Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  With that, I jumped out of bed, ran to my dressing room, put on the light, tore off my gown, stood naked before the mirrors, and took a good long look at myself. I was definitely heavier—not really ugly, if one admires Rubens—but there was just too much of me!

  A month earlier, Paul had silenced my concern with, “Darling, stop worrying. You’re beautiful, and now there’s just more of you to love.”

  Well, tomorrow there’s going to be less, I thought, and with that I went to bed.

  I decided that if you don’t care that your husband is out with other women, it doesn’t matter, but if you do, then don’t let him know it, be busy. So I was. I worked out every day. I swam in the pool and took long walks on the beach. I filled my life with as many concerts and guest appearances as I could, sang for the Armed Forces and Air plant workers, continued appearing at the Hollywood Canteen, and by the time Paul returned—although he didn’t say a word—I knew by the way he looked at me that I had accomplished the impossible.

  But the impossible didn’t last very long.

  Late one afternoon, driving home from a hair appointment, I was surprised to see Paul’s car ahead of me on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Just for fun, I started to follow him in my little Bantam car, thinking to surprise him.

  The street was crowded. We had just reached the point where Santa Monica crosses Wilshire when I pulled up right next to him. We were both driving slowly. He was on the inside lane—I could see he was talking to someone and didn’t notice me as I came along side. Happily I called out “Hi, Paul” several times. Finally, he turned, looked straight out his window, saw no one, then looked down and saw me, which almost caused him to run off the road. He looked shocked. I could see then that he was talking to a girl, someone I didn’t recognize, perhaps someone he didn’t want me to know. I ran my little car across the front of his Cadillac, and he abruptly came to a stop. At that, the girl opened her door, quickly got out, and ran past the fountain, across the grassy section of the park, and disappeared behind the trees.

  “Damn it, Teddy!” he yelled. “What are you doing?” He looked furious.

  “I didn’t know you had a date, Paul, sorry! See you later at the beach for dinner. Bye, now.” And I drove off.

  At dinner, we hardly spoke. Later, when we were alone, he explained that the girl was only someone he was befriending, letting her and her little girl live in an apartment above the garage at the Wilshire House until she found an apartment.

  I asked him not to lie to me.

  His answer was, “Teddy, I’m much older than you. I’ve known a lot of girls in my life, and still consider them friends. I also intend to see them when I’m in town. It might be for an occasional lunch, tea, or an early drink at the Beachcombers. Nothing more. It’s as simple as that, darling, believe me.”

  With that, he picked up the keys to his car, saying, “I’ll be home early, I’m going to the office,” and he walked out the front door.

  CHAPTER 31

  AND SO TO BED

  One evening, Paul returned from work rather early, and as we were about to sit down for dinner, he said, “I have something for you, darling,” and handed me a large white handkerchief filled with . . . I didn’t know what . . . “things,” tied up by a very old ribbon.

  Not knowing what to expect, I carefully untied the ribbon and, to my amazement, out fell onto the table the most beautiful collection of diamond bracelets, rings, earrings, and pins. As I stared at each piece he said, “These were my mother’s, Teddy, and I want you to have them. But will you promise to give them back if you ever divorce me?”

  I looked up at him and smiled. “Of course I will, darling.” But I never did.

  AND SO TO Bed, a restoration comedy originally starring Edmund Gwenn as Samuel Pepys, had played to good reviews in London, and was to be produced in Los Angeles at the Stage Theatre. One of the great ladies of the theater, Madame Eugenie Leontovich—the actress, director, and author of the Broadway hit Dark Eyes, who had appeared onstage in Tovarich, Grand Hotel, and Twentieth Century—was to direct and play the leading female role, that of Mr. Pepys’s wife. The brilliant actor Donald Porter was cast to co-star as Mr. Pepys, Alan Napier was to play Charles II, and I was invited to play the important role of Mistress Knight, the King’s mistress.

  I was thrilled to be offered the role. It would be wonderful—not only to play the part, but to work with such a great cast. This was really my debut as an actress.

