Amber Petty shares details from Princess Mary’s wedding in her new memoir
Amber Petty, one of the bridesmaids from Princess Mary’s 2004 wedding, has revealed what went down on the morning of the ceremony.
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Amber Petty has done many things in her life: She was an executive at Mushroom Records, she was a contestant on Celebrity Survivor Australia, she co-hosted a breakfast radio show in Adelaide and she was one of the royal bridesmaids at Princess Mary’s wedding.
Amber covers all of these events, including her friendship with Mary, Crown Princess of Denmark, in her memoir about mental health and love, This Is Not A Love Song.
Out now, Amber wrote the book to show that for many of us, love is not always a fairytale, despite what we’re brought up to believe.
Amber’s very raw and revealing book details her mental health and self esteem struggles, and even discloses a period where domestic violence was present in her life. She hopes her story will help others suffering similarly to turn their lives around.
Below are two extracts from This Is Not A Love Song which is available now from Booktopia or from Amber’s website.
Extract 1: This is from a chapter called “Goodbye My Friend”. It goes back to the early 2000s when Amber’s best friend, Mary Donaldson, left Australia to pursue her relationship with heir to the Danish throne Prince Frederik who she’d met at the Sydney Olympics:
Things between Mary and her new Danish man progressed slowly yet steadily over the next 12 months. The long-distance courtship continued, with Frederik making trips back to Australia to spend time with her. There was no reference point for me to get my head around how life might look like if Mary and Frederik went the distance. Well, there was, but I found it too scary to think about. All I had was my intuition that he, a man from a very different world, appeared sincere and that their connection was growing at a natural pace.
A year or so later Mary decided to leave for Paris. It made perfect sense. She and Frederik needed more time to be in each other’s company. With the media in Australia on high alert it was no longer feasible to meet in Sydney. Nor was it in Copenhagen. Paris was the perfect (and romantic) stepping stone.
I felt selfish being down about her going but I hated the idea of her being so far away. I didn’t want to lose the light Mary brought to my life, the comfort and security of our friendship. I worried about being left alone in Sydney, knowing how self-destructive I was. How it might affect my mental state. I wasn’t good at being kind to myself, as people
would constantly remind me.
My heart grew heavier as the day of Mary’s departure approached. I was dreading our last 24 hours together but they were creeping towards us regardless. We promised to spend as much time as we could together before she left but as I sat on her bed watching her pack I wanted to cry like an angry child. I wanted to scream, ‘I don’t want you to go. I am not going to be OK.’
I didn’t realise it then but it was the first stage of my grief in losing her.
While laying on Mary’s bed watching her pack, I pretended to throw a tantrum, tossing one of her folded tops on the floor. I made out like I was laughing but the tears running down my face were a giveaway.
‘You’re not allowed to go, you silly thing. You’re not. Do you hear me? I will not have it,’ I spat. Mary smiled sweetly, tenderly, like a mother being gentle with her child. She knew I meant it – it was my way of saying I was struggling. And I was. I truly was.
The night before Mary flew out, we organised farewell drinks at one of her favourite pubs in Woollahra – a small gathering of her closest friends. The two of us made a pact to leave together so we could say goodbye privately. I’m not going to lie, I bloody hated that party, but I did my best to put on a brave face. The truth was I was happy she’d found love, she deserved it, but once the media got hold of the story – ‘The Australian girl dating a European prince’ – it just confused what was already difficult enough. ‘For Christ’s sake, my best friend is moving away. How about you all piss off?’
At the end of the night we made our excuses and headed off. There was a lot of hugging and well wishes, with a few friends promising to look after me (the child), while she was gone. I felt dumb and sulky standing among everyone clinking Coronas and chardonnays, bidding final farewells, while Jamiroquai’s Space Cowboy played way too loudly. Heading towards Oxford Street, it felt somehow surreal. And unbelievably sad.
