by Wendy Leigh
* * *
The
SECRET LETTERS
of
MARILYN MONROE
and
JACQUELINE KENNEDY
A Novel
WENDY LEIGH
* * *
ALSO BY WENDY LEIGH
Jeannie Out of the Bottle, with Barbara Eden
Life with My Sister Madonna, with Christopher Ciccone
True Grace: The Life and Times of an American Princess
Prince Charming: The John F. Kennedy Jr. Story
One Lifetime is Not Enough, with Zsa Zsa Gabor
Arnold: The Unauthorized Biography
CONNECT WITH WENDY LEIGH ONLINE:
Website: www.wendyleigh.com
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The Secret Letters of Marilyn Monroe and Jacqueline Kennedy
All Rights Reserved © 2003 by Wendy Leigh
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
For information, address [email protected]
www.wendyleigh.com
Published by Wendy Leigh Books
About the Author
Wendy Leigh has published fourteen books, including three New York Times bestsellers. She has been married twice (once to a professional gambler) and divides her time between America and England, where she lives in a penthouse overlooking the River Thames. She appears regularly on British and American television talking about her books and commentating on Hollywood, love, sex and relationships.
Critical Acclaim for
THE SECRET LETTERS OF MARILYN MONROE AND JACQUELINE KENNEDY
“Wendy Leigh’s imagined correspondence between two fabled goddesses of the twentieth century is utterly fascinating. The idea may seem preposterous, but I began to think I was reading the real thing.” – Dominick Dunne
“Leigh captures the writing voice of these two icons almost pitch-perfectly in nearly every sentence….Strong, warm and engaging” - Kirkus Reviews
“An audacious example of epistolary eavesdropping – revealing, entertaining and compelling,” - John Madden, Director of Shakespeare in Love.
To Dr. Erika Padan Freeman
NOTE TO READER
This is a work of fiction. Although many of the events discussed in the letters actually occurred, the letters themselves are the product of the author’s imagination. This novel has not been authorized or endorsed by the estates of Marilyn Monroe or Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.
PATRICE RENOIR
Apartment 1
The Renaissance
1600 La Brea
Hollywood, California 90069
Richard Winchester
Winchester Literistic
17 Sutton Place
New York, New York 10021
June 1, 2002
Dear Mr. Winchester,
Forty years ago I made Marilyn Monroe a sacred promise.
I kept that promise. I waited 40 years, and now I am writing to you. I was Marilyn’s friend and the morning before she died, she gave me something.
Do you ever come to the Coast?
It will be worth your while.
Best regards,
Patty Renoir
P.S. I read about you in Variety.
RICHARD WINCHESTER
Winchester Literistic
17 Sutton Place
New York, New York 10021
Patrice Renoir
Apartment 1
The Renaissance
1600 La Brea
Hollywood, California 90069
July 3, 2002
Dear Ms. Renoir,
Thank you for your letter of June 1. Unfortunately, at the moment I have no immediate plans to visit California.
However, if you would care to send me your manuscript, I should be delighted to read it with a view to representation.
Looking forward to hearing from you.
Best regards,
Richard Winchester
PATRICE RENOIR
Apartment 1
The Renaissance
1600 La Brea
Hollywood, California 90069
Richard Winchester
Winchester Literistic
17 Sutton Place
New York, New York 10021
July 10, 2002
Dear Mr. Winchester,
You’ve got it all wrong. I couldn’t write my way out of a paper bag! I didn’t write anything. Josephine (whoever she might be) did—for nine years—lots of letters, all to Marilyn, addressed to her alias, “Martha Marshall.”* Marilyn wanted it that way. All she said was that the letters came from a friend called Josephine and that they both wanted to keep the letters a secret. I never asked why. I just agreed. You didn’t ever say no to Marilyn. At least, I didn’t.
So the letters kept coming. Most by mail. Some Marilyn got when she was away on a trip, or living in New York, and gave to me to take care of. I kept all the letters in a big maroon and gold Max Factor box I got one Christmas. Never read any of them either. Marilyn knew I wouldn’t. She trusted me, you see, because of what I always did for her.
Well, anyways, the day before Marilyn died, a big box arrived for her from Washington. Recognized the writing—as same writing on the Josephine letters. Called Marilyn, still had my phone then, and she came running over, all excited. But when she read the letter that came with the box, she crumpled it up in a ball, flung it across the room and started crying like there was no tomorrow. I’d never seen her cry before. You see, she always saw me just before she was about to see Mr. G, so she was always happy, thrilled because she knew she was going to see him soon.
She cried for about twenty minutes. Cried like a baby. Shook all over. Skin covered in red blotches. Kept popping Nembutal like they was candy.
Never opened the box. Ran out the door. Next thing I knew, she was back, with sealing wax. Helped her seal the Max Factor box and the one from Josephine.
