Moving in and sharing rooms when none of them had ever shared before was hard for everyone. We built an addition, but it took a year to finish. I was so relieved and happy to have our problems solved by my marriage that I did not realize how hard this was for my sons—and for Bob’s children too. My children were made to feel like intruders in the Herring house. This was unconscious on the part of Bob’s children, but it happened just the same.
Eventually, with my son Robin and my dad, we also took on the enormous task of buying, moving, renovating, and rescuing the Johnson family country house, which resembled Mount Vernon. It was on land so valuable it was sold by the square foot.
No one thought it could be moved; the general consensus was that it would need to be demolished. A movie producer saw it, though, and felt it should be saved. He thought it would make a fine chicken-fried steak restaurant. My country home, a chicken-fried steak restaurant! Over my crispy bottom.
When I looked at the house, I saw it as a beautiful woman with a black eye and her teeth knocked out. I couldn’t stand it. I wanted it.
We decided to move it. Every electric line, every telephone line, and every computer had to be turned off as the house passed by. Eighteen police cars were required to block the highway as this three-story monolith rumbled by at three a.m. Saving the family home was just one of the many ways that Bob indulged me.
One of the most meaningful things that Beau ever said to me was this: “Mother, I know you feel bad about not staying married to Dad. I’m sad about that too. But, you know, I would have hated to miss knowing Bob Herring.” I know he said that just to make me feel better (he does that often), but it worked.
On the other hand, Robin, who was very young and the target for most of the dissension, and often meanness, in the house, said to me, “I am so lonely for my house in the woods.” Robin was devastated by it all, and it showed.
“Well, darling,” I said, “please try to count your blessings.”
“Mommy, you are my blessing,” he told me. He had a remarkable sensitivity and sense of caring for someone so young. He was trying to help too, yet it was hard for us all.
I was very protective of my children. Bob Herring once said, “You are three against the world, and there is a wall around you that I cannot penetrate.” He was right. I’m not sure that my children recognized it at the time, but I did have a wall around them. I would kill to protect them.
The boys and I never truly repaid Bob Herring for what he did for us. (At that time, of course, we had nothing to pay with.) His generosity fueled our futures. He did everything he could to ensure that the boys and I were safe. (Alas, he couldn’t have predicted Houston’s economic crash in the late 1980s and early 1990s, which left us in dire straits again.)
Can you imagine how this debt to him affected me? I, who felt the necessity to return money, kindness, or a debt of any kind? This weighed on me so heavily that I felt like Atlas carrying the world on my shoulders. How could I ever repay this man? What could I ever possibly do? I had taken a great deal from Bob Herring and I felt an urgency to repay him.
I decided to give him my life. It was all I had to give. I never told him; I simply decided to show him. Anything important to him took precedence over everything else. What he wanted, I would give. What he needed, I would do.
Bob traveled a great deal and wanted me to travel with him. I felt terribly guilty that I had to leave my children so often. Every time I left them it hurt me, so, I’m ashamed to say, sometimes I would leave without even saying good-bye (which was terrible). That was not the way to manage this difficult situation, and oftentimes, by the time I got on the plane, I’d be depressed. Though Beau and Robin were too young to understand that Bob had saved us from the direst of circumstances, I felt that he had done so much for all of us that I had to put him first.
As I lived with Bob Herring, I began to see the depth and breadth and heights of what a human being could be. When I think of him now, I feel so humbled to have had the privilege of even knowing him. That he should actually love me and share his magical life with me was a gift of gigantic proportions.
God does indeed listen.
Bob said he did not like the French or Paris, but we went to Paris on a fairy-tale honeymoon in 1973. When we arrived, our suite was filled with flowers from dukes, counts, and countless others of my acquaintance in Paris. Invitations were everywhere. Bob was overwhelmed. Fourteen black-tie dinners and fourteen very special luncheons were given for us in French homes. Who says the French never invite you into their homes? They do if they like you.
The French are a difficult tribe. Americans speak to everybody using first names, but unless they know you very well, the French would never intrude on your acquaintance, assuming that you might not want familiarity. We Americans think everyone is our friend, even if we never see them outside the office. To the French, a friend is someone you see often, someone with whom you share your life. We Americans pick up people like cornflakes and toss them when they grow stale. Once the Frenchman gives his friendship, he gives it forever.
Bob decided he liked Paris very much—and Paris liked him! My friends lost their hearts to this elegant, lovely man, as I already had.
CHAPTER 16
The Mating Dance of the Whooping Crane
In the 1970s, Washington boasted black-tie events every night. The indisputable king of all this glitter was Ardeshir Zahedi, the Iranian ambassador. He was rugged, masculine, tall, slim, well tailored, and known to be a fascinating, polished man of the world. Calling on his enormous wealth, Ardeshir possessed a flair for the dramatic, driving a Rolls-Royce, throwing soirees at his gorgeous embassy residence, and causing a stir with lavish gestures such as sending kilos of caviar to a favored hostess. He was a playboy who loved women, and women loved him. Elizabeth Taylor had a crush on him. The world had a crush on him.