With Mary plastered all over magazines in Australia and Denmark, awareness of her relationship with Frederik was at an all-time high so she’d decided it was best she go to the airport the next day alone. I didn’t like thinking of her doing something so big alone but she was the grown up and she didn’t need to be photographed saying goodbye to her best friend, who was very likely to be clinging to the leg of her jeans, sobbing with snot and mascara streaked across her face, yelling, ‘Don’t leeeeavvvvvvve me!!!!!!!!!!!!’
We stopped at the cab rank and put our handbags down. It was time. I didn’t want to rush our last moments but there was also nothing left to say except the word I did not want to say. Through tears in our eyes and a lump in my throat that felt like a tumour I shook my head in protest, ‘I’m not saying it. I don’t have to. I’ll talk to you at the airport, OK?’ I’d found a loophole. I held tight in that last kerb-side hug. I felt such deep loss but also such gratitude that we’d shared such a beautiful chapter in our lives. And then I broke our stare, jumped in a cab and drove away. I felt crushed and alone in a city that didn’t fit me anymore.
There were still so many hurdles for Mary and the fear of the unknown ahead. So much that required my friend to be brave but I knew her tears, for now, were simply for us. This odd-couple friendship, unique, unexpected, and yet somehow, I believe, divinely intended. For me my tears that night were because I felt like I was losing her forever.
I knew from that night on we’d never live in the same country again – that all the things I treasured about us, listening to Powderfinger, Alex Lloyd and Grinspoon, being silly and free, with nothing to do but sit and ponder life and its mysterious what-ifs, were over.
So, here’s the thing: I was right. They did go the distance. Mary married Frederik in a beautiful, big Danish royal wedding on May 14, 2004, at Vor Frue Kirke, the Copenhagen Cathedral. And I, along with her sisters Patricia and Jane, were standing right there alongside her on the day as her bridesmaids.
As I looked around The Royal Danish Theatre from my velvet-covered seat the evening before Mary’s wedding day I found if I squinted my eyes, I could imagine being transported back 200 years ago. I’d never seen such a sight, with the stage lit up for the performances there were literally hundreds of tiny sparkling beams of light bouncing off the multitude of diamond tiaras, many worn by the queens and princesses of the other royal houses of Europe – and all worn by queens and princesses throughout history.
Call me biased but the most beautiful girl in the room that night, by far, was Mary. Like a porcelain doll come to life she wore a brilliant rose-red, long, silk dress, and the spectacular diamond and ruby parure that had its debut at Napoleon’s coronation.
I woke up on the morning of Mary’s wedding, utterly cross-eyed with exhaustion. ‘Oh my god, thank god, it’s here!’ I thought, remembering it was about 3am before I took the last of 50 or so bobby pins out of my hair. A swirling sea of faces and glittering events had led us to this day. There had been many surreal moments during the two weeks since I’d arrived in Copenhagen, many thanks to the creativity and thoughtfulness of my best friend’s future mother-in-law – Her Majesty the Queen of Denmark.
Amongst all the pomp and ceremony, royal traditions and protocol, Frederik’s mother chose to put me in a bedroom across the hall from the bride.
On the morning of the wedding, around 9am, as I woke up looking like something the cat had dragged in (to the Queen’s castle without getting caught by the guards), I decided to go and see how Mary was feeling on the biggest morning of her life – a day tens of millions of people around the world had been anticipating and would be watching.
I opened my door and darted my head left and right – no one was coming. I was always terrified of bumping into someone official, no more so than the Queen (despite her kindness). I was a clumsy curtseyer and couldn’t bear her having to fear I was about to nosedive at her feet. I stepped across the hallway to Mary’s door and put my ear to her door to see if she had company. I heard nothing, so I knocked. ‘Come in,’ a voice replied. I found Mary sitting alone drinking tea. Everything was so calm – as though it were any other morning. ‘Hi,’ I said as I plonked myself in the chair opposite her. ‘So,’ I said, trying to dial back my smirk, ‘What are you up to today? Got much on?’ We both laughed. Thankful for a little lightness in the small window of time before we’d need to let all that go. I shook my head, pulling a stupid, perplexed face, and said, ‘How the hell did you get us into this?’
