Happily Ever After? Read online

  Of course, I had competition. A couple of the more adventurous girls tried to get his attention by sitting in the front row and spreading their legs as wide as possible, perhaps offering him some more practical experience with the female human reproductive system. I was not that confident about the attractiveness of my inner thighs, and attempted to gain his notice by studying hard and becoming his best student. If ever you wanted to know anything about photosynthesis or the life cycle of the mosquito, I was your girl. This strategy did work to some extent. I’d flush with pride (or was it oestrogen?) when he’d single me out for praise in front of the other girls.

  Unfortunately, just before I was about to sit my final exams and looking forward to the time when no pesky teacher-pupil ethics would stand between me and my chosen one, I received the crushing news that he had become engaged to some horrible, undeserving cow. I sobbed for days. But by this time my study path was set and early next year I headed, broken-hearted, to university to study for a Bachelor of Science.

  It’s curious, reflecting back, but I never seriously considered whether science was what I really wanted to do. Proper scientific research requires patience and meticulous attention to detail, not qualities I have in abundance. I was probably too busy to think about these questions, what with commuting to and from university, attending lectures, working as a waitress at our local pizza restaurant to make ends meet, studying and occasional partying (or more accurately partying and occasional studying). I was a competent student, however, and did particularly well at pharmacology (the study of drugs), so when the chance came up to do an Honours year I took it, in lieu of thinking of anything more original to do.

  I was near finishing up my Honours when, standing over a cage of rats I was planning to poison in the name of science, I had a terrifying vision of my future. I saw myself in twenty years’ time, eking out an existence on my meagre salary, married to some fellow cardigan-wearing academic with a beard, and spending my rare holidays going on brisk hikes in the Tasmanian wilderness or at Australian Sceptics Society conferences. Not for me folks - for a start hiking boots make my legs look stumpy. I was seeking a life of glamour and excitement and Prince Charming was clearly not going to find me amongst the lab rats. This all coincided with my school friends graduating from their commerce and arts degrees and finding employment in the corporate world. Still living at home, they proceeded to spend all their salary on new clothes, so whilst I was still wearing old t-shirts and faded Levi’s they’d arrive to meet me in their crisp new suits, swinging handbags that cost more than my entire annual Austudy allowance.

  Scientific ideals be damned - I was going after the money!

  As luck would have it, I found the university careers advisory service was advertising a graduate position in clinical research at the local headquarters of a pharmaceutical company, commencing the next year. Thanks to my sterling results in pharmacology, I ended up being the successful applicant and immediately enrolled in an evening degree course in marketing.

  When I arrived at my first lecture, I thought I had arrived on a different planet by mistake, rather than just at a different university campus. These leather briefcase carrying guys and gals were students? They looked a different species to the scruffy, thoughtful and - let’s face it - slightly nerdy idealists I’d left behind in the science labs. Few of these new students were there to be educated. They had their hearts set on climbing the corporate ladder and thought a few extra letters after their name might fast track that process. Idealism was a commodity in very short supply. I was disgusted with myself for becoming one of them…briefly…until my first few pay cheques started arriving.

  It was also about this time that Tony appeared on the scene.

  2

  One enchanted evening

  When I think about it, it’s more accurate to say Tony re-appeared on the scene because I’d actually known him for years. He was one of my brother’s best school friends. At eleven, David won a scholarship to an expensive private school, the sort of school Mum and Dad could never have afforded to send him to ordinarily. Given this opportunity he provided excellent return on investment: becoming vice-captain, playing wing in the First XV and making the Honour roll in several academic subjects. Tony was also a star player, in the lock position, in David’s rugby team. Mum and Dad would sometimes drag Emma and me along to watch the team play and memories of my future husband back then are all of sweat and clashing bodies and striped rugby jerseys. I didn’t have a crush on him (remarkable in retrospect, as my infatuation net was cast fairly wide in those days) but I knew he was popular with the girls, impossibly cool and as remote from me as any member of a British glam rock band could be.

  I can’t imagine Tony ever gave David’s dull and mildly chubby younger sister a second thought back then. He probably didn’t even give me a first thought. But by the time we were reacquainted I’d shed some pudge, discovered blonde highlights and finally got enough money to buy a few decent clothes. If not quite the swan I’d dreamed of, I was at least no longer an ugly duckling.

  Anthony John Cooper is the elder of Douglas and Pamela Cooper’s two sons. Douglas was for a long period one of Sydney’s most successful stockbrokers and the Cooper boys grew up in a Federation-era trophy home with a pool and harbour views. Those who didn’t know Tony well assumed he would follow his father’s footsteps into a business career. Those who did, knew he’d had only one ambition since childhood, to become a Qantas pilot, and in his last years of school had spent all his spare time out at Bankstown airport clocking up his flying hours.

  Finally I had suitor who lived up to my girlish fantasies - he didn’t quite arrive on a prancing white steed but a Boeing 737 is not a bad substitute.

