by Jeanne Beker
I talked to her about what she had learned from her famous parents, and I was pleased to see that the daughter of my personal teenage icon had turned out to be such a lovely young woman. Having had the joy of actually meeting and interviewing Paul McCartney several times in the 1980s, when I was an entertainment reporter, I was heartened to see that he was the “real deal”—charming, personable, and very present. My old hero hadn’t let me down! Paul struck me as incredibly grounded, and someone who really loved people. The same went for Linda, whom I’d had the chance to meet and interview years before. I asked Stella about the most valuable lesson her parents had taught her. She reflected for a moment, then said, matter-of-factly, “They taught me to be normal.”
The very next year, Stella was appointed creative head of the French label Chloé, controversially ousting the venerable Karl Lagerfeld. Anticipation was high as the press and invited guests filed in to her first show, in one of the regal gilt salons of the Opéra Garnier. As the room began to fill up, I spotted Paul and Linda McCartney in the front row, beside Ringo Starr and his wife, Barbara Bach. For an old Beatlemaniac like me, this was huge. Of course, cameras weren’t allowed anywhere near the luminaries, so I just prayed I would get lucky when I tried to grab them after the show. In the meantime, I rushed over to the bank of cameras assembled at the end of the runway and asked my cameraman, Pat Pidgeon, to at least get a long shot of the illustrious couples in their front-row seats.
The presentation was an unmitigated success, with Stella’s first Chloé collection the best that house had seen in years. When it was over, Pat and I made a mad dash backstage so we could record a few words with the happy designer. Stella was standing at the door of a crowded dressing room, her people attempting to stave off the scores of reporters. Pat and I pushed and shoved our way towards her, and miraculously, I caught her eye. She seemed overjoyed to see me, instantly remembering me as someone who had taken an interest in her before all this hoopla began. “Ah, it’s you!” she called out, playfully pointing her finger at me. “You were there from the beginning!” And she laughed. I told her how much I’d loved the show and congratulated her on a job well done. Then I began asking around for Paul, but I was told he had already made a quick getaway.
I was crestfallen that my hero had escaped me. After all, wouldn’t I—the devoted fan who had slept with a poster of the former Beatle over her bed for years—be the perfect one to score a quick sound bite from Big Daddy? Well, I had done my best, I began to tell myself. I would just have to accept that I had missed the most exciting person ever to grace the front row of a fashion show. Still, I was uneasy with defeat. Could we not at least try to discover if Paul and Linda were still in the building? Surely we would have nothing to lose by staking out another door—a less obvious exit—in hopes of catching him on his way out of the opera house. Pat agreed it was worth a try, so we explored a little and found an empty corridor that led to another rear exit. We had just started walking down this deserted hallway when we suddenly became aware of a bit of a kerfuffle. Half a dozen security types were escorting Paul and Linda down the corridor! They were walking briskly, so I fearlessly kicked into gear and called out to Pat to start rolling. Heart pounding, I ran over to the McCartneys and, mic in hand, attempted to engage them.
“You must be pretty proud of that girl of yours,” I said, hoping to heck they wouldn’t brush me aside.
To my unfathomable delight, they turned towards me, slowing their pace. My perseverance had paid off! Could it be that they recognized my face from our past interviews? Or perhaps they had seen the FT piece we did on Stella? There definitely seemed to be a hint of recognition. I will never forget their gorgeous, smiling faces and the dazzling light they generated. It was easy to see they were exhilarated by their daughter’s sudden success.
“Proud, proud, proud,” chirped Paul.
“And who do you suppose she gets all this talent from?” I fired back.
“Oh, no doubt. It’s her mum,” he said, turning lovingly to Linda. I was moved to see the incredible bond between those two.