Within a few hours I was standing on the red carpet outside the cathedral next to Mary’s sisters, Jane and Patricia. The rapid-fire inner dialogue fuelled by my every insecurity, and heart-pounding emotion, began rolling like a cassette tape destined to tangle and break.
Oh my god, nobody told me they’d be just there. Like, just there. I knew there’d be photographers but there must be 200 of them. It’s like a wall of lenses, so close I reckon I could chuck a drink on them. Christ, I wish I had a drink now. Wow. Everyone’s so happy. Happy to have her. Mind you, so they should be. She’s lovely. They could do a lot bloody worse. All that cheering in the royal square this morning – it’s like they were welcoming us all. This motley crew of Aussies.
Oh, please. How delusional. Welcoming, ‘us’? Are you right? You’re not her sister. You’re not family. You’re the one she had to have because you’d have been so broken if she didn’t. She could probably smell your fear from Copenhagen to Bondi. Careful … relax your face. I bet I look really hard. Why do I feel so sad? God, only you would be standing here being all miserable and stupid. I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Why do I always feel sad at the wrong times? Maybe I am mentally ill?
Sh*t. This is it! They’re going berserk. OK, she’s coming. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t over-do the serious face. Stay in the moment. Remember what’s real. At the end of the day, she’s just getting married. It’s OK. You’ll be OK. It’s just another goodbye.’
Extract 2: This comes from a chapter called “Playing in the Dark”. It covers when Amber was hosting the SAFM breakfast show in Adelaide with Dave ‘Rabbit’ Rabbetts. At the time, Amber was in a relationship with a man named Travis (not his real name) whom she met while filming Celebrity Survivor.
Despite our ratings going up the boss decided our show needed a new male personality involved. He wasn’t convinced the chemistry with Rabbit and me was there. I agreed – and I’m sure Rabbit did too. So, on came Cosi – a guy who’d already worked for the network on another show and been flicked when they replaced him and his co-hosts with another team. Since then he’d made a name for himself nationally thanks to his ballooning weight and his role on The Biggest Loser. It was precisely the sort of exposure that impressed the Big Radio Boss. And so Cosi was back in the network and on to our show.
Aside from working in media, Cosi was a former pig farmer and the proudest South Australian you could ever meet. He was the funny guy, dad of one on the way and stepdad to young Harry. He was in every way the complete opposite of Rabbit, except when it came to his radio ambitions and being a devoted father. For me he was a breath of fresh air.
When Cosi arrived, Rabbit was relegated to the role of show anchor – meaning he was in charge of hooking us in and out of segments, throwing to ads and news as well as playing secondary male host. But I wasn’t stupid enough to think he wouldn’t put up a fight to get his crown back. No matter how long or what it would take. After nearly nine months on the air. I was happy to sit back and let the boys battle it out. I had bigger battles at home.
When I had found that peaceful house with a pool that Travis and I would live in, I prayed it would be just what we needed. Over nearly six months of living there the pool water kept mysteriously turning Kermit green – no matter what I did or how many times I called the local pool guy to blitz it with chemicals. And the hoped-for allure of the black-rimmed bar in our sunroom had descended into the perfect meeting point for two warring lovers with binge drinking and other addiction issues. It was no wonder I was sick all the time. I was anxious 24/7. Not that I’d ever dare take time off. The Big Radio Boss had made it clear early on we’d need to pretty much be in a body bag before throwing a sickie. I was using all my energy to simply keep up the appearance of being the ‘wacky, zany fun girl’ on-air – then retreating to a war zone at home. I was running on empty. And empty was just how I felt.
Travis and I had never had a honeymoon period in our new house or our new city. We’d unpacked our bags and got on with our separate lives. Now, six months in, our arguments were getting worse. I was constantly searching for (and finding) evidence that proved Travis was no good. I found emails between him and the editor of a woman’s magazine implying they were in the early stages of a deal involving him talking about me.
I saw photos of a young blonde on his phone which he insisted were taken between cameras rolling on a locally made TV show he was working on. There were photos of a woman naked from the waist down, asleep on a couch, apparently sent to him by a ‘d**khead mate’. And still I let him stay. Even worse, I continued to share a bed with him.