  He was only my second serious boyfriend. As you’ve heard, my teenage years were not very successful in that regard. In fact the only satisfactory relationships I had during that time were those where the entire drama - from star-crossed meeting, to impassioned declarations of love, right through to poignant parting - was played out exclusively in my head. Fortunately, I had my books to sustain me and during this time found a whole new form of literature to keep me occupied. I was rummaging around in an old cardboard box of Mum’s books one day when I discovered How to Save Your Own Life by Erica Jong, the author of the notorious Fear of Flying. What’s this about? I thought, as I glanced idly inside. Well, well, well…I can’t remember when I next came up for air. There was one particular scene that sticks in the memory where the heroine gives another woman an orgasm using the neck of an empty bottle of Moët and Chandon. This was an eye-opening experience for the young Eleanor and, I can only imagine, an eye-watering one for the recipient of that orgasm. Then I discovered more books of this type in Mum’s collection, including some wonderfully trashy novels by Judith Krantz, which included numerous romps in the hay - oral sex, lesbians, you name it - depicted in glorious anatomical detail. This was a very different sort of sex to the tame procreation I’d been taught about at school.

  It was then I discovered that my mum - far from being the quiet suburban teacher/librarian I’d assumed - was in fact a raving sexpot. This probably explained the unplanned conception of Emma.

  I resolved to put this new found book knowledge to use, deciding that I was going to need a few notches on my belt if I was ever going to convincingly seduce my Year 11 biology teacher. My unspoken New Year’s resolution that year was to lose my virginity. Unfortunately the actual act was not quite the romantic Sunday afternoon deflowering by a tender young lover I’d envisioned. It ended up being a drunken shag in the back seat of a car with a boy from the neighbouring school.

  The two of us were sitting out the front of a party at the home of Susie, one of my school friends, when the cops arrived. Susie’s parents had gone away for the weekend so as a matter of course she’d organised an impromptu party, but it turned into a much bigger event than anyone anticipated. In addition to the under-age drinking w
e knew there was a bit of minor league drug taking happening inside, so at Justin’s suggestion as the cops filed past us we beat a retreat to his car. Then he drove to a deserted park and put the hard word on me, which was probably his plan all along. The ridiculous thing was he kept apologising to me about not being ‘very big’. If only he’d known I had no idea, he could have saved himself an awful lot of embarrassment that evening. It’s possible he was just seeking reassurance but if so he picked the wrong girl. I am now much at ease in the world of the phallus (more on that later) but at this early stage of my sexual development I was too bashful to even look! Anyway, the way I saw it, this revelation was actually a positive development. Given the choice between losing her virginity to a guy hung like a horse versus one tending towards the under endowed side of the equation, I think any sensible girl would choose the latter.

  To cut a long story short, I did manage to achieve my objective that evening but the whole experience was awkward and clumsy and completely unerotic. I comforted myself that, starting from such a low base, things could only improve.

  My love life spluttered along in fits and lots of false starts until I met John in one of the university bars. He was two years my senior: a tall, thin vegetarian, with dark eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, which he often tied back in a pony tail. I thought him terribly exotic and fell completely in love at first sight. He was officially studying for an economics degree but much more interested in student politics and working to overthrow the oppressive capitalist state. In fact in all the time I knew him I hardly saw him attend a lecture, although remarkably he still passed all his exams. He lived with several other students in a horrible grotty terrace house in Newtown. There was never any food in that bloody house but a lot of cheap alcohol was consumed. I used to stay over frequently, sleeping with him on a double bed mattress on the floor. John taught me the ways of love on that old Sealy Posturepedic although he’d be disappointed to know that I’ve had better since. Anyway, we hung together for most of my science degree, but in the end I got weary of his earnestness and gave him the flick. I don’t know what happened to him and must remember to Google him one day. Maybe he’ll turn up as a Greens’ candidate in a forthcoming election, although if he’s followed the typical path of most old socialists it’s more likely I’ll find that he’s now a tobacco company executive or something of that ilk.

  It was at a party for David a couple of years later that Tony and I hooked up. I can remember the details clearly even though it was twelve years ago now. By this time Tony had been newly elevated to a first officer position with Qantas. David was heading to the UK for a couple of years of physician’s training so his friends had organised a bon voyage party, held in a private function room at a pub. I toddled along with my good friend, Mimi, which would not usually be regarded as an effective strategy if you were out to meet guys. Mimi is small and dainty with glossy dark hair, a delicate pointed chin, huge brown eyes, and a little girl voice and tinkling laugh which drive men to distraction. She also has the most beautiful skin you’ve ever seen; I expect she’s the only girl in recorded history to go through adolescence without a single blemish. Her presence seems to trigger some caveman-protector gene buried deep on the Y chromosome but the guys aren’t privy to the joke that she doesn’t need protecting at all. She’s smart and witty and fun to be around and possesses just the right amount of cynicism to be interesting. That’s why I chose to hang around with her. If only it wasn’t so dispiriting to turn into the invisible woman in her company.

  However, as it turned out, Tony was one of the small percentage of men (I’d estimate around 0.5 percent) who found me the more attractive.

  This particular evening Mimi and I were standing together, sipping bad house wine and viewing the passing parade with a detached eye, when I noticed Tony heading in our direction. He’d be hard to miss, a golden boy in every sense of the word. There was none of that apologetic sidling up I associated with less attractive men. He approached us confidently - clearly a young man expecting a positive reception.

