The knife meets the whetstone - Page 3
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 5: Addicted to Celebrity
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Matthew Condon
HE WOULD TELL OF CAPLIN'S OBSESSION WITH BLAIR. Of photographs of the PM on her bedroom walls and one, framed, on her bedside table. He said I had to understand that Cherie was, in essence, the smart but daggy kid in the class, someone who had always yearned after the attentions of the attractive and cool girls. Caplin was the groovy girlfriend she could never have when she wasn't the PM's wife. He spoke of talking to Blair on several occasions – something the PM has denied – and of the chummy relationship he struck up with Cherie Blair. He recounted peculiar hand gestures of the Prime Minister, and an astounding example of childish language when it came to matters of personal hygiene, either passed onto him by Caplin or, on one occasion, witnessed first-hand.
And he howled with amusement when he read that Caplin had been employed as a lifestyle columnist for a British newspaper, and watched the slow but steady rise of her celebrity status.
Caplin was suddenly appearing in fashion shoots in Sunday magazines in London. There was talk of her building a fitness and lifestyle empire. She was publishing a regular column telling people how to live healthily and with style. With the distraction of Foster out of the way, her celebrity seemed to be exponentially expanding. She was being snapped by the paparazzi in her own right as a singular, famous figure.
His incredulity at this was partially resentment, I gathered, from being shut out of the playpen. He had been deported and cut off from his life in London and Dublin. Caplin had peppered him with loving calls for months, giving him an illusion of a life still lived. And then it went cold.
At his table in Shuck he began talking about writing his own version of events. He was getting depressed. He had an expensive exercise bike at home in Paradise Waters that he had not even plugged in. He was tired of doing nothing.
One day, British Daily Mail journalist Richard Shears arrived at the table in "the office". He was affable and interesting and Foster indicated to me in confidence that Shears was writing his biography. Foster himself had already written extensively about his own life. Firstly, in a huge manuscript penned while he was on remand in a Brisbane correctional facility, titled "Seduction and Sales: Stratagems of a Conman". I had read it. It was a sales manual filled with nuggets of autobiography. And another, "Eat Your Peas, Peter: A Memoir", a slender though nicely written 91 pages of reminiscence.
Shears was with Foster, periodically, for months. He even lived with Foster for several weeks as they went through a storage unit full of personal papers, records, photographs and other effluvia from a dramatic life. "I never throw anything away," Foster told me. Just in case.
And still he would re-emerge at night, for a few glasses of white wine, or a quick meal, to ease the tension of the work. Or you'd see him driving through town in his black Nissan Z convertible. Sometimes he would ring and offer his analysis on Blair's decision to go to war in Iraq, or on the Hutton inquiry. He rarely, if ever, mentioned Caplin anymore.
One thing that gained more prominence in our weekly conversations, surprisingly, was his growing faith. He regularly attended mass at his local Catholic Church, sometimes on a daily basis. He said he looked for good second-hand books for me at the church jumble sales. He permanently wore a cross on a chain around his neck – a gift from a nun during his time incarcerated in Brisbane.
The danger of home exile is you can stumble across characters from your past, and there were several occasions when he had to walk across the other side of the Village Green that is the Gold Coast. He often hinted, without detail, that there were people who might like to see him dead. He had worked undercover for the Federal Police, he said. Time does not always heal.
As the work on his life drew to a close he quietly expressed concerns about his and his family's safety. Yet he still chose to meet at his very public table at Shuck. And savour the crab lasagne, a specialty of the house.
"What are we doing here?" he often asked.
He missed Europe. Especially Paris. But it seemed to me a much broader malaise. For he is one of those people who is convinced that life is always going on elsewhere. When he arrived at where he thought life was, it had always inexplicably slipped out of town the night before.
He cared enormously about his reputation and we discussed it often. He was tired of being called "conman Peter Foster" in the papers. Conman may as well have been his first name, the way they used it. He had made several approaches to the Australian Press Council to have this rectified, for it to be deemed defamatory, but without luck.
In a pure sense, he has extraordinary business, managerial and sales abilities. In the time we got to know each other, I had no doubt that if his life had been without misdemeanour, he would have been a hugely successful businessman, or whatever he chose. He also possesses uncanny narrative abilities and is an excellent writer. Yet how to apply it now, with the caboose of the reputation always not far behind?