I despaired of ever meeting this intriguing ambassador. Then I read that he planned a trip to Houston for a medical checkup.
“Bob,” I said that evening, “what do you think about my inviting the ambassador to dinner?”
“That would be great,” he said. “Do you know him?”
“No,” I said, “but I intend to.” I explained my plan for an unannounced hospital visit. He laughed indulgently.
Earlier, I might have felt trepidation. But years in front of the television camera as well as thousands of hours perfecting conversational exchanges gave me hope. I was pretty good at getting through barriers.
Knowing the importance of dressing appropriately, I scrutinized my closet. Today, details were critical. Today, I hoped to leave a “scent” enticing enough to be followed by a person whose life already boasted rooms full of flowers and invitations to the most influential parties in the world.
At best, I had five minutes to make or break my plan. Everything I did, said, and wore would be analyzed with the speed of a computer. I faced no amateur, but rather a professional who could spot a phony, a climber, a bore at twenty paces. He would analyze me with the swiftness of a gunslinger at the O.K. Corral. I hoped our meeting would not end disappointingly, with me departing (at least metaphorically) in the proverbial pine box.
“So,” I wondered, “what should I wear?”
Nothing from Paris, I thought, brushing aside French designer labels. Too obvious. To seem anxious would be deadly.
Nothing too chichi or sexy. That translates as untutored.
Nothing too dull. Uniform twinsets and pearls, while nice, spell “ho hum.”
Hmm… I chose a boxy white jacket, piped in brown, with a brown, cotton, high-necked, fitted, long-sleeved shirt that revealed a lot only when the jacket opened, while otherwise leaving lots to the imagination. The skirt was long, not tight, but slit to the knee. High-heeled shoes completed my outfit.
I debated, then chose one more accessory—an object I rarely use at night, much less in the daytime—my twenty-carat diamond ring. It is, as Zsa Zsa Gabor once said of hers, a working diamond, silent but
speaking wonders, an indisputable sign that indicates wealth and position. An expert with a practiced eye can spot a fake ten yards away.
Bob Herring, always an enormously generous man, gave me the knuckle-to-knuckle diamond, which was almost as wide as it was long. The gift did not mark a special occasion, only an opportune moment when it became available. Our friend, jeweler Mike Kazanjian, let Bob know that he had an unusual piece he thought I’d like. The exquisite ring featured a square bottom and a marquis top, a combination cut I’d never seen before.
Sometimes people think, “Oh, what a frivolous thing to have.” Actually, impressive jewels are good public relations and help tremendously in business settings. If you want to be accepted and remembered in a room full of Fortune 500 executives, wear a twenty-carat diamond. They immediately welcome you with open arms. It’s obvious you’re not a con artist, out to get their money. You clearly have your own. Such jewels grant you instant credibility and status.
(Alas, these days I wear only fakes. The real stuff lives in the bank. It was no longer fun to wear my jewelry after I learned of a friend’s horrible experience. She was staying at a posh hotel. Two men stepped into an elevator with her and cut off her finger to get her ring. That did it for me. No more real jewels unless they belong to a jeweler and come with a guard!)
On this occasion, I considered the working diamond a fitting accessory for the event for which I was preparing.
Finally, I felt ready. I looked appropriate, hopefully attractive but not overdone, for a casual meeting on a hot summer day.
What was the cause of this intense concentration on my appearance?
Shortly after our Parisian honeymoon, Bob said, “I want us to do our own lobbying in Washington.”
Many laws limiting the freedom of the oil business were at stake. He felt that this was bad not only for his company but also for the economy. I was intent on helping Bob in whatever capacity I could. He was hugely successful in Houston. In Washington, however, he was just another Fortune 500 medium-sized company competing with the giants. Enron wasn’t Enron yet.
What could I possibly do?
I had noticed that most business dealings occurred not in legislative offices or staid conference rooms, but at fun-filled parties where people relaxed and conversed as equals. In an office, one person sits behind a desk and the other person is the supplicant. At a party, however, everyone talks on an even level. No person presides at a desk or takes precedence over another.
Parties were especially significant in Washington because they provided opportunities for people with differing ideas to hear another side. In a friendly, engaging atmosphere, you had a chance to explain why a particular idea or action would succeed or work for a constituency or help the country. People were more open to listening in a social setting, and, very often, they understood and agreed with what you were saying. It worked well also because, at a party, no one was being asked to make a commitment, but merely to consider an idea.
“I’m Mrs. Robert Herring and I would like to see the ambassador,” I requested with all the charm I could muster to the nurse stalking the lobby desk at the hospital. I was directed to the ambassador’s aide, a young, exceedingly handsome fellow, groomed to a fault. At a glance, I took in his hand-tailored suit, his John Lobb shoes, and his princely manner. He made a similar lightning-quick assessment of me.
The gracious man greeted me with a look of curiosity easily interpreted: why was I here? Something else played across his face as well: attraction.
My father once said, “Joanne doesn’t have one good feature, but you put them all together and they look pretty good.”
