by Gill Paul
Maria kept her expression masklike, but the words stung. When her turn came, the lawyer tried to pin her down about the nature of her separation from Battista.
“Do you regard yourself as a single woman?” he asked.
Maria paused for a long time, glancing over to where Ari sat. He nodded almost imperceptibly.
She had gone ahead and renounced her American citizenship so was now officially divorced under Greek law, yet in Italy she was still bound by her marriage to Battista. “In Italy, no,” she replied. “Elsewhere, yes.”
The last two words were almost a whisper. It was excruciating to announce to the world that she had spent the last eight years with a man who now described her as nothing more than a friend. She and Ari knew the truth, of course, but it made her look a fool. And it gave a green light to any other women who decided to pursue him. She prayed that Lee Radziwill wouldn’t be following the story in the press—but was almost certain she would.
Chapter 52
Ireland
June 1967
When Jackie heard that Sissy, the wife of David Ormsby-Gore, had been killed in a car accident, she was determined to fly to the U.K. for the funeral. As British ambassador, David had been a close ally of Jack’s, and he had proven a good friend to her since Jack’s death. She decided she would take her children on a vacation to Ireland afterward: now aged nine and six respectively, Caroline and John were old enough to learn about their Irish heritage.
Their nanny and the usual retinue of Secret Service officers would have to accompany them. Rather than lessening as time went on, the public’s interest in her appeared only to intensify. Random strangers tried to start conversations in the street as she hurried along, head down, shielded by the largest sunglasses she could find. Some even reached out to touch her, which sparked such panic that she got chest pains and found it hard to breathe. Those were the moments she was grateful for John Walsh and the rest of the team, who would step in and ask the interloper to back off.
But when she was standing in Saks Fifth Avenue, trying to choose pantyhose or a new lipstick, she could see the officer of the day out of the corner of her eye and felt like a prisoner. They knew what she ate and drank, whom she met for coffee, how she spent her waking hours. It was like being spied on in a police state, and it acted as a constant reminder of all that had happened to her over the past four years. Her life would never be normal again.
Jackie would have liked to disappear from the spotlight entirely, but the Kennedys still insisted on wheeling her out at political rallies. Bobby had decided on a run for the presidency in 1968—a decision that left her paralyzed with fear.
“Are you sure about this?” she probed on one of their long walks. “The Kennedys have so many enemies. Why raise your head above the parapet to give them an easy target?”
“You can’t give in to these people. I want to carry on the work that Jack started, to fulfill his legacy. But I promise I’ll avoid open motorcades.”
She was filled with dread when he first asked her to appear onstage at a fund-raiser. She didn’t have to speak, he assured her, just show up to demonstrate that she approved of him running.
“Do it for Jack,” Bobby urged. “You know he would want you to.”
Yes, he would, Jackie agreed. He had often expressed the hope that Bobby would follow him to the White House. They had expected him to run in ’68—only after Jack had served two terms himself.
The other reason she felt she had to do as the Kennedys wished was unstated, but it hung over her like a raincloud. Since Jack’s death they had subsidized her with a monthly allowance to top up Jack’s government pension, which she could never have lived on. It meant she didn’t have to worry too much about money—at least, not as long as she remained one of the Kennedy clan.
SISSY’S FUNERAL TOOK place in a Catholic church in Oswestry, near the Welsh border. Jackie was grateful that Bobby accompanied her, but it was upsetting to be filmed and photographed by newsmen the moment she stepped off the plane. They even hid behind trees in the churchyard to capture her comforting David as his wife was lowered into the ground.
The trip to Ireland was much more private. They stayed with some old friends in County Waterford, in the midst of sweeping countryside that was perfect for horseback riding and close to a deserted sandy beach. Jackie had one official meeting, with President Eamonn de Valera, and a more personal visit to some Kennedy relatives in the little town of Dunganstown, but otherwise it was a proper vacation, characterized by plenty of fresh air and Irish hospitality.
Late one afternoon, while the children were picnicking with their nanny, Jackie slipped off for a solitary swim. About half a mile down the beach she had found a channel, with a headland on the other side. There and back was just the right distance for a proper swim that would leave her muscles aching pleasantly, and the views were spectacular. The fields that lined the cliffs were such an exaggerated emerald color, the sky so brilliantly blue, that it almost felt as if she were in a Technicolor movie.
She slid into the sea, leaving her towel on the shore, reckoning that the water must be between sixty and sixty-five degrees: refreshingly cool but not too cold. She swam out into the channel, slicing through the waves, then stopped halfway and flipped onto her back to float awhile and gaze up at the vast sky.
The ache of missing Jack was always there; he would have loved this beach and relished the moments of privacy. Unable to subdue his Kennedy competitiveness, he’d probably have struck out for the far side ahead of her, then turned to egg her on. A sense memory came to her of kissing him while treading water in the ocean off Hyannis Port: she recalled the saltiness, the touch of his lips, his sturdy body pressing against her. Would there ever be another man with whom she could share such pleasures?
She knew there was gossip in Washington about her closeness with Bobby. Perhaps Ethel had heard it, because she had been unusually curt at recent meetings, but in truth Jackie loved him as a brother. It would have felt incestuous to kiss him, although they often hugged and he was still the first person she turned to for advice or comfort.
She had dined with a few men in the years since Jack had died but none who could begin to fill his shoes. John Warnecke, who designed his headstone, had distracted her for a while. Ros Gilpatric, who was both glamorous and intellectual, had been flirting openly, and they were talking about taking a vacation together. David Ormsby-Gore took her for dinner whenever he was in New York, and so did Aristotle Onassis, who always brought gifts for her and the children. She had started calling him Telis, a contraction of his full Greek name of Aristotelis.
