On my very first day in Paris, I met Daniel, a tall, dark, handsome, charismatic Colombian man 10 years older than me. He told me he was a professional photographer and had an impressive Nikon camera as evidence.
The moment I set eyes on him, I sensed instinctively, if fleetingly, that I should remain wary of him. His dominating presence and radiant smile struck me immediately, but his strong, masculine face and his intense, intimidating glare scared me a little. At that first encounter Daniel introduced me to cocaine.
It was 1976 and I was 21 years old. I was a professional dancer, on my way to Portugal with the Bluebell Girls for a summer season at Casino Estoril. I was in Paris for four weeks' rehearsal and it was absolutely stunning that day, all abloom with the scent of spring. I never imagined a city could be quite so breathtaking and I was overjoyed to be there. As far back as I can remember I had big visions about life - of travel, of dancing my way around the world. I yearned for adventure and had a bristling curiosity about life beyond the confines of bland suburbia. And there I was, living and working in a culturally sophisticated world far away from the pristine environment of Sydney's northern beaches, where I grew up.
During those rehearsal weeks in Paris, Daniel and I gravitated toward each other steadily and unavoidably. His affection for me was seductive and tantalising. Our love grew thick and fast; our desire for each other was insatiable; our erotic play steamy, lascivious and sensual. We lived like rock stars, zooming around in prestige cars, holidaying in the south of France, shopping at haute couture boutiques, dining in exclusive restaurants and partying all night at fashionable clubs. Daniel showered me with expensive gifts; gold, diamonds and a Russian wolf-fur coat. I lapped up the glamorous life we were living and his adoration for me.
Eventually it became apparent that the Nikon was not his main source of income, as I first thought, but I didn't see Daniel, or the cocaine-fuelled party lifestyle we were leading, as being bad for me.
In the '70s, cocaine was the party drug of the elite. We kept the company of high-profile lawyers, Swiss bankers, realtors, actors, painters, photographers and models. There was nothing remotely boring about our lives. Everyone wanted cocaine and Daniel and his Colombian compadres had the goods. Cocaine was easy money that came from the fincas in the mountains of Colombia, where poor farmers were paid to work fields and fields of coca bushes.
Interlaced with the extraordinary routine of our lives, I continued to dance professionally and was fortunate to get work in theatre and cabaret all over Europe, including the most prestigious cabaret of all, the Moulin Rouge. The Moulin's international reputation assured a full house every night and it was enormously gratifying to dance on that world-famous stage, awash with spectacular plumage, diamantés and exotic costumes, and to hear the roar of applause. I was thrilled, excited and proud to be there. From there, my life with Daniel lurched forward. I was beguiled by my new sophisticated lifestyle and his lavish attention, although he fretted that my unpretentious manner made me vulnerable and drilled me intensely about the way in which I should present myself. Under the guise of love he subtly began to undermine my sense of self-worth. Unwittingly, I allowed him to manoeuvre me into a subordinate role.
Four years later we had a son, Danielito (little Daniel), but our blissful union began to fracture. While I immersed myself in the joyful tasks of mothering, Daniel continued his cocaine-charged social life. He began to leave me alone for long periods of time. Doubts about his fidelity gnawed away in my head. His occasional dalliances with other woman progressed to unbridled infidelity. On one occasion, I was stalked by one of his conquests, a trashy blonde who foolishly assumed she could insinuate herself into our lives. I responded with bilious fury and punched her in the face when she got too close. Disenchantment with the life we were living began to weigh heavily on me and I felt foolish to have fallen prey to such a powerful romantic infatuation.
I held on, though, tenaciously, to the promise our love once held. I secured dance contracts in Monte Carlo and Ibiza, the logistics of which were tricky with a toddler son and an unreliable partner, but having a child forced me to rethink my values and shift my priorities. I hadn't noticed my gradual slide into submission, nor registered my tacit acceptance of Daniel's deficient love, but I was no longer a young, naive blonde, vulnerable to his hypnotic and alluring appeal. I had my son to think about and knew I had to reclaim my life and that of my child.
I returned to Australia when Danielito was three but it took several more years to completely uncouple myself emotionally from his father. When I reflect on this period of my life, I recall an exhilarating rollercoaster ride of exultant highs and moments of heartbreaking despair. I certainly made some reckless and impulsive choices in the name of love, but I don't do regret. I sometimes wonder how my life would have transpired had I not met Daniel, but then I would not have my wonderful son. Anyway, there is only one way to travel in life and that is forward.
Robyn Windshuttle’s book Dancing with a Cocaine Cowboy (Allen & Unwin) is out next week.
