Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  “Some things are hard to explain quickly, darling. It’s rather a long story and—”

  “Oh. So there is something you have to explain?”

  “Teddy, dear, we’ve had a rather long day and I’m very tired.”

  “Well, Paul, I’m not . . . and we’ve got all night. So tell me the story.”

  “Darling, I’ve never seen you act this way before.”

  “I’ve never before had such a reason to act this way. And besides, if you’re involved in something, I should know about it.”

  “But Teddy, I am not involved.”

  “Then why in heaven’s name did you ask me to talk to that girl? I don’t even know her.”

  Paul started to laugh and said, “Teddy, Teddy, Teddy . . . what a vibrant, dynamic actress you are. I always told you you’d make a great Carmen.”

  That did it. I was so furious with him I screamed, “How dare you make fun of me and the way I feel about us? Go away. I never want to see you again.”

  And with that, I ran out through the open French doors to the terrace. In a moment, Paul’s arms were around me and he pulled me back into the bedroom, pushed me onto the bed and, holding me there tightly, looked directly into my eyes and said, “Now, you listen to me. I am not involved with that girl. I met her in Mexico while you were in Italy. She was very young, attractive, and had aspirations of being a great actress. Many people, including myself, tried to help her. She’s not in love with me, nor I with her. She’s in love with Charles Chaplin.” Suddenly, he stopped talking, looked at me intently and said, “That’s the whole story. Their story.”

  Then, without releasing his grip on my arms, he swiftly leaned over and kissed me hungrily, whispering, “Darling, now . . . let’s get back to our story.”

  The next morning we had breakfast together out on the terrace, something we rarely did, for Paul almost always combined his breakfast with lunch, and I almost always had breakfast in bed. We didn’t talk much. Paul seemed especially deep in thought. Suddenly, he looked at me, reached across the table, took my hand in his, and said, “My lovely, romantic Teddy. Sometimes you are a strange, charming elf, and at other times you can be . . . impossible.” Then a big smile flooded his face and he continued, “But I guess that’s the price I have to pay for your growing up.”

  I didn’t feel much like a “strange, charming elf” . . . I was a woman in love, wanting desperately to protect the newfound relationship I thought I had with my husband. I was hurt that he didn’t take me seriously. My intuition told me I had reason to be concerned that Paul’s involvement with this girl might be the beginning of the breakdown of all I held most dear. I guess I was afraid.

  After breakfast I took the dogs for a run on the beach. By the time I returned, Paul had left for his office.

  During the next few months, after a heavy schedule of concerts up the West Coast to Oregon and back, NCAC set me up at Paramount Studios for a part in the motion picture The Lost Weekend, starring the brilliant actor Ray Milland. I played and sang the operatic role of Violetta in the opera sequence of La Traviata. The scene was the stage of the New York Metropolitan Opera House, and, as the sequence opens, I am singing the famous “Drinking Song” from act I, with John Garris. John was an important member of the Metropolitan Opera, and had the most beautiful tenor voice. Singing with him was a joy. Billy Wilder, Paramount’s genius, who directed The Lost Weekend, had expected it would take all day to film the scene. We ran through a rehearsal, the assistant director called “Quiet . . . Roll it,” and we did a take. Mr. Wilder said, “Let’s do another.” We did. He shouted, “Cut. Print.” He was exuberant. We had wrapped up in a few morning hours what could have taken all day.

  CHAPTER 27

  SONG IN THE AIR

  The year 1944 started out with a bang. The bombs weren’t just falling on Europe and the Pacific; they were falling on me.

  On January 3, 1944, I received a call from Lucille Evans, Paul’s secretary. He was in Tulsa. She said Paul phoned her to remind me the telephone bill at the beach house was too high. From now on, if it went over $150 a month, he would take out the phone or deduct it from my allowance. This took me by surprise, for I hadn’t thought Paul was in trouble financially. I was so intent on doing well at KFWB, I kind of put it out of my mind and forgave him. Looking back now, I realize it was rude and cruel for Paul to ask her to do this—he should have telephoned me himself.

  Around this time I learned that my mother was about to lose Wild Acres for taxes. Apparently, she didn’t know how to manage or had not been careful regarding her affairs and suddenly was informed that Mr. Luce at the bank in Vineyard Haven was going to foreclose on her mortgage. I was afraid the Greenwich house might also be in jeopardy.

