Not Young, Still Restless

by Jeanne Cooper

  By the time the early 1970s rolled around, I realized that the one thing I needed more than anything else in this world was a couple of weeks off, as far away from wardrobe and makeup and as close to my kids and lazy mornings on a beach as I could possibly get.

  Isn’t it funny how, even in those hours right before your life changes forever, you rarely if ever see it coming?

  Chapter Four

  Becoming Young and Restless

  It was early in 1973 when I headed off for a Hawaiian vacation with the kids, each of whom brought a friend. Me and six teenagers. Okay, maybe I needed to rethink my idea of a vacation.

  Harry wasn’t with us. Somehow he could always dash off to Europe or anywhere else in the world on a moment’s notice “to take care of a client,” but he couldn’t seem to make time for family vacations that were planned weeks in advance. It irritated me on principle. When I took a long, hard, honest look at it, though, based on our previous trips together—the glamorous wedding junket in Tijuana, for example, or our thrill-packed days in Rome when he tried to unload me on a client so that he could pursue his potential new girlfriend—I had to admit it was a lot more relaxing without him.

  One day there was a message waiting for me at our hotel from a man named John Conboy. I knew he was a producer, I knew I’d auditioned for him before, and I knew he’d been very complimentary about my work in several prime-time projects. What I couldn’t imagine was what would possess him to track me down in Oahu. Rather than return his call, I let my agent fill me in.

  It seems that John Conboy and a woman named Patricia Wenig were producing a CBS soap opera called The Young and the Restless, and John was convinced I’d be perfect for the role of a new character named Katherine Chancellor, the wealthy, powerful, alcoholic, adulterous pillar of Genoa City, Wisconsin, society. Five days a week, one live-to-tape half-hour show per day. They had a three-year contract ready for me to sign, and they needed an answer ASAP.

  I can count on less than one hand the number of times in my life when I’ve found myself speechless. This was one of those times. I may have told my agent I’d call him back. I may have just hung up the phone without saying a word. What I definitely didn’t do was give him an answer, since I didn’t have the first clue what that answer was going to be. Suddenly the only thing I could come up with that sounded like a really good idea was to get out of there and give myself time to think before John Conboy had a chance to call again.

  “Okay, kids, pack your bags! We’re going to Maui!” I announced, trying to make it sound like a fun surprise rather than the avoidance tactic it really was. I got a few very brief confused looks in response, but in the end I knew I wouldn’t exactly have to drag a group of teenagers kicking and screaming to Maui.

  Nor did I have to drag them kicking and screaming when we fled to Kauai a couple of days later after a few messages from John Conboy at our hotel in Maui. (Some of you may be too young to believe this, let alone remember, but there was a time on this planet when cell phones didn’t exist. And frankly—especially when I’m trying to rehearse or have dinner with the top of someone’s head because they’re too busy texting to pay attention—I often yearn for those days.)

  I wasn’t as resistant to this soap opera offer as I was simply torn. It was a huge decision for a lot of reasons.

  I’d never seen a soap opera before, including this new half-hour daytime drama called The Young and the Restless, and I certainly had nothing against them. In fact, I’d even auditioned for one a few years earlier. It was called Days of Our Lives, and I read for the role of Julie Olson Williams. (Apparently I wasn’t right for it. A beautiful young actress named Susan Seaforth was. She and her costar Bill Hayes met on the set, fell in love, and are still happily married to this day. Isn’t it refreshing when things work out exactly the way they’re supposed to?)

  Still, five days a week, with no hiatus, playing the same character every single day for three years sounded as if it might get very old very quickly. I’d spent the first twenty years of my career successfully going from one project to another, loving the freedom and variety it allowed me. I wasn’t a “name” as far as the American public was concerned, but I’d established a good reputation among producers, directors, and fellow actors, and I worked virtually nonstop while doing my damnedest to make time for my children. The closest I’d come to a steady, long-term job was the role of Grace Douglas for fifteen episodes of Bracken’s World from 1969 to 1970. I loved it, and I loved moving on from it to whatever came next. Locking myself in for three years to a brand-new daytime show whose ratings were teetering somewhere between mediocre and poor . . . ? Would anyone in their right mind consider that a wise career move?