I thought by trusting Travis when we came to Adelaide I had a chance to be proven wrong. I tried to convince myself that somehow I was more in control now I had a job and a house with my name on the lease. But I was kidding myself. All I was doing was enabling both
of us. And while I also thought having a public role on the radio meant I could put forward a convenient image of myself I hadn’t factored in that I had to talk about the things I didn’t want anyone to know about – namely Travis and me.
The fact was my boyfriend hated me. And I hated him.
Nobody knew how bad things were. Nobody knew there were nights I had to call the police while waiting outside in the dark in my nightie – too scared to go back inside our home. Some days my anxiety was through the roof. I was so paranoid that while telling a fake ‘happy’ story about Travis and me one of my neighbours might call up and tell my producer the truth – describing the screaming and shouting coming from my home, report the police pulling into my driveway late at night. Or one of those girls in his camera, the nude from the waist down girl or one of the girls I’d yet to discover, might call in to say they were sleeping with my boyfriend.
Fears of humiliation buzzed like a fly around my head every single day.
Finally, after another call to the police and Travis taking off to stay ‘at a mate’s house’, I decided I needed help. I didn’t know what his limits were anymore. There’d been a look in his eye I’d not seen before in anyone else. Something inside me was warning me: You need to log this with someone – just in case.
I didn’t dare tell anyone back home what was going on. After such a messy few years I wanted everyone to think my chaos was behind me and that I had a new and successful life. Based strongly on a feeling of impending doom I made the decision to make what would be the most excruciatingly embarrassing phone call I have ever made – I called the Big Radio Boss.
As I searched my phone for his number, I felt shame that I was letting him down but I had to admit things at home were getting scary. I chose the Big Radio Boss to tell my secret to because, while he was the person I wanted to impress more than anyone, I also knew he was tough and I needed someone to be alert on my behalf. To know if something happened to me that he would be aware. He could testify. He could get justice for my family.
Calling the boss that day with my confession was one of the hardest phone calls I’ve ever had to make. Thankfully he reacted in precisely the way I hoped he would. He wasn’t emotional, he was practical, protective and methodical. He promised to arrange for me to stay in a hotel for a few days at the company’s expense.
My shame was temporarily replaced by immense gratitude. I hated disappointing him, not after he’d been the one lifeline I’d had when I thought my life had fallen apart. The Big Radio Boss had put his reputation on the line for me and now the boyfriend I’d promised him wouldn’t get in the way of my work was threatening to ruin me – and the boss’s reputation.
The boss had been right about me in one respect – I did have lots of stories. I had lived a lot. But he wasn’t to know what lay beneath my poker face.
I made one more bad decision before calling it a day with Travis. A month after my hotel stint, in which time Travis had gone to stay with a ‘mate’ after I made it clear I was sharing the truth about us to my boss, I allowed him back home. His tears and pleading and begging for one last try had worn me down. It wasn’t long before we were up to our old tricks.
I came home early from work one Friday to find Travis’s computer open and still on. It was sitting near the front door recharging. I couldn’t help myself. I refreshed his screen, revealing the last website he’d been on. It appeared to be a dating site – a nasty one called ‘Red Hot Pie’.
As I waded through the long list of relationship items most women wouldn’t have put up with, I chose ‘Red Hot Pie’ to be most outraged about. When I confronted Travis, we ended up in a Once Were Warriors style clash. He punched me hard in the stomach with a clenched fist.
One second I was standing, feeling his spit on my face as he screamed ‘You f***ing crazy b*tch, stay away from my things!’ The next I’m in the foetal position gasping for air, terrified it was never going to come.
I lay on the floor near the welcome mat at the front door, inches from where his computer lay charging, wondering how long a body could go without oxygen. When the breath finally came back into my lungs, I realised I couldn’t tell where Travis was – but I didn’t want to move in case he put me back down. My body hurt. Lying there, not knowing if this was the end or if Travis was waiting to do worse, the world felt like it was slowing down and for the first time everything became clear. I was broken. Mentally and physically broken. I’d just realised this was my life. This was where I was at.
