A FOLLOW-UP

When a Famous TV Writer Turns Your Love Story Into a Show

You never know who you’ll meet hanging in the kitchen at parties

It all started with a string in a biscuit and a phone call to a complaints department. I would tell the story of how I met my ex-husband many times over the years, but when I told it to a stranger at a party he would immortalise it.

By the time the party invitation came in the summer of 1998, we had been married for ten years. It was a golden time in our marriage, I was happy again after years of reclusion — a fat loss story that doesn’t belong here. So, considering how painfully introverted I was, parties were a miracle to behold. To find myself at the centre of this party was as if I’d found nirvana.

I stood there, thighs pressed against the marble-top island that was centre stage like in a grand showroom. The split-level open-plan home gave the impression of exactly that — a free-floating kitchen above vast dining, living, and lounge areas. It was all steel, glass, and marble. Opulence with no expense spared, straight from the pages of a glossy magazine.

I remember a moment of pure disbelief as I stood there on my platform as if I were alone and wondering what to cook for dinner. It wasn’t my kitchen, and I didn’t think it had ever witnessed a mess of any kind. Every surface was pristine. No. I was pondering something else entirely as a crowd of beautiful men surrounded me. “How the hell did I get here?” the voice in my head chirped.

The only way to stardom is up, or coming directly at you from the opposite side of the room

He stood out like a meerkat surveying a foreign environment. A tall, broad, ruggedly handsome man with the slightest touch of silver in his hair wearing John Lennon glasses. He reminded me of an old movie star from The Rat Pack days of Hollywood — not that he was old, but he was older than most of the crowd. He had a certain magnetism, even at a distance. I had a feeling he too was above the crowd, but his height had nothing to do with it. He had all the elements of an alpha. And when our eyes locked over the sea of heads, he forged his way straight towards me.

He towered over me, even in my six-inch heels. His very presence seemed regal. A few hundred years earlier, I’d have bent the knee to kiss the ring on his finger.

I smiled — my curiosity on high alert.

“Well, aren’t you a vision,” he said as he took my hand and kissed it. Not kidding. He did that. Was he reading my mind?

“Tell me. Who are you and how did you come to be here? And do you have something to do with that?” He gestured towards the commotion in the centre of the room below.

George, my husband, was standing in the shadow of our nine-year-old daughter. She was encircled by a group of men who were clearly captivated by her conversation. Laughter rang out, and I wondered what she was saying to attract such undivided attention.

I smiled. Her mother’s daughter all right.

How I came to be there

After meeting my first gay friend a year before, my world opened up to a life I never knew existed. I lost half my body weight and went from a fat boring housewife to an extrovert Barbie. People, places, parties, and balls, I would dress up like a diva, mingling, dancing, and chatting as if I was born an aristocrat.

If they only knew where I’d come from. I’d be on their blacklist. A boring, fat housewife with suicidal tendencies does not a party make. She has no place with the A-listers.

But in this life, most nights felt as if I’d stepped through a wardrobe straight into The Chronicles of Narnia, and all the fabulous characters were suddenly vying for my attention.

A domino effect played out as each event introduced me to more new people until a kind of celebrity-type status befell me, which often left me gob-smacked — until it didn’t.

I relished my newfound position like a lottery winner after being dirt poor. I wondered if real celebrities felt a similar invincibility when they were thrust from anonymity into stardom.

George would stay home with our daughter while I conducted my night-time escapades. He always knew where I was, and seemed happy to take the backseat. He wasn’t a jealous man by nature, but I’m sure being with gay men eased any worries. Plus, he trusted me.

The day of the party

“Oh come on Marce, it’s not a party without you there,” said my new gay friend on the other end of the line.

“And bring that husband of yours if he really does exist! Isn’t it time we finally meet him?”

I felt disjointed. Not that my friend was suggesting my husband might be a figment of my imagination — we’d often laugh about that. It was the invitation for him to join me in my private world that unnerved me.

“No,” I said, “that doesn’t sound like a good idea, and anyway, we don’t do babysitters at short notice. You do remember we have a child right?”

“Nonsense. You have to come! Bring her. If she’s anything like her mother she’ll be in her element.”

“What! That’s ridiculous. I can’t bring my daughter to a gay house party. That must be negligent at best, probably illegal.”

He laughed.

“Marce, it’s not a dance party — it’s a cocktail party. With food and no drugs, promise.”

I do hate to miss a party…

The crowd faded into the background as the tall handsome stranger listened intently to the story of my life. And when I got to the part where George and I met on a blind double date because he found a string in his biscuit and called to complain, he seemed lost for words.

And then he made me a proposition I certainly wasn’t expecting.

“Marcia, my brain is ticking away…” He paused for emphasis. “I’m working on a new TV show called Always Greener. I’d love to turn your first date into an episode. I’ll call it ‘String In A Biscuit’ I think it’ll be a hit. Your story is fascinating, my dear. Do I have your permission to do that?” he said, as if he’d just asked me to pass him the nuts.

What. The. Fuck.

That’s when I found out I’d been speaking to Bevan Lee for the past hour. He was like the Godfather of creators in the Australian television industry. Famous for soap operas and TV dramas, and his most popular creation was Home and Away. It’s still airing since 1988 — the year George and I married.

And that’s how a love story became a TV episode.

Always Greener lasted two seasons, from 2001–2003. Our episode, ‘The String in the Biscuit’ aired in Season 1 Episode 11. Beven credits a co-writer for the episode, but it was all him — and me.

Later, the episode was nominated for an International Emmy Award. The show, although it only lasted for two seasons, was nominated for numerous Logie Awards and that’s the crème de la crème of Australian television.

Afterword: When my daughter was ten years old, she starred in an episode of Home and Away, thanks to Bevan and her skills in sign language. She’d never acted before, but she was a natural — as if that weren’t inevitable. She played the part of a deaf girl at a drop-in centre. She isn’t deaf, but we were all fluent in Auslan sign language. Why? Because I once met a deaf guy on a dance floor in a nightclub.

And that’s a whole other story…

“You never know who you’ll meet. The world is about connections, Regina. Not just who you know, but who they know. It’s all one big web, everything interconnected, everyone tugging on each other’s strings.”

― Jennifer McMahon, The One I Left Behind

Here is part one of the story that ignited the memory for the follow-up.

Afterthought: I should have included the link to the episode when I first published this story. After so many comments I thought it was time. Here is ‘The String In The Biscuit’ for those interested.

Special thanks to Clare Wadsworth, an editor friend who polished this one to perfection. Clare edited my memoir ‘Every Shitty Thing’ in 2018, and she’s been my sounding board ever since.

© 2024 Marcia Abboud — All Rights Reserved