He agonised over this. As if, after turning 40, there was a chance for him to do something "meaningful" with his life – to come out the other side of that four-decade milestone and start afresh with all the knowledge he had accumulated and the mistakes he had made. He had spoken with modesty about his acts of philanthropy that have remained unreported. He proved, often, to have a generous nature with no expectations of reciprocated thanks or favour.
As the months passed it became clear the life story he had sold to the Daily Mail might never be published. There were internal ructions at the paper, silent politics, and atrocities growing in Iraq. Enthusiasm for the story seemed to fade. He was bemused and angered by this. He slipped fragments of his story and titbits of gossip to rival London papers to reignite the Mail's interest. Nothing seemed to work.
The telling of the life seemed to have exhausted him, had become the only thing in his life. When he gave an interview to an Australian newspaper in late March 2004 about the alleged relationship between Blair and Caplin – a story that detonated around the world – it seemed a natural culmination of the previous few months of Foster's life. As if the biography he had set in train with the Daily Mail had a natural destiny. Having built up such momentum, it was going to crash through any barricades, contractual or otherwise, and be told. He claimed his biography contained a "weapon of mass destruction" for the Blair Government.
When the story implying that Caplin and Blair were more intimate than previously thought tore through the UK, Foster was instantly energised. Newspapers and television crews were begging for interviews. British reporters were set to fly out to meet him to flesh out these extraordinary allegations.
Foster told me privately that he had serious misgivings about Caplin and her relationship with Blair. He said he was convinced they'd always been having an affair, even while Foster was in London. Yet I didn't feel his stories were the product of a jealous imagination. Jealousy didn't seem a part of his repertoire.
Without such a motive, though, the whole scenario reverted to a puzzle. Or a complicated game of chess, where the pieces were no longer knights and castles and pawns, but accusations and denials. Where newspapers and television became the playing boards. Where check mate never meant the end of the match, but some sort of indefinable victory, barely acknowledged before the board was set up again and the whole illogical thing repeated.
It was a game, I thought, that required serious stamina and personal resilience, and it was played on so many levels that to simply hear it, let alone live it, became dizzying and ultimately exhausting. It dulled the senses.
Yet the repercussions, the drama, the accusations and slurs, gave him definition again. Just as he had started to fade from view in the heat mirage that is the Gold Coast, the renewed controversy brought him back into focus – certainly for the British public. But more interestingly, for Foster himself. He repeated the story of Caplin being in love with Blair for a Vanity Fair profile on Caplin. He carefully studied how the British press covered the new allegations. He rang me repeatedly for my opinion on how the situation was unfolding. Which direction could be taken? How could the story be kept alive? He would delightedly inform me that he was in this publication and that. Had I seen the coverage? No matter that some of it was shockingly disparaging. He found much of the negative reporting humorous. He was in the news and exciting chaos rained down.
He became sharp and focused and enervated. The knife had again met the whetstone.
IN THE FALLOUT FROM THE NEW ROUND OF CONTROVERSY, Foster was approached by ABC interviewer Andrew Denton's Enough Rope to appear on the show. Foster deliberated. It would be his first television interrogation before a live audience in 16 years. He agreed to appear if I could come as a sort of "minder" and "buddy", which I did.
"I agonised over doing this," he told me on the plane to Sydney. "I bailed out twice last week. But I'm staggered by the perceptions people have of me, especially where I live, on the Gold Coast. I have to defend myself. Let people judge me on the evidence – the facts – not on 15-second television sound bites. Those who cared about me the most begged me not to do this. There were great concerns. They think I'll be a punching bag for this articulate and clever interviewer. But I see him as a great conman as well. He has phoned me several times and instilled confidence in me. He's sold me his product. He's agreed to play the interview with a straight bat. We'll see."We arrived in Sydney to be met by a BMW limousine and were taken to the Sebel Pier One hotel, just beneath the southern end of the Harbour Bridge. Foster suggested a walk and lunch, and we dined at nearby Doyle's at The Rocks. It was Foster's first time in Sydney in 10 years.
"There's something to be said for a big city," he said, looking over at the Opera House. "I miss big cities. The Gold Coast, it's starting to feel claustrophobic."
He took several good luck calls on his mobile phone and by 5pm we were again inside the same BMW limo. He was wearing his "fat suit", he said, the only one that fitted him comfortably since his "sedentary" time on the Gold Coast. He wore a blue tie and a diamond tiepin.