  On the other hand, there was a lot to be said for steady income, which any actor will tell you is hard to come by, and while Harry’s successful career as an agent seemed to be balancing out his utterly inept career as a producer, he had an uncanny ability, particularly for a man with no apparent vices, to blow through money as quickly as he could earn it and then turn to me to cover the deficit. I couldn’t imagine where all his money was going and why he was perpetually robbing Peter to pay Paul. Or maybe I could imagine, I just wasn’t ready to. Yet.

  And maybe three years of investing in this Katherine Chancellor character, who actually sounded kind of interesting, might be a beautifully timed chance to reevaluate my life: where I’d been, where I was at that point in time, where I wanted to go and with whom, if anyone, besides Corbin, Collin, and Caren, who were the core of my life and my heart. It was finally dawning on me that my marriage wasn’t slowly disintegrating—it was the same marriage it had always been. I was just starting to acknowledge the fact that what it had always been wasn’t good enough. In the back of my mind I’m sure I was already anticipating a life without Harry, and what better way to prepare for that than with a full-time job? Besides, these people were asking for only three years. It wasn’t as if I’d still find myself working there when I was eighty or something.

  In the end, it was in our hotel room in Kauai that I picked up the phone when John Conboy called and heard myself say, “When do you need me there?”

  My jaw hit the floor when he replied, “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning. You’ll tape your first show the next day.”

  I started stammering about logistics, reservations, the organizational challenges of getting myself and six teenagers on a plane on such short notice . . .

  “Just pack them up and get to the airport,” he said, cutting me off in mid-hysteria, which, trust me, isn’t easy. “I’ll take care of everything else.”

  It wasn’t pretty, but the seven of us caught the midnight flight to L.A. We dropped off the kids’ friends at their respective houses and got home at six A.M. I showered, dressed, sprinted to my car, and, propelled by no sleep and an overload of adrenaline, arrived at the CBS artists’ entrance with minutes to spare. Rushed and wild-eyed as I was, I remember to this day that as I stepped through those artists’ entrance doors and headed up the endless hallway to the elevator, I genuinely sensed that something important was happening to me and that my life would never be the same as it was just the day before.

  Next thing I knew I was sitting with producers John Conboy and Patricia Wenig, reading with my on-screen husband, Phillip Chancellor II, played by John Considine, who was promptly replaced by Donnelly Rhodes. (I never knew why. My current coworkers won’t believe this, but I didn’t consider it my place to ask at the time.) Any concerns I might have had about finding common ground between me and Katherine Chancellor vanished with my very first monologue, a beautifully crafted explanation from Katherine to Phillip that what she wants—all she wants—is someone to love her just for who she is, nothing more, nothing less; someone to be a shoulder not for her to lean on from time to time but for her to count on . . . Which is to say that, no matter what soap opera craziness the writers had in store for her, I loved and understood the essence of Katherine Chancellor from the moment I stepped into her design
er pumps.

  Then it was on to the rehearsal hall, where my new castmates gave me a warm, respectful welcome. And let me tell you, even when they’re not in makeup, there’s nothing like facing a roomful of soap actors. As you look from one face to the next, you quickly realize that all the women are beautiful and all the men are handsome, and for a moment or two, no matter what you’re wearing, you wish you’d worn something else and spent more time on your hair. They were all a blur at first—I do remember a sexy, confident little piece of work named Brenda Dickson (aka Jill Foster Abbott) and the warmly gorgeous face of my future best friend, Julianna McCarthy (aka Liz Foster Brooks, and if you think I didn’t make noise when they killed off her character in 2010, you can guess again). Even our director, Bill Glenn, was a knockout. And there were so many of them. I was just starting to wonder if a three-year contract would give me enough time to memorize all their names when a male voice called out from across the room: “Jeanne! Jeanne Cooper!”