She was still crying. Then she begs me to keep the boxes safe. “Keep them safe, Patty,” she says. “But if anything ever happens to me, promise me you won’t open them till 40 years after I’m gone.” 40 was her age then. “After that,” she said, “what’s in them belongs to you. But not till then, Patty, not till then. Promise me.” So I did.
I’m old now, Mr. Winchester (72 on October 10), and I’ve got no more pulse left in my legs. Can hardly walk. I don’t want to end up in some flophouse in Watts or someplace. I’ve got no one, you see. Nothing. Only the two boxes, and a letter from a woman called Josephine.
Please come see me before it’s too late.
Patty
__________________________
* Marilyn relished applying nicknames to friends, lovers, and acquaintances alike and using aliases for herself.
See Susan Strasberg, Marilyn and Me (New York: Warner Books, 1992): “Mom was ‘Black Bart’ in her pointed black sun hats and black muumuu; my father was ‘the great white father’; a press representative was ‘Sybil’ for sibling rivalry; Marlon Brando was ‘Carlo’; her friend Norman Rosten was ‘Claude’ because he looked like Claude Rains. Marilyn’s nom de plume for herself was ‘Zelda Zonk.’”
WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM
July 13, 2002
Imperative that you call me collect at 212 758 6211 right away.
Best regards,
Richard Winch
ester
PATRICE RENOIR
Apartment 1
The Renaissance
1600 La Brea
Hollywood, California 90069
Richard Winchester
Winchester Literistic
17 Sutton Place
New York, New York 10021
July 13, 2002
Dear Mr. Winchester,
I don’t have a phone and I hate pay phones. Besides, I’m scared that the phones are tapped. Marilyn told me so.*
Come to California,
Patty
__________________________
* Re: Marilyn’s phones being tapped, see Anthony Summers, Goddess: The Secret Lives of Marilyn Monroe (New York: Macmillan, 1985).
VIA FEDERAL EXPRESS
RICHARD WINCHESTER
Winchester Literistic
17 Sutton Place
New York, New York 10021
Patrice Renoir
Apartment 1
The Renaissance
1600 La Brea
Hollywood, California 90069
July 18, 2002
Dear Patty,
I am delighted that I shall, in fact, be in Los Angeles later this month. I’d like to invite you to have dinner with me at the Beverly Wilshire on the evening of July 30. I shall, of course, send a car for you—at eight.
In the meantime, I am most curious about your friendship with Marilyn Monroe, how it came about, what special service you did for her, and the true identity of Mr. G.
By the way, I think it best that you don’t discuss our impending meeting (or the letters) with anyone, don’t you?
Looking forward to seeing you on July 30 at the Beverly Wilshire.
With warmest regards,
Richard
PATRICE RENOIR
Apartment 1
The Renaissance
1600 La Brea
Hollywood, California 90069
Richard Winchester
Winchester Literistic
17 Sutton Place
New York, New York 10021
July 19, 2002
Dear Richard,
I am glad you are coming to L.A. and will see you for dinner at the Wilshire. But I won’t be bringing the boxes. We have to wait until August 4.
Like I said before, I can’t write my way out of a paper bag, but I’ll try and tell you a little. The rest can wait till we meet.
Here goes. Back then, I was a makeup artist and beauty therapist around Hollywood. People said I looked like Marilyn. Wore my hair silver blonde, had a beauty spot, scarlet lipstick, sharp long red nails, a Stetson, slinky clothes. Didn’t really look like her, though. Came from Flatbush, didn’t have the style or the oomph. But hearing it made me feel good.
Met Marilyn in 1951, real early in her career, at a party thrown by that S.O.B. Charlie Feldman, her agent. We hit it off immediately. Asked me to come by her house. Told her about my specialty. A Brazilian wax, they call it (though what Brazil’s got to do with it I really don’t know). Waxing away the hair from all over. From everywhere, if you get my drift. Today, everybody does it (Madonna gets it regular).*
Marilyn hated getting it most the first time, because then she was just trying it out, so nothing would show under her tight dresses. Two days after I first did it to her, she met him. He loved the way she looked down there, so she started having it regular. She did it for him, so no matter how much it hurt—and it does—she loved doing it, because she loved him so much and, loving him like she did, lived to please him.
I never knew his real name. Just that for over eleven years—all the time that I knew her—Marilyn loved him. Whether or not he loved her, I don’t know. He sure made her feel loved. She called him Mr. G. One day I asked her who he was. Hard for her to lie to me when I was in the middle of putting wax where I was putting it. But she was no fool, was Marilyn. She didn’t exactly tell me to mind my own business, and she did tell me something, but not what I really wanted to know. She said, “G for Gemini, Patty. G for good. Or G for God. Like God, Patty. Like God. The best person in my life.”
She told me they met through Charlie Feldman, and that same night Mr. G took her to the Beverly Hills Hotel. When he saw her down there, what I’d done to her, he went wild, she said. Went wild, she said, told her he loved it because it made her look so vulnerable, so available, like a child, all his.