  The show opened right after Christmas and was set for a long run. One reviewer stated, “Theodora Lynch sings beautifully and acts well.” Another wrote, “Miss Lynch picturesquely blended song with a dazzling presence and competency in her delineation of the smartly deceptive lady who tried to hoodwink a king.” A third wrote, “A professional singer makes her first essay of a dramatic role, gorgeously beautiful Theodora Lynch plays with authority and at times even bravura.” But the fourth said, “She acted better than she sang.” I could’ve died.

  Paul came to the opening, and after the show my most “important critic” embraced me, saying, “Teddy, I’ve always loved your singing voice, but now I’m enchanted by your speaking voice. Tonight shows you’re on your way, although you’re not really a great success yet.”

  “No, I’m not,” I answered, “but I’m not a failure either, until I stop trying.” His words hurt me, for they showed how much success meant to him. He couldn’t stand failures. I’m sure he wanted me to be a success—but, it was taking so long.

  And So to Bed and my good reviews attracted the attention of Steve Broidy, president of the motion picture company Allied Artists. After seeing a performance, he offered to test me for a part in the upcoming film Forgotten Women. I got the part, and Allied Artists put me under contract.

  MONTHS LATER, ON a Sunday evening, when Paul was on his way home from Bakersfield, Timmy, in his sleepers, ready for bed, begged to wait up with me in the living room to say good night to his daddy.

  Suddenly, we heard the bell on the patio gate. Paul had arrived. Timmy made a dash up the living room steps to the front door. After scooping his son into his arms and promising we would come up to the nursery to hear his prayers, Paul turned to me and said, “Teddy, come out here for a moment, dear.” With that, he led me to the garage and pointed to the low, long, blue Lincoln Continental occupying the place next to his Cadillac. “Darling,” he said, “that Lincoln Continental . . . Who does that belong to?”

  “It’s mine, darling. It belongs to me. Isn’t it absolutely gorgeous? I just got it. Don’t you love it?”

  “But, Teddy, you shouldn’t just buy an expensive car. You should have asked me first. If you needed a new car, you know I would have bought one for you. But this . . . I really can’t afford it.”

  “Well, Paul, maybe you can’t, but I can. I paid for it with the money I earned. Come on, I’ve got something to show you.” Excitedly, I pulled him into the house and held up my contract from Allied Artists. “Look. Read it. And my salary goes up every six months.”

  Paul snatched the contract. He scanned it carefully, then, looking at me incredulously, said, “You mean to tell me that they think you’re worth that much money?”

  “Damn it, Paul!” I shouted. “Yes.”

  A big smile spread over his face and he burst into laughter, put his arms around me, gave me a kiss, and said, “Teddy, you are worth it, and your car is beautiful. When are you going to take me for a ride?”

  “I don’t know, maybe never,” I answered. “Maybe right after dinner.” Then taking his hand, we went up to Timmy’s bedroom, where he was waiting for us to hear his prayers.

  After dinner Paul said, “I’ve a little surprise for you, too—just a minute—I’ll be back.” With that, he left the table, went into the hall, then returned and placed a small package in front of me. I took the wrapping off and saw that it was a little navy-colored book titled Europe in the Eighteenth Century, and beneath the title, in very small letters, was imprinted by J. Paul Getty.
I looked at him in amazement.

  “It’s mine,” he said, in a modest unassuming voice. “I wrote it . . . started it in 1941. It was just printed, and I want you to have the first copy.”

  I opened the book carefully, and there on the first page, in Paul’s own boyish handwriting, was To my Teddy from Paul. I turned the pages, looking at the exquisite photographs and noting the chapters on history, geography, science, literature, music, art, and daily life. Then I turned to the introduction in which Paul had written:

  The eighteenth century, although historically so close to us, is nevertheless separated from the men and women of today by several generations. The last survivors of the uncounted millions who grew to maturity during the eighteenth century died some sixty years ago. We of the twentieth century have been profoundly influenced by the manners, customs, philosophies, politics and arts of the eighteenth century. I hope that this little handbook may serve to acquaint the reader with the life and accomplishments of that splendid period in the world’s history.