I guess that sounds the worst of it. You’d think so but then you’d be underestimating my addiction to self-destruction. I’d allowed Travis’ tales of childhood physical and sexual abuse to excuse him for transferring his violence on to me. I’d fallen for so many sob stories from Travis, my heart desperately wanting to mother him. I’d allowed and enabled him to project his rage on to me, the girl he didn’t know how to love. I felt his inner rage at me for not having endured violence or abuse in my own childhood, like I couldn’t understand pain.
Travis didn’t come for me again that day and I think I went into shock over what had happened. A functioning shock where I could still show up for work and be playful and fun – but I was a shell. I didn’t know how to process so I stayed quiet for a week or so. I didn’t even know how to tell him to get out of my house. I didn’t know who I was dealing with. I didn’t know people like him. But yet, here I was.
When my disgust finally motivated me to act, I chose the wrong moment. It unravelled over the bar in the sunroom. To make his final point Travis slammed the candles I had burning along the bar towards me. The hot wax sprayed across my face and cheeks and went into my open eyes. Then everything went black. I couldn’t see Travis. But I did hear a voice in my head. Calm, slow and no-nonsense in its delivery, it said, ‘There you go, are you happy now? You’ve kept this going long enough that now you’re going to be blind. You stupid, stupid idiot.’
Tears formed. Then I realised my tears were dislodging the wax. I cried, blinking quickly to get rid of the chunks of wax over my eyeballs.
So that was the end. How could it not be? I was now clearer than I’d ever been any further chapters would end in a headline no one I loved deserved to read.
I hid our final split for as long as I could. After weeks of not talking about Travis on-air, for the sake of my professional obligations I had to address the elephant in the room. But I wanted to get it out of the way without making a blubbering mess of myself – something I didn’t manage. I began crying as soon as I began talking on-air. It made me angry that my tears suggested I was devastated about the loss of Travis. I wasn’t. He was a f***ing monster.
The months that followed felt like the calm after a terrible storm. Once I left the station for the day, I’d spend most of my time alone. In silence.
My phone rarely rang on weekends and I was too exhausted to make new friends. I was, in many ways, avoiding calling close friends because I didn’t know what to say. I’d finish work on a Friday and, aside from a shopkeeper here and there while grabbing food, cigarettes or a bottle of wine, there were weekends when I might not see or speak to another person until I arrived back at work at 5am on Monday. After several of these weekends in a row I felt something I’d never expected.
After the silence came the voices. The first voice, which stayed with me for weeks, came as a gentle statement: ‘Oh my God, you’re so lonely.’ It took me by surprise because I’d always had plenty of friends. If anything, my biggest problem had been surrounding myself with too many people.
Soon the loneliness was replaced with something more urgent, more aggressive. At night I would lie in bed thrashing back and forth like an addict going cold turkey. My anxiety was so bad I could hardly breathe. I would claw at my bed sheets and pillows, wanting to rip them apart. It was like I was trying to get outside of myself or away from myself. Away from the feeling I didn’t understand. I hated the world and I hated that I couldn’t find any joy. I couldn’t hold any sort of gratitude.
One Sunday night, as I tossed and turned desperately trying to get to sleep, knowing how much worse my anxiety would be the next morning when my alarm clock sounded at 4.20am, I started sobbing from the deepest part of my heart, words repeating over and over in my head: If my parents were dead I could leave. But I can’t because they’re not.
I didn’t know which hurt more, having to stay, or not being able to go. I couldn’t have a conversation with myself about suicide without knowing there were two choices open to me – one I was not willing to take.
I chose to get professional help to find out if what I was feeling was depression. The thing was I knew, on my dad’s side, mental illness (and suicide) was a thing. A very real thing. It’s how he lost his mother. It’s how she lost her father. So maybe, I thought, there was a chance, this might just be my time.
I made an appointment to see a GP with the sole mission of admitting I was scared. I was dreading the appointment. ‘What can I help you with today?’ the doctor asked once I’d sat down. Suddenly I felt like someone had just turned the MCG lights on in my head, like I’d look up and see a packed crowd in the grandstands staring down, waiting for my reply. I wished the doctor could read my mind and make the whole thing easier. I wanted him to say, ‘OK, so you’re here to see me today to find out if you’re suffering from depression.’
