Pretty Mess

by Erika Jayne

  Slowly, we started acquiring furniture—some chairs here, a bookcase there—but nothing that would blow your socks off. It was really just subsistence furniture.

  We carried on with this arrangement for a few months. I was still working at Chasen’s, but one night Tom said, “I think you should quit waitressing there.” I agreed.

  None of the other staff knew that we were dating or that I was living with Tom, so it was a surprise when I gave notice. On my last night working there, everyone was asking what my next job was going to be.

  “Eh, nothing,” I told them.

  “Really?” my coworkers asked, confused.

  Randy knew what was going on the whole time because we were close friends and he was happy for both of us. “Erika, this is great. He really loves you, and you deserve this. You guys are cute together,” he said. To get the approval of someone who knew both of us so well was very sweet.

  My last night at Chasen’s, I took off that stretch velvet green gown for the last time. I had been wearing it for more than a year, and it was starting to fray along the seams. I folded it up very neatly into a perfect little square (you never forget your retail skills).

  I walked over to one of those industrial-sized gray rubber trash cans by the bar. I laid that green dress on top of the trash and added my pumps. It was a little funeral shrine.

  Closing the lid, I walked out of that restaurant and into a whole new life.

  9

  GIVING THE LAYMAN’S OPINION

  Tom and I took our relationship public. Out at the country club or some other event, I would see some of the people I used to wait on at Chasen’s. It was just like, “Hey, remember me?” I always knew who was a cheap tipper, who was having an affair, who acted like an asshole, and who was actually a really cool person. But now, I was meeting these people as an equal rather than as a member of the staff. It was hilarious that I went from being the cocktail waitress in a gown to being a cocktail party guest in a much nicer gown. I was still asking the same people, “Hey, how’s it going, man? How are you?” I’m sure some of them were scared, because they knew exactly what I’d seen them up to.

  At first, I didn’t always get a warm reception. I’m Tom’s third wife, and he is a very successful, well-known attorney. People were seeing this twenty-seven-year-old walk in with him. Immediately, everybody thought I was going to have a baby so I could lock down some of his money. They didn’t know that I already had a child to take care of and was focused on doing what was right for him. His future was most important to me, not having another child.

  When I was first on the scene, plenty of the other wives weren’t especially friendly. We were socializing with lawyers and Tom’s other acquaintances, so many of them knew Tom’s previous wives. They weren’t hostile to my face, but I would overhear, “Oh, why is she wearing that?” or, “Why is her hair cut like that?” or, “What is her motive?” Quite honestly, I think they were looking at me like, “Holy shit, am I next to be replaced?”

  There were a couple of really nice, powerful, wealthy older women who befriended me. It was the wealthiest women who were the nicest. Some of them were second or third wives like me, and they had been in the same position before. The great part about having older women friends is that they’ve been through every part of marriage: they’ve been sick, healthy, broke, and wealthy. They’ve disciplined bad kids and dealt with mistresses. You name it, they’ve done it.

  I was visiting with one of these women recently. She’s very wealthy and well known. She said, “You’re still the same twenty-seven-year-old little girl I met many years ago. You’ve never changed. You’ve always been this way, and I’m very proud of you.” At hearing that compliment, I almost started to tear up at the table.

  This woman is famous in Los Angeles for wearing millions of dollars in jewelry at all times, as many of the women I was socializing with did. Early on in our relationship, I went to Tiffany and bought myself a small silver chain with a heart on it. It wasn’t expensive. When Tom saw me wearing it, he got upset. “You don’t buy jewelry for yourself, that’s my privilege. I get to do that,” he told me.

  “Tom, it wasn’t very expensive. It’s no big deal,” I told him.

  “That’s what I like to do. I want to buy your jewelry, I don’t care that it’s small,” he said. I always felt that was cool of him. He’s bought me a ton of beautiful stuff, which I really love. Now I wear as much as I can on The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and in the cast photos. I try to sneak in everything as a reminder of our time together.