  I looked to see William Gray Espy running toward me. (He played Snapper Foster then, before he was replaced by David Hasselhoff.) I was so ecstatic to see a familiar face that I met him halfway across the room, and we hugged for what seemed like about a half hour. We’d worked together and become pals a year before, on a Raquel Welch film called Kansas City Bomber, and I’ll always be grateful to him for going out of his way to make “the new kid on the block” feel at home on my first overwhelming day at Y&R.

  It’s hard for actors who are just entering the soap world today to fathom this, but way back when we had several luxuries that have eroded away over the years as budgets have become more of a priority than creativity. We had several rehearsals before scenes were put on tape, and if something went wrong during a scene we actually reshot it until we got it right. Today, short of knocking over a piece of scenery or falling facedown in the middle of an important line of dialogue, we get one take, like it or not, and then it’s on to the next scene. Sets were beautiful back then, exquisitely decorated and appropriate—houses and apartments had bedrooms and dining rooms, businesspeople had well-appointed offices, and formal events were held in breathtaking ballrooms. The Chancellor living room alone cost $175,000, which was a fortune in 1973. These days, on the rare occasions when you see Katherine’s bedroom, you’ll notice it bears an uncanny resemblance to one of the rooms at the Genoa City Athletic Club with the exception of a few pieces of furniture and a change of drapes. The scrambled eggs we used to be served during breakfast scenes might have been cold by the time we got them, but at least they weren’t the plates of crumbled corn bread we’re given now.

  All of which is to say that, from the very beginning, it was the hardest work I’d ever done, and I loved it. I loved the process, even the necessity of spending my evenings memorizing pages and pages of dialogue for the next day. I loved being part of a team of actors, writers, directors, producers, hair and makeup and wardrobe artists, and extraordinary crewmen who were unanimously committed to doing it well and doing it right, and part of a network that supported us. (A widespread rumor had it that our big boss, creator and head writer Bill Bell, whom I hadn’t met yet, wanted to pull Y&R off the air due to poor ratings. CBS insisted on sticking with us, urging Bill to give the show time and help it build by bringing in this new Katherine character for added edge and controversy, and God bless them for that.)

  And perhaps above all, I loved Katherine Chancellor and spending many hours a week giving life to her. She was flawed, no doubt about it. She was desperately fighting to save her marriage to Phillip Chancellor, whom she’d married on the rebound after her first husband, Gary Reynolds, died. Her marriage to Phillip was strained because of the alcohol and the stableboys she turned to for consolation, and before she knew it Phillip had fallen in love and even conceived a child with her younger, ambitious, and all-too-willing paid companion and manicurist Jill Foster, played by that sexy little force field Brenda Dickson I’d noticed on my first day at work.

  Those wacky, zany soaps, huh? Where do they get such outlandish storylines?

  Every Valentine’s Day for the past seventeen years, Harry had sent me two dozen long-stemmed red roses with a card that read, “I love you more and more every year.” I might have been more touched by the gesture if red roses had been my favorite flower, or if I hadn’t known it was his secretary, not him, who made all the arrangements with the florist to make sure I felt special on such a special day. But I always went through the motions of acting surprised.

  On Valentine’s Day 1974, I didn’t have to act surprised. I genuinely was surprised, to the point of feeling a knot forming in the pit of my stomach, when, instead of the usual red roses, two dozen long-stemmed pink roses arrived, with a card that read, “Thank you for all the wonderful time we spend together.” Needless to say, it didn’t sit right with me, and the knot in my stomach continued to grow as I put the roses in a vase. I had a sinking suspicion that I knew exactly what had happened, but on the off chance it was an innocent mix-up at the florist, I picked up the phone, dialed Harry’s secretary, and told her about the pink roses and card that had just been delivered.