At ABC headquarters in Ultimo he was ushered into the Green Room area, a well-furnished and comfortable nest of common rooms and dressing-rooms. There was a handwritten card – PETER FOSTER – on his dressing-room door. Several producers asked if we needed drinks of any description, or a meal. Twice Denton rushed past the open door. Then Foster disappeared to the make-up room.
In the studio, the warm-up comedian threw Minties into the crowd in an effort to whip up enthusiasm. Like children, people clambered for the tossed sweets. Then Denton was on stage and Foster was introduced, and the taped interview proceeded for more than two hours. It was colourful, riddled with wit from both camps, and strangely compelling. It only began to wobble out of shape when Denton went into detail about Foster's past.
Perhaps because of the hot lights, Denton's tenacity, or the fact that two hours of questioning had transpired, the interview ended with disputes over Foster's criminal record, and dates and times. Indeed, Denton quoted from a criminal history emailed by Foster himself to Enough Rope. He had sent several additional documents. Foster was erudite and witty and fast on his feet – until he was ambushed by his own material. The question remained – why had he gone to such lengths to provide Enough Rope with so much documentary material about himself? It reminded me of the old adage – never pull a knife on an intruder, lest it be taken and used against you.
DENTON HAD ASKED HIM IF HE WAS ADDICTED TO NOTORIETY. Foster denied the suggestion. Foster was shaken after the encounter. On the way out of the studio he was undecided on how the whole thing went. He felt he had been "stitched up" again. They had done everything to woo him, he said, and spat him out once they had what they wanted.
On the flight home he was more objective about the interview. After some silent pondering he conceded that he may have inadvertently made an error correcting Denton on one of the points about his past. He said he would email Denton and admit the error, and thank him for the interview. He told me it was good manners. "I just want to win some respect," he said. "I don't run and hide. I've made mistakes and now I want to get on with my life. You wouldn't think it was too much to ask."
In the week that followed Foster changed tack again. He felt he had been unfairly treated. He felt the whole sad affair had not only denied him a right of reply to the constant attacks on his reputation but had made things worse. He repeatedly recalled a suggestion Denton made during the taping, that one of Foster's tricks was to tip a waitress an inordinate amount of money in front of his friends, then when the friends left the restaurant, ask for the tip back. Foster was clearly dismayed at the suggestion, said he had never heard that story and that it was entirely untrue.
It was this that seemed to particularly linger with Foster. This suggestion of cheapness. It was an insult to his manners and social graces. To his generosity and largesse. It was a slur on how he conducted his public life. A flurry of emails was sent to the show's executive producer. Litigation was threatened. On the Enough Rope website, the transcript of Foster's interview with Denton became unavailable for "legal" reasons.
In the weeks that followed he expressed a desire, again, to move countries. He could achieve nothing here, he said. It was the past. The old caravan he could not disengage from his present. The controversy that raged in late March and culminated in the Denton interview, faded away. Other things were occupying the front pages. He felt flat again. Life was elsewhere. He was biding his time. No, wasting it. It was as if he was staring into a mirror in a mirrored room and saw his reflection arc endlessly into infinity.
Foster had learned very early the benefits of associating with celebrity, in work and in your social life. As he wrote in his manuscript, "Seduction and Sales": "I am a firm believer in the power of personalities promoting your product. In many ways, I was a pioneer in this field, certainly no one in the diet health industry has been associated with as many celebrities as my companies."
In the course of the journey, he had become a celebrity. But as he has freely admitted, for the wrong reasons. He tasted the life and liked it, and took it. But, to his frustration, he cannot shake the reasons that shaped his celebrity. Again, as he noted presciently in his manuscript: "It is a very glamorous idea and rather exciting to contemplate aligning yourself with someone famous. Your mind can run away from you and you may start thinking, ‘Won't our competition be jealous, won't my neighbours be impressed, I can't wait to have my photograph taken with them'... But beware, whilst it is a gold mine, it is littered with potential death traps. Tread very carefully... and keep your eyes open."Much later, I recalled something he said in the Coolangatta terminal when we returned from the Denton adventure. He checked the date on his watch, turned to me and commented: "Did you know that it's 14 months to the day that I returned to this place? The airport was full of cameras when I got off the plane."
But as we left the airport there were no camera flashes to mark the anniversary. No flash from the knife blade. Nothing. ♦