  About six months after I “temporarily” moved into Tom’s house in Pasadena, I got my most significant piece of jewelry. He took me out onto one of the balconies overlooking the lush backyard, got down on one knee, and asked me to marry him. He presented me with a beautiful diamond engagement ring. Of course I said yes.

  After our engagement, Tom said, “Listen, I’ll buy you anything you want. I don’t care what it is. You name it. But I’m not wearing a wedding band. I never have, I never will. I don’t like it. It’s uncomfortable. Please don’t ask me to.”

  I agreed to his request. Listen, a wedding ring does not have magical powers. It is not going to stop anyone from doing something. Whoever thinks his or her spouse is going to magically look down at their hand and all of a sudden not make a bad decision is a fool. I don’t care if Tom doesn’t wear a wedding ring. He doesn’t mind if I don’t wear mine on occasion, either (though some people who watch the show make a big deal about it every time they spot me without it).

  Neither of us ever even thought to get a prenup. It never came up. Let’s be serious, Mr. Girardi knows the law so well that a prenup is not going to do shit. As any lawyer will tell you, there is always a way around a prenup, even if you think it is ironclad. Tom was going to protect himself no matter what, and what did I need to protect? The little red convertible and trash bags full of clothes I rolled up with? At the time, neither of us really thought we’d ever need one.

  We were married six months later, in January. Since it wasn’t a first marriage for either of us, we didn’t want to make the ceremony into a big ordeal. One day, I was at home and Tom called and said, “Judge Flynn can marry us today.” Judge Paul Flynn, who became famous for presiding over Snoop Dogg’s 1995 murder trial, is a good friend of Tom’s. He agreed to officiate.

  I went down to the Gucci store and told Esther, the salesgirl I bought from all the time, I was going to get married later that afternoon. We picked out a long, silvery satin dress that was quite pretty. Tom picked me up and we went over to the LA Country Club. Judge Flynn came off the golf course and put his robe on over his golf clothes to marry us in a small reading room in the clubhouse.

  Tom’s best friend, Robert Baker, who defended OJ Simpson in his civil trial, was there with us to serve as a witness. Judge Flynn said to us, “I think you need two witnesses for a marriage.”

  “Hold on one minute,” Tom said. He went into the bar looking for someone who could be our other witness. He saw Wayne Bohle, a fellow lawyer, and said, “Hey, Wayne. Erika and I are getting married. Can you come over here and be our second witness?” This was the first time I had ever met Wayne, but he sure did us a solid. Without him, Tom and I would still be living in sin.

  After the brief ceremony, Tom and I got into our car. We drove over to the airplane, then flew to Vegas to have dinner that night at our favorite place. It would be just the two of us at Michael’s Gourmet Room, at the now-demolished Barbary Coast Hotel. I called my grandmother from the car and told her we had gotten married. She was excited because she knew how much I loved Tom.

  My grandmother especially loved Tom. When she would come to visit, she and Tom would get in his convertible and go grocery shopping at Bristol Farms. He would put one thing in the cart, and she’d take it out. “Uh-uh, you already have one of those at home,” she would say.

  Had she been in the cupboards taking inventory all day? How did she know what we had? Finally, I had to tell he
r to let him do his shopping his own way. “Gramby,” I said. “This is his house, and he’s spending his money. If he wants to buy a million cans of asparagus, just let him.”

  “But I know he already has two at the house,” she’d insist.

  That was my grandmother, defiant and controlling to the very end, even with Tom. They always got along, though. He found it endearing that she was so concerned about his lack of thriftiness.

  Immediately, I started living Tom’s life. It was a great legal education. I sat in so many meetings, dinners, and talks with the very best legal minds. I went to the U.S. Supreme Court to watch a session. A friend of ours, who was attorney general for the state of California at the time, was arguing a case. Between the huge curtains in the court and the nine justices sitting in that great room, it was truly impressive.