Now, whenever I see Paul at one of Stella’s shows—when he was with the infamous Heather Mills, or more recently, with the chic Nancy Shevell—I think how much that whole family must miss the lovely Linda, who was such an amazing spirit. But happily, even though it took him a while to figure it out, Paul looks as though he’s finally found the right partner again. The man’s a true romantic, all right. I see it in him clearly because I am one as well. I, too, had been looking for the right kind of love again—something that I feared had eluded me. And my hope was eroding. Once again, I dug deep and made up my mind to keep faith. I believe in fate, and every so often, serendipity rears its fabulous head, reminding me why it’s imperative not to be afraid, and to never, ever give up.
In February 2007, I took a trip to St. John’s—my beloved old stomping grounds—with my friend Mary Symons. We heard that the celebrated Newfoundland singer/songwriter Ron Hynes was performing at a downtown club, and since we were both big fans of his, we made it our business to check him out. Ron seemed delighted to see me. He told me he was slated to perform in Toronto the following month, as part of a literary/music festival called the March Hare. The weekend event was taking place at Brass Tapps, a funky Newfoundlandthemed bar owned by David Michael, a musician I had known from my old days in St. John’s back in the 1970s. I made a mental note to get tickets to the festival.
The first Friday night of the March Hare, I dropped by Brass Tapps with my daughters, and had a fun time listening to readings and hearing some great music at the crowded, intimate club. It was wonderful to see some of my old acquaintances from that memorable time I spent on The Rock. I knew it would be just the kind of thing my friend Mary would love, so I planned to surprise her the next day by picking her up and taking her to the March Hare’s matinee. It would be a special treat, the kind of thing she would never do herself. In fact, as charming a place as Brass Tapps was, it wasn’t really on either of our radars. But being there that evening somehow made me feel at home again. It was cozy, unpretentious, and brought me right back to that beautiful culture I so loved.
The next day, I picked Mary up, having told her she was going on a surprise outing. She was puzzled when we pulled up in front of the little College Street bar. But the minute we got inside and heard that rollicking Newfoundland music, she was tickled to be there. We made our way towards the back of the room and found a couple of empty chairs squeezed in beside one of the tables. Shortly after we got settled, someone tapped me on my back. I turned around and saw a handsome guy with greying hair, sparkling blue eyes, a strong jaw, and irresistible dimples. He looked vaguely familiar.
“Jeanne, hi! It’s Barry Flatman. What are you doing here?” he asked.
I’d last seen Barry about ten years earlier, on a summer weekend on Martha’s Vineyard, at the bar mitzvah of the son of our mutual friends, Fred and Deenah Mollin. It was a sad time for both of us: Barry had just lost his beloved girlfriend to cancer, and although I was still with Denny, he was battling depression. Little did I know then that our marriage would come to an end a few months later.
“Well, I’m a big fan of anything to do with Newfoundland,” I explained. “You know, I used to live there! What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I love Newfoundland!” he told me. “I’ve been there a few times. Besides, the owner’s one of my closest pals.”
When the set ended, Barry and I got up to resume our chat near the bar. I had known Barry, a talented Canadian actor, since 1971, when we were both involved with Toronto’s Young People’s Theatre, a company that toured children’s productions throughout Ontario. Although we were with different groups under the YPT umbrella, I had seen Barry perform. He was a great improvisational talent— funny, irreverent, and quite amazing looking, with long red hair down to his shoulders and a wild red beard. I remember thinking then that he looked like a bona fide rock star. I actually had a mini crush on him. Barry went on to ha
ve a successful career in film and television, and I heard about him only in passing over the years. But here he was, obviously having remembered me, and he struck me as incredibly engaging and engaged. I felt something clicking and, without even knowing if he was single at this point, decided to take the plunge. “Great chatting with you,” I said as our conversation was wrapping up. And then I gave him my card. “Maybe we can get together for coffee sometime.” Yeesh! I could hardly believe my ears! Being this forward with a guy I had just met—or re-met—was not something I usually did. But strangely, it felt right. Barry promised to call. I looked forward to hearing from him.