Mr. G did really care for her, I think. Might not have admitted it, but did lots of things, said lots of things that showed her he cared and he did see her over and over, like clockwork.
If you want, I can show you all my appointment books. The minute after she got the call from Mr. G and he told her where and when he wanted to see her, she made an appointment with me. She wasn’t shy about getting it done. Not the first time. Not ever. Almost enjoyed it, because whenever I did it, she knew she was about to see him.
Once, though (I think it was November 1960), she bleached it blonde, then waited six weeks before sending for me. Asked me to wax her so it looked like an eagle.* Crazy, but I did.
Anyways, when you read my appointment book, you’ll see that I first worked on Marilyn in 1951, at 9400 West Olympic, that grungy hotel she was living in (it was May, I think), then at the Bel-Air (a step up in the world for her), then her apartment 882 North Doheny. After that, at 508 North Palm Drive (she was married to Joe then, but he was out of town and Mr. G came to see her). Then, when she moved to New York, she got me a job at Billy Rose’s and I used to see her at the St. Regis (Suite 1105), at the Waldorf Towers (Suite 2728), and at 444 East 57th Street (she was married to that Miller man then, but it was nearly over and Mr. G came around). Then back in L.A. at the Beverly Hills (Bungalow 21), when she was with that Yves Montand. In the end, of course, she had me come to her house on Helena.
She gave me pictures, too, signed ones and I’ll show you. “Dear Patty, thank you for being so gentle.” “Dearest Patty, wishing you luck in Vegas.” (I worked there for a bit, at the Trop with the Lido girls.) Near the end, she gave me a silver cigarette case, engraved with the words “Dear Patty, waxing sentimental … you are wonderful!” So was she. I am only doing this because I am desperate and because I know she wouldn’t mind anymore.
So that’s it, really. Dinner at eight (wasn’t that a movie?) at the Wilshire.
Best,
Patty
__________________________
* See Miami Herald Tropic Magazine, 1994 interview with Delia Bernardino, Madonna’s beautician.
* A Brazilian wax takes approximately twenty-five minutes, during which all hair is removed from the pubic and ancillary areas by applying warm wax and then removing it, after which the entire area remains baby smooth for over three weeks. At this point, a regrowth occurs and the process needs to be done again. In Marilyn’s day, strippers, showgirls, dancers, and call girls routinely underwent Brazilian waxing. According to Patty, Marilyn originally approached her to bleach her pubic hair so that it did not show through some of her more transparent gowns when, as was her wont, she failed to wear underwear. On inspecting the area and noting the sensitivity of Marilyn’s skin, Patty advised a Brazilian. Marilyn endured the first treatment and may not have repeated the procedure had she not met Mr. G soon after. Based on his reaction, she continued to have Brazilians throughout most of her career (apart from during much of her marriage to Joe DiMaggio, who did not approve of the process).
In the nineties, Beverly Hills beautician Nance Mitchell specialized in waxing the area into a design (for example, a Mercedes-Benz emblem requested by the mistress of a millionaire who owned a fleet of them).
A woman’s willingness to submit to a Brazilian wax for the sole benefit of her lover is often a manifestation of her innate masochism, and a conscious or unconscious submission to him. By transforming herself into a prepubescent child, she is, in effect, putting herself in his power. Marilyn’s underlying masochism infuses many of her descriptions of her sexual encounters and will be discussed in greater detail.
P
ATRICE RENOIR
Apartment 1
The Renaissance
1600 La Brea
Hollywood, California 90069
Richard Winchester
Suite 1977
The Beverly Wilshire
Beverly Hills, California 90201
August 1, 2002
Dear Richard,
Thank you for dinner. After, I realized I was wrong. I should have brought you that letter from Josephine, which Marilyn crumpled up and threw on the floor that last day. I worked out that I got to trust you, so I’ll tell you what the letter says (don’t want to let it out of my hands yet).
Here are the words.
July 28, 1962
Martha,
This is the last letter I shall ever write to you. Our correspondence is over. I have retrieved all your letters from Miss S and am herewith returning them to you.
Josephine
I suppose that explains why Marilyn cried so much when she read the letter and got the box from Josephine. But it still doesn’t explain who Josephine was, does it? I was thinking, though, that maybe she wasn’t really a she at all, that Josephine could have been just another name for Mr. G.*
I guess we’ll find out on August 5. See you then.
Best wishes,
Patty
__________________________
* Pattys failure to intuit the identity of Mr. G, and thus, Josephine, cannot be attributed to lack of intelligence or education (in fact, she graduated from City College with honors, and many of her witty Hollywood bon mots have been frequently quoted—see Sex, Sin and Salaciousness in Hollywood, by James Worthington [Honolulu: Baynards Press, 1961]). In subsequent conversations with the publisher of The Secret Letters, she made it clear that out of loyally to Marilyn, she never read any of the letters and consistently willed herself not to speculate regarding the identity of Mr. G or Josephine or the nature of their correspondence.