  Tom has always been very involved in politics. We would go to the Senate to meet people and talk to them on an intimate level. This was not the kind of meet and greet where you shake a politician’s hand and get a picture with him. (Yes, it’s almost always a him.) No, we would have dinner with the mayor and his wife, and we’d listen to what he thinks about the city’s homeless problem. We would have drinks with a U.S. senator, and she’d confide in us the problems the senators were having with the current administration. These were some great experiences.

  It was a very busy and rewarding life for us. We’d be out most nights after work, socializing and attending events until around midnight. We’d drive home together and listen to murder mysteries from the thirties and forties on the radio. They were these old radio plays. We’d ride silently in the car, holding hands, trying to figure out who the killer or thief was. That was always one of my favorite rituals. I was so sad when they took those off the air.

  Aside from being Tom’s legal sounding board and voice of the layperson at dinners, I served other important functions, too. At a business dinner with another couple, I would entertain the wife while Tom was trying to settle a case. I’ve had to do a lot of that. Since Tom does so much business in social settings, my job as his wife is to help him close the deal. I have to be charming to everyone, even when sometimes I’d rather be at home watching Oprah’s SuperSoul Sunday.

  I’m also in charge of making sure that Tom’s suits are laid out. His things are hung up in the closet all paired out—each suit with a matching shirt and tie, as well as belts, socks, and shoes. I’m in charge of making sure that he has everything that he needs. That he has his particular toothpaste and his particular cologne.

  I enjoy being able to do that for him. I think that it shows that I care and want him to have fewer things to worry about. Getting him ready shows that I took the time to think of him. He’s not going to do it for himself, so if he walks out of the house looking crazy, that makes us both look bad. I try to make sure he always looks like a million bucks.

  If something blows up around the house, do not ask Tom to fix it. Don’t ask him to wash the clothes, put away the dishes, or hang up his laundry. I take care of as much of that as I possibly can. But if you want to know anything about the law or how the legal system works, he is a treasury of knowledge. He knows everything that there is to know on the subject. I can handle the rest, or else hire someone who can.

  Now that I’m busier with my own career, Tom helps me out as well. He will bring home dinner when he knows I haven’t eaten. If he’s having a dinner meeting, he’ll call me and say, “Hey, I’m at Morton’s tonight. I know you’re in the studio. Would you like me to bring you home a steak?”

  That’s what being a partner is about. It’s not just about smooches or trying to look all cute and romantic in selfies. It’s the most mundane things that help your other half get out there and be the best that he or she can be. Period.

  I feel like women have these unrealistic expectations in marriage. As if somehow or another, Prince Charming is going to ride up on a white horse, pay all her bills, listen to all her business, and want to hang out with her and her friends. I’ve got news for you, honey. They don’t want that. They want your support just as much as you want theirs.

  It’s not all sunshine and unicorns in the Girardi household. Like any couple, we can really get on each other’s nerves. He can be a brat, and I can be an even bigger brat. He hates it when I talk over him, or when he hasn’t completely finished saying something and I’m like, “But wait a minute, what about this, this, and this?” I get impatient with him because he can be very long winded. He thinks I’m being bratty and pushy.

  He’ll respond, “If you’d let me finish, I’ll answer all those questions, Erika.” Sometimes I feel like he’s trying to lecture me, but he always ends up giving good advice or good information. It’s usually something I would have missed. Tom wants me to say everything I want to say, he just wants me to deliver it with a softer touch and to wait my turn. He wants everyone to play by the rules, like we’re in a courtroom.

  There’s one thing that Tom has been doing for our entire relationship that drives me insane. It will keep happening as long as we’re together. He’ll say, “Hey, we have to go to this thing on Friday.”

  “Okay. What thing?” I’ll ask.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s like this lawyer thing.”

  “Well, where is it?”

  “I don’t know, it’s on the website.”

  “Well, is it in a house? A restaurant? A theater? A palace?”

  “Um, I think it’s like a cocktail party.”

  We get there, and it’s a formal dinner at someone’s house. I’m dressed like we’re going to a cocktail party. Again.