  I hadn’t realized how serious this was, even though three months after I’d returned from Italy, I’d sent the bank the balance Mother owed for her 1941 taxes, at her request, out of my allowance from Paul. (The $400 per month I lived on in Italy hadn’t stopped when I was imprisoned, so I had quite a bit accumulated in the bank, by the time I got home.) I was shocked by this news. Then I was told that Aunt Ruth and Uncle Herbert had offered to put up some money, if Paul would, too. But he wouldn’t. When I asked him, he simply said, “I can’t assume any more Lynch family financial burdens.”

  I immediately phoned Mother, who admitted she’d run up quite a large bill at the Pierre, intending to pay it off. In fact, although Paul was not informed, Mr. Chocket, the manager, had already agreed that Mother could make monthly installments. Ware, who was employed by the hotel, had run up charges entertaining important visiting clients, which was part of his job. I suppose he ran up personal charges, as well. We found out later that a jealous coworker had sent this information to Paul to cause trouble, and it certainly worked.

  Instinctively, I realized it was because Paul was so fearful of being used by everyone—even his wife, her brother, and her mother—that he just couldn’t see any reason now to save Wild Acres. His words broke my heart. It simply revealed how Paul couldn’t or didn’t trust anyone, not even me.

  This man, who on one hand was quick to come to the aid of a friend, was also fearful of being taken by one. When he returned to Santa Monica that weekend, I went straight to him. I remember Paul was sitting in his favorite green chair in the living room with all of his business papers scattered around him on the floor. I dropped to my knees, took off my diamond ring, and said, “Please . . . sell it and save Wild Acres. It really will be worth millions one day.” Unable to stop the tears, I started to cry.

  For a moment he didn’t say a word . . . just looked at me . . . then he reached down, pulled me up onto his lap, and very tenderly said, “Listen to me, Teddy. I know how much this means to you and to your whole family, but it’s just not right. Your mother, God love her, is a great lady, but like most women of her generation and upbringing, she has no more sense about money than a child. She has always spent whatever she wanted, has had pretty much what she thought she needed, and now she finds herself in this financial situation. I’ve already spoken to your aunt Ruth and uncle Herbert and we’ve agreed to bid at the auction, but if we don’t win . . .” He stopped, took out his handkerchief, wiped my tears, and went on, “I’ll buy her a house here, darling . . . She can pick it out herself, and she’ll be near you. Isn’t that more important . . . ?”

  I didn’t hear him. I wasn’t listening. I was visualizing my cute little bedroom at Wild Acres, the parties we had as kids up at the barn, the freedom of galloping a horse over the sand dunes on the beach, the feel of salt spray showering over me as I sailed a Wee Scot close-hauled across the finish line in a Saturday afternoon race at the Vineyard Haven Yacht Club. All this was lost to me forever . . . for my sisters and brothers, too. There was just no place on earth like the Vineyard.

  I sighed. “You really never liked it, Paul, did you? You only pretended . . . because of me.”

  “That’s not true, Teddy, I only disliked the mosquitoes. The island is great an
d your mother’s house is magnificent, but not to live in all year round. It’s too far out from town, would be dreadful if snowbound, and it’s too much house for a woman alone. Your sisters shouldn’t be marooned there, either. Really, darling, they’ll be happier out here or in New York . . .” And it turned out that he was absolutely right.

  But we lost Wild Acres, and at the time I couldn’t believe this man, who claimed he loved me, let it happen, when he could have bought that beautiful house with its fifteen acres of meadow and forest and its own private beach as an investment. It’s now worth millions, and those who own it rent it for $35,000 a month in the summer when not in residence. But paying Mom’s debts and saving her home was not Paul’s business . . . and I should have realized I was acting like a spoiled brat to think he should. I guess for a moment I forgot to be grateful that he offered Mom a house in California near me.

  But until it could be arranged, I asked Paul, in a businesslike way, to pay for an apartment in New York for Mother and send my little sisters to a good school for which my allowance was to be reduced to $75 per week until it was all paid back. I felt it only right, as I was now making money with my voice. I reminded him that, years ago, when he originally suggested paying for my singing lessons with Marchesi, I had agreed at the time, but “only if I can pay you back.” It made me feel good now that I could. Not that it was very much . . . but at least I was keeping my word. And from that day on, no matter what I earned, I gave him 10 percent. (I still have the first of my checks to him. And he cashed them.)