A couple of months went by without a peep. I told Deenah that I had run into Barry and was hoping to hear from him again. “He must have a girlfriend,” I said. She assured me that he didn’t. But she told me he might be going through a tough time: Barry had been diagnosed with oral cancer the year before and had to have about 20 percent of his tongue removed. He had rehabilitated himself and learned to speak again, but he was trying to get back on the work track. I was amazed to learn all of this. I couldn’t begin to imagine the challenges this guy must have faced. “I’m going to try to get him to go out for lunch with us,” Deenah said. She sensed we might be right for each other too.
Another couple of months went by, but the timing never seemed to work. Apparently, Barry let Deenah know that he would love to get together with us, but now he was out of town, shooting a miniseries in western Canada. I was glad to hear he was working but decided that my interest in him wasn’t being reciprocated. I wrote him off and tried to keep my eyes open for more potential dating material.
By early fall, my loneliness was escalating. I still hadn’t met anyone remotely intriguing, and I was feeling a little sorry for myself. I was sitting at my computer one day when my phone rang. It was my friend Kate with a query. “Jeanne, do you know a guy named Barry Flatman?” In the name of friendship, sweet Kate had been on a sort of manhunt, asking who might be available and a suitable match for me. Apparently, her pal Liz Ramos, another old acquaintance, suggested her dear (and, thankfully, single) friend, Barry.
“Forget it. I know him, but he’s not interested. I gave him my card and he said he would call months ago, but he never did,” I told her.
Suddenly, Liz got on the phone. “Honestly, don’t judge the situation by that. He’s been crazy busy. He’s still not even in town. He’s in New York, rehearsing a show. I’m going there next week, and I’m going to suggest he call you.”
By now, I was feeling like quite the loser: These two gals actually sounded like they were going to coerce the old boy into contacting me!
“Please don’t bother. I really appreciate it, but he’s just not interested,” I protested. But Liz wouldn’t take no for an answer.
About a week later, she contacted me with the news. “Well, I saw Barry, and he said he had been meaning to contact you but was just too wrapped up getting his life back on track. He says he’s definitely going to call you when he comes back to town in November.”
I didn’t believe her for a minute but thanked her anyway. I certainly wasn’t holding my breath.
By the beginning of December, I was on some kind of streak. I had gone to a couple of early Christmas parties and had met a number of interesting men who were asking me out on dates. While I certainly hadn’t found Mr. Right, it was all good for the ego. On December 11, I was sitting at Il Posto restaurant in Yorkville with my mother, as well as my sister and my brother-in-law, who were in from L.A. It had been my mum’s birthday a couple of days before, and we were celebrating over lunch. My sister asked if I knew of anything fun she could do with my mother that week. I told her I had heard that the splashy Gershwin musical White Christmas was in town, and I would arrange to get her tickets for the following Friday. I got on the phone and ordered the tickets right then and there. As soon as I hung up, my phone rang. It was Deenah.
“Jeanne, are you still interested in Barry Flatman?” she asked coyly.
“Would you please just forget about him! Someone else already tried to set us up, and it’s just not happening!” I snapped impatiently.
“No, he is interested in you! Actually, Fred is in town, and Barry asked Fred about you! We’re all having dinner out tomorrow night. Want to come?”
I was happy to be able to tell her that I already had a date for the following evening. “Maybe some other time,” I said wistfully, secretly sad that the Barry Flatman fantasy might never come to fruition after all.
When I got home at the end of the day, Deenah called again to tell me that their plans had changed, and they were all going out to dinner that evening. “I know it’s last minute, but can you make it?” she asked.
Knowing that Deenah’s kids would be coming along, I asked Bekky if she would be up for dinner with the gang. She acquiesced, and I ran upstairs to get ready for this long-awaited rendezvous with the mysterious Mr. Flatman.