At the time, looks were a woman’s only platform for advancement. You had to use your looks to be noticed. My mother said, “Why are you wearing those little ‘slippy’ dresses? You should be wearing gray flannel that looks businesslike.” “Mother,” I said, “I would never get in the door!” Once you get in, you must know your subject, have it be relevant to his objectives, and be brief. Then you will always be welcome. But first you must get in.
In Washington, if there were going to be a hundred people at a party, and I wanted to meet a certain person, what did I do? I tried to make that person want to meet me. Toward that end, I often wore what the press called “slinky” dresses.
My next move was to say, “Let me introduce you to my husband. He supports your programs,” or “He would like to hear more about your programs. May I introduce you?”
If you were smart, you developed other facets, such as understanding the problems the person faced. I liked parties and the la-di-da part of socializing, but I had discovered that the machinations of business and world affairs interested me more.
But for a woman to play on the big field, she must learn to play “the game.” It’s complicated and nuanced in ways that distinguish skill levels. It is not flirtation. It is more subtle, a careful application of talents, with definite limits. What I refer to has little to do with sex—which is common and available on every street corner.
I laughingly refer to the game sometimes as “the mating dance of the whooping crane.” Just as whooping cranes have a dance in which the male and female advance, then retreat; advance, then retreat; so, too, do men and women as they relate to one another—even if the sole goal is friendship. This game has many rules.
As I stood before the charming aide of the Iranian ambassador, I played the game to win.
“I have heard of the ambassador and what an interesting and fascinating man he is,” I said sincerely, holding myself rather aloof and impersonally. The aide quickly proved to be an advanced player. He took my hand, bowed over it, and responded, “Ah, but not nearly as fascinating as you, madam.”
I knew this was my cue to retreat. When physical contact is made, the woman must become more reserved. I gently withdrew my hand, smiled, and said, “My husband helped found this hospital with Dr. Denton Cooley. I think the ambassador would find Bob interesting.” Mentioning my husband at this juncture was deliberate and crucial. (The game is much more complicated, alas, for women who have no husband to invoke at the appropriate moment.) “I think they would enjoy knowing one another,” I continued. Then I added, “I’d very much like to give a party for the ambassador while he’s in Houston.”
Walking to the window and changing the subject, I asked, “Have you seen much of our city?” The aide joined me and lamented that his only view of Houston had been from a hospital window. We laughed.
“Oh, that’s a shame because we have a very green city,” I said. “It’s more like the Old South than the Old West. In fact, in the Guinness Book of Records, we are listed as having more trees than any other city in the world.”
“That’s interesting,” he replied. “We always think of the West as being a desert with tumbleweeds and cowboys.”
“We have those too. Most people don’t realize how big Texas is,” I said. “It’s larger than France. It would be a shame to leave without knowing us.”
“I will ask the ambassador,” the gentleman responded, “but having met you, madam, I certainly agree it would, indeed, be a shame. May I call you?” I handed him my card, which I had had carefully engraved at Amorial in Paris. The French company’s work was immediately apparent to those interested in such things, and I saw recognition in the eyes of the ambassador’s aide.
I thought again about how details mattered in playing this game: from the power of dressing appropriately down to the wearing of the diamond that spoke volumes. Now this attractive card would represent not only a final, telling detail for the aide’s benefit, but also a first impression for the ambassador when it was presented to him on my behalf.
We said our good-byes and I practically waltzed away. Two hours later, the ambassador phoned to accept.
Even now, I have a sense of joy as I remember that initial encounter. Ardeshir became a dear friend and a strong part of our lives. We were always his houseguests (which gave us enormous cachet) when we visited Washington.
Fortunately, if you play the game correctly, every player can help the other and wins a friend in the process.
I may have been the “queen of Houston,” as the papers called me, but that was no help in Washington. Bob and I needed to establish ourselves in Washington society. But how?
Ardeshir’s job was promoting friendship between Iran and the United States, which was strong at the time. He had to keep those ties firm. But he was a kind and generous friend. He made it possible for us to enter the Washington hierarchy from the top. Because of him, everyone we met greeted us with open arms.
For example, one night I was at a very large reception. Right in front of me was Barbara Walters. The embassy secretary, who was an elegant, lovely lady, tried to introduce us. “This is Mrs. Herring,” she said.
Ms. Walters gave me a bored glance.
“She and her husband are the houseguests of the ambassador,” the secretary continued.
“Ooh,” said Barbara, turning completely around, not at all bored now. “How wonderful to meet you. I just adore Ardeshir.”
“Everyone does,” I replied, smiling.
Barbara became a person I saw often and who usually came when I invited her, even from New York. I discovered a Barbara Walters who was not caustic and inquiring but sweet and caring. She actually tried to help me in whatever way she could. Under the veneer that careers demand, we often find wonderful hearts.
Parties in the 1970s were elegant and opulent: black ties every night, limos, caviar, champagne… oh, it was grand. The problem was that everyone wanted the same top people. The “important” people received as many as twenty-five invitations a night. The ambassadors, cabinet secretaries, and members of Congress were the ruling stars of the party circuit. Bigger corporations than Bob’s were competing for their time.
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