  I sighed. There was my evening gone.

  ‘Hi, Ellie isn’t it? David’s sister? I almost didn’t recognise you at first.’ Well at least he’s polite, I thought, taking time to acknowledge my existence before he moves in on Mimi.

  ‘Yes, and this is my friend Mimi,’ I explained. May as well get on with it.

  ‘Hi, Mimi. And what are you up to these days, Ellie? I haven’t seen you for ages. Have you been overseas?’

  ‘No, just at uni all the time. I’m studying for a marketing degree. But I did go on holiday to Italy recently with two girlfriends. We had the best time. I know everyone is meant to prefer Florence but I especially loved Rome. Have you been?…Oh, my God, I just realised how stupid that must sound, what with you jetting about the world for your job.’

  ‘No, not really - I’m just flying domestically at the moment. A holiday in Italy sounds pretty good to me, too.’

  And so the conversation ensued. I asked him more about his job and told him about mine, and we discussed David and his already brilliant career and after about twenty minutes it dawned on me that Tony was directing almost all of his conversation towards me. He wasn’t interested in Mimi it seemed - very strange.

  I also started noticing how good looking he was. I’d never thought of myself as a girl who was interested in blondes. Surfers have certainly never done it for me. I began to reassess; he was pretty damn cute. He was wearing jeans and an immaculately-ironed white cotton shirt, which he had folded up to his elbows to reveal tanned hands and muscular forearms covered in fine golden hairs. When he folded his arms his biceps pressed tightly against the shirt fabric in a most alluring way. His closeness and in-your-face masculinity started arousing some curious sensations within me, so much so that when he started telling me about his job and what a big rush it was to get those magnificent machines to rise up in the air, I couldn’t help speculating on other large objects that may also get a rise. I was glad the lighting was dim so he couldn’t witness my blushes.

  By the way, you needn’t waste your time feeling sorry for Mimi about all this. Predictably by this time she was surrounded by a circle of worshipful admirers, although I could tell by her demeanour that she wasn’t interested. Her time would come later.

  Eventually Tony asked me to dance and took my hand as he escorted me to the dance floor, past the raised eyebrows of my brother. I was having a fine old time when Mimi came up to me saying she had a headache and wanted to leave. Damn, that was my lift home gone.

  ‘Don’t worry, I can drop you home,’ said Tony. ‘If that’s okay of course.’

  Oh yes, that was okay.

  My first impression of Tony was that he seemed extremely grown up. He owned a nice car - a late-model Mazda 323 - unlike most of the other guys I’d dated who, if they possessed any sort of vehicle, invariably got around in rusty old jalopies that were never guaranteed to start when you turned the ignition key. Of course he knew the way to my place as he’d been there before; it was a comfort that he already knew that my family wasn’t wealthy. He asked if he could see me again and I gave him one of my new business cards, feeling very sophisticated. Then he kissed me, just the once, but it was splendid - a tantalising hint of what I hoped was to come. He’s always been a great kisser.

  For the next few days I was on tenterhooks. I’d had enough of those ‘I’ll call you’ experiences to know the success rate wasn’t great. Every time the phone rang at work my heart would skip a beat. I’d eagerly grab the phone, only to say ‘Oh’ when it turned out to be Joe from the accounts department, or someone else equally as boring. Then, after almost four days, when I’d convinced myself he was just another arrogant prick who didn’t deserve me, Tony called.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t call earlier. I’ve been away with work and I forgot to take your number with me.’

  ‘Oh that’s fine,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to call any
sooner.’ Liar!

  We organised to go to the movies (we saw Speed as I recall), which proceeded to dinner, which proceeded to dinner and parties with his friends and before I knew it I had assumed girlfriend status. Almost all of Tony’s friends had, rather unimaginatively, paired up with girls they’d all known since their school days, so I did for a period feel somewhat an outsider. Luckily most of these girls were friendly enough, except for one or two whom I suspect had been planning to line Tony up with a friend or a sister, or maybe even themselves. He was certainly much cuter than their boyfriends, I thought with satisfaction. I was glad that my brother was living overseas by this time, because I think this might have been more awkward if it had been happening under his nose. I think Tony was relieved too, as it’s always a bit loaded seeing a friend’s sister, especially when there is sex involved - which there was before too long - and David was nothing if not the protective big brother.

  After we’d been seeing each other about a month or so Tony suggested we head back to his place after dinner. Things had been getting pretty hot and heavy in the kissing department so I’d suspected this might be on the cards and had even bought new lingerie in anticipation. I had been just about to hand over my credit card to purchase them in vixen black when I had a rethink and opted for virginal white. Even by this early stage I was having furtive fantasies about marriage and thought it prudent to appear more bride than seductress. I was touched to observe he’d tidied his bedroom in my honour but later discovered that that was just Tony and his bedroom always looked neat. He was so strong he could have taken ‘command’ of me and I would have been powerless to resist (I’ll admit I sometimes fantasised that he did) but he was surprisingly gentle and deferential. It was all that I had dreamed of and more, and I knew that I had fallen in deep.