fading of her memory due to the progression of Alzheimer’s. She has rapidly moving symptoms and soon she will forget the inspiration and times behind the paintings. Before long she may not remember anything, since her mother once suffered a similar fate from the inherited disease.

  Her husband Malcolm has recently recovered from a quadruple bypass, and every year when we visit we reflect on their mortality. Christmas becomes dearer to us and we cherish each Christmas with them like it will be their last.

  Christmas is always about giving, particularly in the Brunsdons’ home. My in-laws know how fussy we are. They have steadfastly refused to buy any gifts for us since the early days, when they were offended by our expression of disbelief after receiving a printed T-shirt with big coloured printed slogans that read “I love Hawaii”. Or the time when they bought us each an electric toothbrush, both of which promptly landed inside one of those charity bins. Instead, we will receive the traditional home-baked Christmas cake carefully placed into a plastic Tupperware container to keep it intact on the flight home to Sydney. The recipe for the cake was handed down from Dorothy’s mother, and is so delicious that no bakery in Australia could match it. Then they give us festive red envelopes with our names written on them, and a card inside with a gift of cash.

  After the traditional opening of presents, we sit outside on the patio where a huge lunch awaits, usually a surf and turf barbecue with large, fresh, wild-caught Ballina river prawns that have been marinating since early morning. There are oysters, fish, steak and various salads. Dorothy’s favourite is the traditional egg salad – yolk taken out and carefully mashed with homemade mayonnaise and a dash of mustard before filling the contents back into the solid egg white. Dorothy doesn’t really like cooking but she tries harder at Christmas. Virginia will bring tofu and green salads for her vegan children.

  The plentiful spread almost hides the green tablecloth with a clear plastic overlay that protects the table. Although it’s been well used over the years, its condition is still pristine. Each setting comes with festive motif placemats and red paper napkins – the placemats Dorothy received as a wedding present more than half a century ago. Then, only ever brought out for the Christmas table, is her beautifully crafted Wedgwood china, originals handed down from her mother. A large bouquet of flowers, usually red gerberas, sits in the middle.

  On another table inside the house is a whole spread of desserts, which Dorothy prepared weeks before: Christmas cake, sugared ice, pavlova, cookies, lollies and chocolates of all types. Several bottles of Moët from our personal collection mingle with other bottles of wine and a truckload of Victoria Bitter beer for Craig, who likes his beer. The family dress in their best new summer clothes and sit to enjoy the sumptuous lunch.

  In the afternoon, my parents call from Singapore for a customary chat to the Brunsdons. Malcolm and my father, born a matter of weeks apart in the same year, chit-chat for a while, usually the same conversations each year – how are you, how is the family, that kind of thing. Once the formalities are completed, the fathers hand the phone to our mothers and the same conversations are routinely repeated between them. It is sweet to see how two set of families from completely different cultures intertwine.

  I remember the first time our fathers spoke.

  “They are our sons, we made them,” they said, referring to our sexuality, and they agreed they would love us no matter what our sexual identity. It is quite amazing to think these two straight men from completely different backgrounds have such open minds about their sons’ sexuality. Our fathers are re
markable and they are both gentlemen.

  When lunch is over, Craig and his family leave, while Jayson and I would usually retire to our room for a short siesta. This is how we have spent Christmas Day for the last fifteen years, but today is an exception. Today I sit in the first-class lounge reminiscing about the Brunsdons’ customary Christmases. A sense of deja vu overwhelms me as not so long ago – roughly nine months ago – I sat in the same spot waiting for the same flight to Bangkok. We aren’t on our way to Ballina, but instead en route to Bangkok once again, this time for the birth of our son in ten days’ time.

  Initially we were advised to be in Bangkok a week before the 4 January due date.

  “But he could come any time from Christmas Day,” Kay warned us.

  “This will be our last Christmas alone together,” I say to Jayson. “Next year, we will be a family of three together.” I am excited by the prospect.

  The flight to Bangkok is surprisingly full. We chose to depart on Christmas Day, believing the flights and seats would be empty and business class fares cheaper.

  We arrive at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport and this time we are greeted by the hotel’s driver dressed in a smart black suit. He ushers us towards a black Mercedes-Benz sedan. I reflect on the difference of the taxi driver with his Priscilla, Queen of the Desert car when he picked us up nine months ago.

  Other travellers are hurrying about, looking for their drivers, while smokers align themselves on the footpath, filling the air with the smell of smoke. I have finally given up smoking. We scuttle to the car and sink patiently into our seats to begin the long drive to our apartment.

  I expected the streets to be dead and solemn like the ghost town I am accustomed to on Christmas Day back home. But in Bangkok, the city is alive, buzzing, and the traffic is hectic. It is cooler than normal, without the usual blazing Bangkok heat; December is said to be their version of winter. We can’t help but laugh when we notice some locals wearing cardigans and knits, wondering how hot they must feel under those clothes in the humidity.