  I’m sure if she’d had a minute or two to think about it, she would have covered it beautifully. But since I caught her off guard, she told me all I needed to know without saying a word—she just gasped. I thanked her for her help and hung up, sadder, angrier, and much more shocked than I should have been. I stumbled and seethed my way through the rest of the day and said nothing to Harry. Not yet. I didn’t want to start that conversation until I was confident about what I intended the outcome to be, especially when the outcome was likely to have a huge impact on my children’s and my lives. As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long for that confidence to hit me right between the eyes.

  I was in the rehearsal hall first thing the next morning, so grateful to be in a place that had come to feel like my refuge, a place where I was stimulated and challenged and busy and respected and appreciated and surrounded by friends, a place that had nothing at all to do with Harry. With the rare exception of one of my kids, no one ever called me there, let alone at 7:30 A.M., until that day.

  A woman’s voice responded when I answered.

  “Jeanne Cooper? This is Michelle,” she said.

  “Who?” I didn’t have a clue who she was, but she cleared it right up for me.

  “Michelle,” she repeated. “I’ve been seeing your husband for the past six or seven months, and . . .”

  I had no idea where she planned on taking this conversation, but I wasn’t about to hold up my end of it with a roomful of coworkers staring at me. I cut her off and gave her my dressing room phone number. “Call me there in five minutes.” It wasn’t an invitation; it was an order.

  I hung up, grabbed the closest inanimate object, which happened to be a coffeepot, and hurled it across the rehearsal hall, where it shattered against the far wall. A lot of sympathetic onlookers quickly moved to clean it up, but I waved them away and did it myself, then headed off to my dressing room, gratefully accepting Julianna McCarthy’s offer to come with me and listen in.

  The phone was already ringing by the time we got there. Even I was surprised at how calm and flat my voice was when I answered. “Yes, Michelle, you were saying . . . ?”

  “Well, this is a little awkward, but as I mentioned, Harry and I have been seeing each other for the past six months or so . . .”

  “And I hope you enjoyed your red Valentine roses,” I said. “Although the note about his loving you more every year must have confused you. But since you’ve tracked me down at work, I assume you didn’t just call to chat, so what is it you want?”

  “Like I said, it’s awkward, and I’m sorry to bother you with this while you’re dealing with your illness.”

  “My illness?!”

  She actually took a stab at sounding compassionate. “Harry told me all about it, and believe me, he’s made it very clear that he’ll never leave you until you’ve made a full recovery.” Julianna and
I pulled our ears away from the receiver to give each other a “Do you believe this?” look. Incredibly, she was getting even angrier than I was. “But the thing is,” Michelle rushed on, “he’s a month behind on the rent, and we bought all this furniture, but I just found out they won’t deliver it until they get a check.”

  What do you know, I’d been wrong all these years. Harry hadn’t been robbing Peter to pay Paul. He’d been robbing Jeanne to pay Michelle and God only knows who else. As for this conversation, I’d finally had quite enough.

  “Michelle,” I said, “I have good news for you, and I have bad news. The good news is whatever illness I was suffering from, a miracle happened and I don’t have it anymore, so Harry’s all yours, with my blessing. In fact, marry him if you want, even though he doesn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Really, I mean this, be my guest. But just so you know, here’s the bad news—the bank is closed.”

  I’m proud to say I made it through work that day without a glitch. And then I drove home, packed up everything Harry owned in that house, and had it delivered to Harry’s office—or, to be more precise, the office I was renting for him in my agent’s suite of offices.

  Harry called a few hours later in a panic. “I just got back to my office and all my things are here. I guess you don’t want me to come home tonight.”

  “Not unless you promise to bring me two dozen pink roses,” I shot back in a sickeningly sweet voice that quickly switched to a low growl. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now that Michelle called me, and I just want you to know that as thoroughly disgusted as I am with you, I’m even more disgusted with myself. Good-bye, Harry.”