A Bed of Roses

Rose Carter's lips turned upward in a thoughtful smile as she enjoyed the winter sunshine on the patio of her Point Piper apartment.

She felt good and, her smile broadening, she knew she had every reason to feel so. On this, her fiftieth birthday, she was able to recall with fondness her father's oft-repeated endearment, “For you, my darling, life will always be a bed of roses.” It had been true; in a sense it had been a self-fulfilling prophecy.

At first, in the way of small children, she never guessed that the words were merely an endearment; she thought they were a truth, the expression of something her father—a grown up!—knew to be a fact. Before she learned differently she had understood the concept of ease and well-being that lay behind the words and, in time, “a bed of roses” became her personal mantra.

Her intelligence was far above average and was further stimulated by parents who interested her in learning- and reading games that she played with enthusiasm. By her fifth birthday she was already able to read children's books and she found constant delight in seeing and learning new things.

She had looked forward to starting school and surprised nobody by excelling The pleasure she felt at the ease of her lessons slowly gave way to boredom as the class learned the basics of their education—things she had long known. Once again her parents rose to the challenge. Having expected that such a bright child would quickly become dissatisfied they introduced her to all manner of external interests while, at the same time, helping her to remain academically stimulated.

She enrolled in a gymnastics group then a ballet class. It was here that she found a love for dance that would remain with her for life. This she pursued through her school years, discovering also a gift for sport which enhanced her popularity. It might have been expected that Rose's success would have created envy among her contemporaries but this was not the case. Her friendly, outgoing nature—always reinforced by her “bed of roses” expectation—made her a pleasure to be with, and her company was sought by all.

She was in full stride by the time she went to university where she took a master's in business administration while still finding time to add a degree in fine arts. By the time she was twenty-five she was ready to take on the world.

Despite her popularity she had never had a regular boyfriend. While other young women her age were looking for marriage—or planning, in the modern way, to combine marriage with a career—the idea had little appeal for Rose. Certainly there had been boys in her life, and men, and like any normal person she enjoyed sex; yet she valued her independence too highly to commit to any one person.

Her rise through the business world was meteoric as her ability and personality opened doors. Inevitably she was placed a position many women have known when her employer asked her to sleep with him.

Of course, Rose could have refused. She could have cried “foul” and claimed sexual harassment. But she didn't. Henry Wallace was CEO of one of the country's most successful investment companies and in him she saw opportunity. So she went to his bed.

She felt no love for the man, but she felt no revulsion, either. It was something necessary to further her career and she did it without compunction. Her considerable skill, developed through so many brief encounters, excited Wallace who had not expected her to be as inventive and enthusiastic. Rose's reward, gleaned during the twelve months their relationship lasted, was a great deal of financial information that she used to build her own burgeoning fortune.

Now, on her birthday, as she looked across the harbour toward Cremorne, then further north and east to South Head she thought it might be time to retire. Her investments were returning more income than she could reasonably expect to spend and, although her figure and complexion were those of a much younger woman, she knew the time would soon come when she would seem less attractive to her lovers.

Rose knew how much her parents, now well into their seventies, enjoyed coming here to Point Piper, and how proud they were of her success; but, of course, they had assumed that her wealth came only from her work—they knew nothing of her other activities.

She was aware that some people would have called her a prostitute but she dismissed the term. What she did, apart from the sex, had little in common with prostitution; nor could she be labelled, in that delicate, politically-correct way, a sex worker. She knew what she was—a courtesan to the rich and famous. Even so she was not indiscriminate; there had to be something about her clients' personalities that would give her enjoyment in their company.

Had it been known that she kept a diary there would have been more alarm in the halls of power than Christine Keeler had ever unleashed in Whitehall, for among her clients she numbered prime ministers, senators, diplomats, financiers, businessmen, and bishops—powerful men, prominent men—and all of them had paid generously to share that bed of Rose's.