  On Friday evening, March 24, 1944, I was to appear on Hedda Hopper’s coast-to-coast program Hollywood Showcase, over the CBS network, and sing “Velia” from the Merry Widow, at her request.

  The night before, my sister Bobby, who was now living at 325 East 72nd Street, New York, with Mother and Nancy, phoned excitedly to tell me Paul was named in the Joan Barry–Charles Chaplin case that appeared on the front page of that evening’s edition of the New York Daily News.

  “Is this true Teddy?” she asked, in her little girl voice.

  “I don’t know, Bobby,” I replied, hoping it wasn’t. Well, she thought she’d better see what was written and send us the clipping.

  When I put the phone down, I just sat there—wondering what to do. Paul was in Tulsa. I was waiting for his nightly call . . . it was getting late. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t called. He probably knew.

  I was to sing the next evening . . . but if this news broke in the Los Angeles paper by the next morning—could I? Should I sing? Only if no one knows Teddy Lynch is Mrs. Getty. Miss Hopper heard me over KFWB as Teddy Lynch, and that’s how I was being presented tomorrow evening. So I told myself to stop worrying . . . and when Paul phoned he said, “The story is absolutely untrue.” He told me I must go to bed and get my sleep—that he’d be listening to me over his radio tomorrow night, and that he was coming home to be with me in a week. So I did what he said—jumped into bed and turned out the light. But I hardly slept.

  Fortunately, the Los Angeles morning paper didn’t carry the story and that evening I appeared on the Hollywood Showcase as the guest of Miss Hedda Hopper.

  The next morning, nothing appeared in our West Coast papers, and I was thankful for this. I was also grateful Miss Hopper was pleased with me, that Paul heard me over his car radio in Tulsa, that Mom, my sisters, and Ware listened to me in New York, and that Mr. Behymer, having heard the show, booked me on a concert tour that was to start in April.

  But on Sunday, April 2, 1944, the Los Angeles Examiner carried the story on its front page, with a picture of Paul, Joan, and Chaplin, and naming Paul “the mystery man of Tulsa,” a phrase coined by Jerry Giesler, the famous attorney whom Chaplin had hired.

  It seemed Giesler was looking for Paul, so the article stated, “to show that this man, Jean Paul Getty, had more than befriended Joan in 1941” . . . “that they had been lovers” . . . “that he had helped her financially” . . . “that she had been with him in Mexico City” . . . “that she had stayed at the Pierre Hotel in New York, which he owned” . . . “that she had visited him in Tulsa in November of ’42” . . . “and he was to be called as a witness in the Chaplin case, which was about to start in Los Angeles.”

  Giesler didn’t really have to look too far. Paul was with me now at the beach house in Santa Monica.

  Joan had taken the witness stand at Chaplin’s trial on Mann Act charges and testified that it was the actor-producer who had paid her way to New York for immoral purposes. Only, Giesler insisted that it was Paul who figured so importantly in Joan’s life, suggesting that was why she had recently gone to see him in Tulsa for help.

  It was a real blow to have this published in such a blatant way at a time when I thought I was happily reunited with Paul and trying desperately to establish myself as the singer he wanted me to be.

  The morning that the news hit the streets in Los Angeles, I was awakened by a loud ringing. Paul and I were asleep, and, thinking it might be Mother calling from New York at this unreasonable hour, I grabbed the phone. “Hello,” I whispered, “is that you, Mom? It’s only seven o’clock here . . . Are you okay?” For a moment I heard nothing, then a rather rough-sounding woman’s voice, not Mother’s, greeted me with a “Hi, Mrs. Getty . . . Is it true you’re getting a divorce? That’s what it says in the papers.”

  For a moment I almost dropped the receiver, and then defiantly I yelled, “No, I’m not, whoever you are.” And slammed the phone down. At that Paul woke up. “Who in the name of creation is calling at such an ungodly hour?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, some crazy woman asking if I was getting a divorce.”

  “Are you, darling?” he questioned.

  “Not before breakfast,” I yelled back as I jumped out of bed. “Anyway—I want to see the morning papers before deciding.”