‘Yes, I think that’s why I’m here. Before I say I’ve got it, can you tell me how it feels?’
But I didn’t say that. I answered as directly and succinctly as I could. I used my annoyance at what I took as his robotic process to plough through the awkwardness of saying, ‘So, I think I might be suffering from depression, but I want to know if I’m right?’
‘I see,’ he replied. ‘Have you had thoughts of suicide?’
‘Yes.’
‘How recently?’
‘Very recently.’ With every answer I could feel relief swelling in my chest. That is until the doctor laid down his verdict.
‘I’m going to prescribe you an antidepressant,’ he said, not looking up.
As he scribbled out the details on his prescription-pad I felt overwhelmingly sad and very scared. I didn’t know what I thought was going to happen but, as he handed over that prescription, I said to myself: Oh my god. Is this it? Is this me being fixed by a pill? Now I am f***ed.
I left the doctor’s that day feeling mad and more confused than ever. I knew pills were not my answer but I’d run out of avenues to explore. So, I decided to take the pills for a time but I refused to take this as me ‘fixed’. I vowed that day that I’d learn how to get happy – on my own.
Two days after my appointment I headed into the chemist to fill my prescription. I would take my first pill later that day. Soon after I swallowed it, I can only describe that it reminded me of an awful night I’d had on an ecstasy pill at the Sydney Mardi Gras. When I say bad, I don’t suggest I was running around wanting to cuddle strangers. I mean it made my eyeballs shake in their sockets.
After a month or so on the drugs I chucked them in the bin. I could thank them, at least, for showing me what I didn’t want. I could credit them for helping stoke a fire in my belly to get well, to stop feeling sorry for myself. As if on cue the solution to getting well was delivered unexpectedly one day in a text message from, of all people, Travis.
He wanted me to know he’d been going to a ‘healing energy centre’ and suggested I look into it, ‘I think you’ll like it. It’s spiritual, like you.’
This side of him was what had made me fall in something with him back in Vanuatu. Reading his text, I remembered what it was about the two of us, once upon a time before hell.
I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived at the healing centre. All I knew was one door had shut and I needed to open another – fast. It wasn’t a case of hoping to bide my time so I could ride through my rough patch and feel good again. I couldn’t remember when I’d genuinely felt good but if you’d asked me when I started feeling worse it began when I left Julian, shutting the door on pain and running. Back when I was 27.
I did a drive-by before parking the car. From the outside the healing centre looked like a quaint little shop or cafe where I might buy a handmade pin cushion or get a toasted sandwich and a hot chocolate. I walked up to the door, opening it to the sound of jingling bells.
It reminded me of when I was at primary school and used to stop by the local milk bar on the way home to get 10 cents’ worth of lollies – a lot back then. The tinkling sound of the healing centre door brought back happy memories and a sense of safety.
A trail of Nag Champa incense floated from the counter. I breathed it in deeply. It was a wonderfully intoxicating smell – the stench of ‘bloody hippies’, as my dad would probably say, but I loved it. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, moving into a mysterious rabbit hole filled with self-help books, crystals, oracle cards and large chalk-drawn angels hanging on the walls. What wisdom did they have for me? I wondered. What messages did I need? I felt alive. After circling the inside of the store at least three times I decided it was time to do what I’d come there to do – book my first healing.
I walked up to the counter as a woman with a kind face and a friendly smile approached the desk. She was dressed in a pretty purple silk uniform and she had the biggest blue eyes I’d ever seen. I explained I had come on a recommendation from a friend. Little did she know the ‘friend’ had done most of the recent damage I now needed fixing.
‘If it’s happening to you, it’s about you.’
It was time to take back my power. Although it would not come without a fight.
This Is Not A Love Song can be purchased as an ebook for $14.99, or a paperback from Booktopia or directly from Amber’s website: amberpetty.com.au
Originally published as Amber Petty shares details from Princess Mary’s wedding in her new memoir
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