  Santa Monica, California

  July, 1941

  I put the book down and looked at him. I was so proud of what he had done, so happy for him, so excited and thrilled by this man’s knowledge and, above all, the patience he must have had during these years of research, and I told him so. Paul was so inspired by the love of accomplishment in business but he was just as inspired by the history and beauty of life in centuries gone by. And, like most historians and art collectors, he had finally found his own special period.

  ONE AFTERNOON, OVER lunch, Madame Leontovich surprised me by offering me a role in a play she had done years before called Caviar to the General. Although nothing had been settled yet, I was absolutely thrilled.

  When I reached home, Paul’s car was in the garage. I rushed to his room to tell him about it. The door was wide open and the room was in shambles. Books and papers were piled high, several brand-new suits, still on hangers, were laying over a chair, and his ties, shirts, shorts, socks, and pajamas lay in piles on the bed. Robert was folding clothes and placing them in one suitcase while Paul tossed paraphernalia from around the room into another suitcase laying open on the floor.

  I stood at the door for a few minutes. Finally, Paul saw me and said, “Hi, Teddy Boo, I’m leaving in an hour. Will you please drive me to the train? I’m really late now, and I still have to stop at the office and sign checks. Oh, by the way, darling, where have you been all afternoon? I tried to phone you but you weren’t here.”

  “I was lunching with Madame Leontovich, discussing a new play.” I looked at him, not believing what I was seeing. “Paul, must you leave—just—like that?” I knew my voice sounded childish and overly emotional, but I never was very good at hiding my feelings—and I was sad.

  “Yes,” he answered. “After all, Teddy, I can’t stay on here forever. I’ve got business to do.”

  “I know, but I just wish you didn’t have business to do and could stay.”

  He didn’t answer. I just stood there helpless and looked around the room. It was then that I saw them—and I knew. There on the dresser, laying next to his Santa Fe railroad ticket, were his passport, travelers checks, and tickets for the Cunard Steamship Line.

  When Robert left the room I said, “You’re going to Europe, aren’t you?”

  Paul stopped a moment, looked at me as if he were about to say something, and then, as if changing his mind, he went on packing.

  “Paul, please . . . tell me.”

  “Yes,” he said in a very quiet tone. Then enthusiastically he continued, “You know something, dear? I haven’t been in Europe for eleven years. That’s a long time for me. But first I’m going to Tulsa, and then I’m—”

  “Paul, please, take me with you . . . or let me join you later. I want so much to be with you. Just think, it would be the first time we’d been in Europe together since our marriage. We could see Kathleen and Chatin, visit my maestro, and introduce Timmy to them too and—”

  “What about this new show you just mentioned?”

  “To blazes with it. I want to be with you.”

  “I’m sorry, Teddy. I can’t take you with me this time.”

  “Why can’t you? Darling, it would be such fun being with you in London or Paris—or Rome . . .”

  “Teddy, dear, I don’t need you in London, Paris, or Rome. Don’t you see? I need you here in Santa Monica or Bakersfield. But anyway, when I’m in Europe, darling, this time I expect to be very busy. I’m going to be traveling from country to country, and I have many old friends and business associates I must see. I’d have very little time for you. Furthermore, I certainly don’t want Timmy traveling about the continent at his young age. He’s far better off here at home. And besides, it would be too expensive.”

  I was stunned. “Paul, I can’t believe what you’re saying.”

  I sat down on the side of the bed, trying to think over what he meant. He doesn’t need me. That’s what he said. Did he mean he didn’t want me? To put it succinctly: he was self-sufficient. He was acting as if someone had tied a stone around his neck, and I was that stone. Yes, from what he had just said, it was obvious that if I insisted, I’d be in his way, holding him back from something he wished to accomplish—or could do better—alone.