  Throwing on my robe, I ran downstairs to the dining room, where I found the morning paper on the table beside Paul’s place setting, which consisted of his usual bowl of shredded wheat, wheat germ, yogurt, raw sugar, milk, toast, and a glass of orange juice.

  And there it was . . . in large headlines . . . on the front page of the Los Angeles Examiner. “The Mystery Man from Tulsa” by Florabel Muir, with a picture of Paul, Joan, and Chaplin . . . and the story Jerry Giesler hoped would prove that Paul, not Chaplin, was the father of Joan’s child.

  I stood there, trying not to believe what I was reading, when I became aware that Paul, dressed in robe and slippers, had come downstairs and was standing there beside me.

  “It’s not true, Teddy,” he kept saying. “That bastard Giesler is just using me to defend Chaplin . . . I’d better call Tom.” And with that he went into the library to phone Tom Dockweiler, his lawyer. Moments later, the doorbell rang . . . It was someone from the press, and to avoid them, I dashed upstairs, slipped on jeans and a shirt, and escaped to the beach. I had to be alone to figure out what to do.

  Next month I was to go on tour . . . Should I? With my husband the “Mystery Man” involved in this scandalous affair with Charles Chaplin, beloved by millions, one of the most famous, internationally known motion picture stars in the world? The press was going to have a ball and I knew Paul was going to be hurt . . . Somehow, I had to stand by him, and I would . . . but what should I do about the tour? All these thoughts ran through my head as I ran down the beach.

  I had almost reached the pier when Paul caught up with me . . . Peter and Penny at his heels. He took my hand and pulled me to him . . . and we just stood there . . . in the wet sand . . . with the waves curling up around us . . . not speaking for a long time. I couldn’t stop my tears at the realization that our privacy, the very love we seemed to have found once again . . . was being taken from us.

  “Darling, believe me,” he said. “These accusations are not true, but I have to face them. I don’t want this to hurt you more than it has already, so I’ll check in at the Biltmore tonight, where I’ll be near the court. This way the press won’t bother you, and,
Teddy, you must do the tour Behymer arranged. It’s too great an opportunity to turn down. Tom thinks it’s a good idea, too.”

  “But, Paul, now you won’t be able to come to the last four weeks I’m singing here over at KFWB.”

  “I’ll be listening. I’m sure the Biltmore Hotel has a radio in every room.” I looked up—he smiled. It was then, at that moment, I knew I had to trust him, but I was afraid. Taking my hand, Paul said, “Come on, darling, let’s go home and you can help me pack.”

  That night alone in the house, I burst into tears.

  “I love you, Teddy,” Paul had said as he left. “If this was my child I would have told you . . . but it’s not. Be a good girl and get on with the tour.” And with those words, he was gone.

  The Chaplin-Barry case went on for more than a year, with daily reports in the newspapers and other men named as having been Joan’s lovers . . . but Jerry Giesler seemed adamant that Paul was the father of her child.

  To the amazement of the entire court, when Paul finally was called before the judge, he simply stated, “Your Honor, I have, from time to time, helped Joan financially, but I have not seen her for the past three hundred sixty-five days . . . and since no woman has been known in medical history to have carried a child for that long a period . . . I cannot be the father.”

  For a moment there was great silence—then, the entire courtroom burst into applause . . . and the judge excused him.

  While this was going on, my brother Ware, who was with the Russell Birdwell Agency, suggested Paul hire them to keep my name out of the papers. Paul took his advice, thus allowing me in April—as Teddy Lynch—to go on tour for the NCAC. It was not without a touch of sorrow in my heart, however, for I knew Paul had had an affair with Joan in Mexico, helping her financially through the years, and I found myself fighting the thought that “out there” might be others intrigued by his wealth and ability as a lover. Paul was the most fascinating man I’d ever known, the provider of a beautiful home, a great lover, and I really loved him. Besides . . . he was kind, my best friend. So I made myself stop thinking bad thoughts and dwelled on how happy we were when we were together. At least . . . so it seemed to me . . . Or is this what a wife feels . . . not really knowing? Anyway, right after the concert tour, on Saturday, April 28, 1945, came the debut of my very own radio show, Song in the Air, over the Blue Network (the American Broadcasting Station). I worked with conductor Ernie Gill, his orchestra, and a host of celebrities who helped put on a fun show that was heard from coast-to-coast each week. I began to feel I was finally making progress.