Sweet Surrender by Mary Moody Page B

middle of my rather down-at-heel village. I fear he pictured me in some charming
grande maison
in an idyllic pastoral setting.
Ton Ton
didn’t understand that, for me, even the most modest cottage in France was a grand extravagance that I could only maintain by working very, very hard. I have such a different attitude to these things than my husband. He’s much more inclined to work towards squirrelling resources away for a rainy day, but I need to live my life and enjoy the fruits of my labours. France is an extravagance that I can barely justify but I will continue to try to make it work so that I can keep dipping my toe into my other life, even if only for a few weeks at a time.

11
    Second time lucky. I returned home from France to find that, this time, the TV show was definitely going ahead. We were each appointed our own personal producer as a minder, and a fashion stylist was commissioned – style was going to be a vital element of the show. Back at the farm I was getting organised – dashing around trying to get the garden in order – in preparation for being away from home five days a week. The producers found me a small apartment in Milsons Point, just under the Harbour Bridge.
    There were constant calls on our time from the production office. My producer, Cathy, and the stylist, Talia, together with a cameraman and sound recordist, came up to the farm for a day to ‘look through my wardrobe’ and to shoot a quick ‘snapshot of my life’ that would be screened during our first week to air – to give the audience a bit of an idea about who I was, where I lived, my personality. The other cast members were put through the same experience.
    The following week I was asked to fly to Sydney to have my eyebrows plucked by Nathan, who was described as ‘the eyebrow whisperer’. By now the process was beginning to feel a bit weird to me. Not only had a film crew been sticking a camera inside my disorganised walk-inwardrobe, with the stylist poring over my skirts, blouses and shoes, but now my eyebrows were about to be given a makeover. I have indistinct blonde eyebrows and lashes, and have never, ever attacked them with a pair of tweezers. I was assured it was essential to achieve ‘the look’ that was required. Bemused, then seduced, I surrendered.
    We were primped and preened. Our faces were exfoliated with a beauty treatment called ‘dermabrasion’; our hair was coloured, cut and styled; we were given underwear to pull in our tummies, and stockings, shoes and fantastic accessories. We were assigned not one but two make-up artists to transform us into daytime TV stars. It was totally unreal, but in some ways also a lot of fun. I was asked to ditch my glasses and use contact lenses, which I knew would be problematic. It also seemed a bit of a contradiction, as we were constantly encouraged to ‘be ourselves’ as much as possible and I had been wearing glasses for nearly twenty years.
    For many women, I imagine the whole experience would be a dream come true. Having expensive new clothes to try on, being treated to a new hairstyle and professional make-up. Being pampered. These beauty sessions were aimed at making us feel special, but they also gave us a chance to get to know each other a little and to develop, rather desperately, like a group of speed-daters, some sort of chemistry that might later translate onto a TV screen for our prospective audience. Bonding, we were told, was essential.
    We performed a full-day photo shoot in dozens of different outfits. One minute all in black, next all in white, then in bold primary colours. We shot promotional videos which would run as ads to promote the show and also in the opening credits for the program, dancing, twirling, laughing, uttering throwaway lines that would be then edited together to produce a glossy, pacy introduction.
    We spent a week in Sydney rehearsing. Instead of throwing us cold to the