  I drove him to his office, then to the station in Pasadena, and waved good-bye as the train pulled away. I had driven him there many times before to catch the train for Tulsa. Each time I had waved good-bye as his train pulled out, I immediately looked forward to his coming home, but this time was different. I couldn’t exactly describe it, for though Paul would return, I felt I had waved good-bye to a period in my life that would never come back to me.

  It started to rain just as I drove into the garage. Timmy heard me when I opened the front door and came running downstairs. “Mom,” he said, “you’re having supper with Lindy and me up in the nursery. Remember, she’s leaving in the morning for her vacation.”

  At supper, Lindy said, “Timmy, you’re going to love your new nurse, Lela. She’s lots of fun, and don’t forget, I’ll be back soon. Now, finish up your dessert and let’s have our bedtime story.”

  I kissed Timmy good night and said, “Lindy, dear, when you leave in the morning, send Timmy to me, and have a wonderful vacation. Do drive carefully every mile of the way to Ohio.”

  Very early the next morning, Timmy tapped on my door and called, “Come on, Mom, it’s time for our walk on the beach.”

  Like all children, Timmy loved to make up scenes and act them out. “Playacting” he called them, and invariably he would “write” a part for me. His favorite play was one we did over and over when we walked up the beach. And each time before we acted it out, he would tell the story as a sort of prologue to remind me of the part I was to play. He’d say: “Now, the story begins with the first time we met. You remember, when I came to you out of the sea? Remember, Mom? You were walking along, alone, and I heard you crying! So I swam real fast right up to you, right out of the sea, and I said, ‘Hello! I’ve come to be your little boy!’ ” Then, pointing toward the ocean, he continued, “Remember, we met down there where the sea meets the shore, and after that, you weren’t lonely anymore.”

  CHAPTER 32

  PERCEPTION

  That evening, Lela Clegg, Timmy’s new nurse, arrived. A charming, sensible, and happy Mary Poppins–type, she immediately won Timmy’s heart. She had been with Bob Hope’s children for years. Though she was meant to be temporary, Bob Cummings’s family sent an SOS for Lindy to return to California to care for their new infant son, Tony, so Lela stayed on with us.

  Exactly two weeks later, I received this letter from Paul on his “first trip to Europe in eleven years” (unencumbered by wife and child).

  The Dorchester Hotel

  London

  June 2, 1949

  Dearest Teddy,

  I just wrote Tom approving of the guardians purchase of a Buick for Timmy and maintaining it.

  I had a rough trip on t
he Mauretania.

  England is beautiful this time of year. London seems unchanged, no signs of war damage, except around St. Paul’s, and there it is for the better. I had dinner with Kathleen and Chatin here last night. They are almost unchanged, and asked a great deal about you and Timmy. It makes me feel old to think it has been 11 years this month since I was here. 11 years!

  It seems strange that you are not here studying with Mme. Marchesi.

  I think it is a lot nicer in Santa Monica. England has lost some of its charm for me—I expect to see the Shell Co. here and meet George later.

  I saw Ware and Henry in New York—they are well.

  Wish you were here.

  Love,

  Paul

  On June 14, 1949, I wrote in my diary:

  Supremely happy day. Timmy’s third birthday. A fun party for Timmy and all his little friends, plus a telephone call from his Daddy—“all the way from London”—wishing Timmy a happy birthday and to “watch out for a birthday package and a letter to your Mom, which I have just mailed today.”

  A few days later, while lunching out on the lanai with Mother and my lawyer, Ludwig Gerber, the following letter arrived. I begged their indulgence and read avidly.

  The Dorchester Hotel

  London

  June 14, 1949

  Teddy Boo!

  Today our darling Timmy is 3 years old! Kathleen and I shopped for a McPherson plaid coat for him, and it should be on its way to you.

  I spent all day talking oil business with the Anglo Arabian and the Kuwait Oil Co’s. They are our neighbors in Arabia. It certainly looks like a big depression in the U.S. and business is bad here too. I hate to owe so much money in hard times and expect to spend the rest of my life paying off my debts. Cheerful!