  Tom says every event is “no big deal.” When we get there, it’s an intimate sit-down dinner with three heads of state, the pope, and Barbra Streisand. Tom can’t describe it in such a way that I can prepare. For the record, my example is fictional—I have never been to dinner with the pope. I have been to dinner with Barbra Streisand. It was at a Clinton fund-raiser where we sat at a table of six and talked about her performances.

  No matter what the occasion, Tom always says, “Just put on some lip gloss and fluff up your hair.” Seriously?

  I’ll say to him, “You do want me to show up looking beautiful, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you realize that that takes time?”

  “Well, what does it take? Like forty-five minutes?”

  “No, sweetheart. It takes three days.”

  While we can get on each other’s nerves a little, we rarely have giant arguments. One of the best things Tom ever did for me was to keep me from fighting dirty. I think I learned from my mother some ways of talking to people that can be very damaging. For example, how to cut someone deeply with words. I did a lot of that in my first marriage. It always made things worse and I regret it.

  The first time I ever tried that with Tom, he put a stop to it very quickly. “You don’t talk like that,” he told me. Notice it wasn’t, “You don’t talk to me like that.” He was telling me that I mustn’t say awful things to anyone, especially the people I love, no matter how justified I feel in the moment. When words leave your mouth, they’re irretrievable. There is no argument for which winning justifies collateral damage. I’ve learned not to lash out and call names, but to explain why I’m angry or upset. Tom doesn’t like screaming in our house. That’s not the way to get his attention anyway. As soon as I would raise my voice, I’d already lost him.

  Over time, Tom’s family and my own began to meld. I even started spending holidays with him and his children from his previous marriage, and his grandchildren. What was so strange to me was that it was actually enjoyable. There were no fights breaking out, nobody was mad at someone else.

  After one Thanksgiving, I called home. I said, “You know what, Renee? I was with Tom’s family today, and they all get along. There wasn’t any drama. What’s wrong with our country-ass family? I didn’t hear even once, ‘Well, look at her fat ass. I never liked her. I didn’t want to eat her ambrosia salad anyway.’ �
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  What was most important to me is that Tom treated my son very well. He made it possible for me to give him the best of everything. After Tom and I were married and I had my West Coast life figured out, my son was six. He decided that he would rather stay in Manhattan and finish school while living with his father. Even though his school was back east, I was at every teacher conference, school play, graduation, and any other event I thought I should attend.

  I was always actively involved in my son’s upbringing and education, especially when he was in elementary school. I would fly back to New York every seven to ten days. I was on a first-name basis with the American Airlines flight attendants. They would all tell me to say hi to my son for them.

  One of my favorite memories is from when my son was in elementary school, maybe fifth or sixth grade. The Yankees were in the World Series. Tom and I woke up in LA, flew to Oklahoma, Tom argued a case, we got back on our plane, flew to New York, picked up my son, took him to the Bronx, saw the Yankees win, took him back home, kissed him good-bye, told him I’d be back in a week, got on our plane, and came home to fall asleep in our own bed. We did all that in one day.

  Whenever we would go to New York, we’d drag my son to every musical in town. Tom and I both love the theater. One Christmas vacation, we went on safari in Africa. We celebrated New Year’s Eve by having relay races with my son on the Serengeti Plain. The guide had to drive his truck around the area first to make sure there were no lions around. Later, we hired a tutor and took him out of school for two weeks so he could travel in Europe with us. We’d take this kid everywhere we possibly could. The poor guy has been to more lawyer events than I could wish on anyone.

  Tom and my son always had a special bond. Their birthdays are three days apart. Since they’re both Geminis, it’s like each is the twin the other was promised. When my son was six or seven, we would meet Tom for dinner. Tom drove there separately in his convertible Aston Martin. One time after dinner, I visited the ladies’ room, and when I came back, the table was empty. They had decided to play a prank on me by leaving together in Tom’s car. I would have been upset if it wasn’t so adorable.