The atmosphere at Vittorio’s, a cozy family-run Italian eatery, was lively and inviting as Bekky and I made our way to the back of the restaurant where the Mollins were seated. As I approached the long wooden table, Barry got up and walked towards me, opened his arms, and immediately gave me a big bear hug. “Well, all these yentas are trying to get us together. Guess we’re going to have to do something about it!” He was laughing. I was taken aback and a tad embarrassed by all the plotting and scheming that had gone on. But at the same time, I was totally charmed by this guy’s candour and affability. We took our seats next to each other at the end of the table. Right off the bat, I told Barry I had heard he was rehearsing a show and asked which one. “It’s a big musical,” he said. “White Christmas.” I laughed out loud. Serendipity! I told him I had just booked tickets to that show for my mum that afternoon. Barry and I spent the rest of the dinner locked in conversation, oblivious to everyone else at the table. The electricity was unmistakable: It felt like coming home.
Two days later, we met for lunch at Allen’s on the Danforth and spent a solid four hours talking over chamomile tea and honey: kids, relationships, art, work, life, and death. I was enthralled by his passion and honesty, his strong family values, and the deep love he had for his many friends. We had both endured painful marriage breakups, learned to live with loss, and wore our scars like badges of honour. We were survivors. And as the afternoon rambled on, it was apparent we were on to something.
I spent the next few weeks revelling in this most romantic courtship. The first time he brought me flowers—three gargantuan bouquets of the most exquisitely fragrant lilies imaginable—he literally floored me. I sank to my knees, then playfully sprawled on my new hardwood kitchen floor, grinning from ear to ear, my arms filled with giant lilies, luxuriating in this new-found joy that had been so long in coming. I couldn’t wait to take Barry to the farm so he could experience that other important aspect of my life. We arrived there on a misty January weekend, just about a month into the relationship. We danced in the dining room, and I cried. It was as though I had conjured this guy up! I thanked God I had never given up on finding someone who not only got the music but also got me.
GETTING OVER IT
THE FASHION WORLD is filled with some of the most outlandish egos imaginable. After all, personal vision dictates creativity in this arena, and those with the biggest egos often are the ones who make the biggest mark. You have to have a strong sense of yourself to forge ahead, ignore all naysayers, and pursue a dream. And sometimes, as a matter of self-preservation, you do have to look out for yourself. But for the sake of progress, ego often has to be put on a back burner.
I can’t tell you how many temper tantrums I have seen over the assignment of a less-than-ideal seat at a fashion show—sometimes from some otherwise classy people. Often in these cases, the individual’s self-image has been challenged, his or her sense of entitlement crushed. Sometimes, it’s all very understandable. The fashion arena—and the world at large—can be a crazy-making place, with little respect and even less jus
tice. But I have learned that by sublimating ego, a lot of grief can often be spared.
One afternoon, I was preparing to leave my much-loved hair salon, Rapunzel, having just been coiffed by the fabulous Gregory Parvatan, who’d been my hairdresser since I first started working in television in 1979, more than thirty years ago. (There’s something to be said for loyalty!) I was feeling reasonably chic and ready to take on the world once again, now that my colour had been done and my hair blown dry by the master. One foot was out the door when Gregory rushed over and told me, slightly apprehensively, that there was someone in the salon who was dying to meet me.
“Oh, really?” I asked, flattered. “Who?”
Gregory hesitated for a moment, then blurted out, “Denny’s girlfriend!”
A bizarre mix of emotions swept over me: fear, excitement, fear, jealousy, fear, curiosity, fear, anger, fear. But mostly dread. Gregory had been Denny’s hairdresser for years too. I had heard that he’d sent his new girlfriend to see Gregory a while back, and I was a little incensed. After all, with all the great hairdressers in Toronto, why would she have to invade my inner sanctum? Gregory admitted that her visit had made him a little uncomfortable as well, since he and I were so very close. I asked if he would mind telling Denny that it made for an awkward situation, and he promised he would. Evidently, he didn’t.
So there I was, being asked if I would like to meet the gal who had been living with my ex-husband for the past year or so, a woman I had heard about in bits and pieces from my girls, but never once from Denny himself. Of course I was curious to see this young woman for myself, and to try to assess what it was that Denny was so attracted to these days. Perhaps I could gain a little insight into him in the process. But was I finally meeting this mystery woman right here, right now?