Now, there was an interesting situation. She had read in the newspapers that he and Maria Callas were no longer a couple, and Ari had confirmed it when she asked him. Lee never mentioned him anymore; it seemed their affair, which Ari had insisted was only a brief fling, was long finished. Jackie could sense that Ari would like his friendly relationship with her to become something deeper, but he never put any pressure on her.
Bobby would have a conniption if she started dating Ari. He had a deep-seated hatred for the man, which appeared to date back to his indictment over a shipping technicality in the 1950s, but she could never fathom why Bobby still held a grudge. Jack had thought him nothing worse than a rogue, but in Jackie’s opinion he had a keen mind, old-fashioned manners, and a generous nature. He’d bought her several exquisite pieces of jewelry for birthdays, and on the third anniversary of Jack’s death a diamond bracelet arrived that she particularly cherished. He also sent gifts for her children, which were both expensive and well chosen.
She liked that he was a good listener. So many men were just waiting for a pause in conversation so that they could butt in with their own opinions, but Ari paid attention and asked questions. The next time they’d meet, he’d remember what they’d been talking about before and ask how it was going. She liked that. Sometimes she found herself almost flirting with him.
A gust of wind ruffled the surface of th
e water, and Jackie suddenly realized that she was drifting out too far. She was going to miss the headland on the other side of the channel and risked getting pulled into the twelve-mile-long bay. She rolled onto her stomach and began to swim against the tide, straining for the opposite shore, but the water was choppy now and her arms soon tired. If she stopped swimming for a moment, the headland drifted farther away, but even her most determined crawl was not bringing it any closer.
A wave broke over her head and she coughed and spluttered, panic gripping her as saltwater burned her throat. Was she to die here, all on her own? On one hand, the idea had a certain appeal: at least she would be free; perhaps she could join Jack in heaven—if it existed. All she had to do was stop struggling, just let go. But she couldn’t leave the children, couldn’t let them become the eleventh and twelfth children of Bobby and Ethel.
Something Jack had told her came into her head: in riptides, you should swim parallel to the shore until the current weakens enough for you to head inland. She struck out again, trying to follow his advice, but the cold was beginning to penetrate her bones, making her shiver. Another wave crashed over her.
How stupid I am, she thought. How unutterably stupid! You should never swim alone in unfamiliar waters. Jack would have been furious. It was a rookie error and it looked as if it might be her last, because the coast was impossibly far off now.
Suddenly a head bobbed up in the water close by, startling her. It was John Walsh, one of her Secret Service officers.
“Lie on your back,” he ordered.
Drained of all strength, she obeyed. John placed one arm under her chin and began to swim with the other, his solid stroke soon making headway against the current.
Jackie lay back, looking up at the clouds, her heart hammering like a pneumatic drill. Only when they got closer to shore and the riptide lessened was she able to turn and swim shoulder to shoulder with him.
He helped her up onto the beach, then her legs gave way and she began to vomit in the sand.
It had been a close call, she knew; the second time in her life she had come within a hairsbreadth of dying.
Chapter 53
Paris
November 1967
Maria was in her salon, drinking coffee and reading the papers as the morning sun streamed through the tall windows, when Bruna came in, twisting her apron.
“Madame, you asked me to let you know if I heard that Mr. Onassis received any female visitors.”
“Yes?” Bruna was close to Eleni, the housekeeper at Ari’s Avenue Foch apartment, and sometimes got information from her.
“Eleni says Mrs. Kennedy dined there last night.” She bit her lip as if there was more she wanted to say.
“Are you sure it was Mrs. Kennedy?” Maria was instantly alert. “Not Princess Radziwill? They have a similar look.”
“Eleni said it was definitely Mrs. Kennedy. She heard him call her Jacqueline.”
She frowned. “Who else was present?”
“No one. Just the two of them.”
That was very odd. She’d have thought Jackie would be too concerned about her reputation to dine alone with a man in his apartment. Maria hadn’t realized they had gotten so friendly. Could it have something to do with Lee? Some message she was passing on? She was determined to find out, so, when Ari came for dinner, she kept her voice deliberately casual as she asked, “I hear Mrs. Kennedy is in Paris. Have you seen her?”
Ari didn’t miss a beat. “No, I didn’t know she was here.”
There was a sinking feeling in her gut. “Why would you lie to me, Ari? I know she dined with you last night.”
He was startled, and Maria could tell he was about to lie again but thought better of it. “If I was less than honest, it’s only because of your ridiculous jealousy. I can’t tell you when I see women friends in case crockery gets smashed.”
“That’s because I don’t believe friendship between the sexes is possible. There’s always one party who wants it to become something more—unless, of course, they are homosexual.”
“What a cynic you are!” he replied. “I hate to disappoint you, but Mrs. Kennedy and I talk about philosophy and religion. She seems to find my company restful and sometimes she confides in me. At the moment she is weary of the pressure the Kennedy family put on her to promote Bobby’s career.”
It sounded plausible, but Maria didn’t trust him. This was a man who collected celebrity notches on his bedpost. She had more faith in Mrs. Kennedy. Surely she had too much class to sleep with someone who had a long-term partner, a man who had slept with her sister.
“What do you know about friendship?” she sniped. “Last time I looked, you had fallen out with all of yours.”
The High Court had found in their favor in the case against Vergottis, and he’d been ordered to pay staggering legal costs, which looked likely to bankrupt him. Ari had no remorse: it was the price of crossing him, he said. He’d also fallen out with Prince Rainier and had sold his shares in the Société des Bains de Mer, so she would never sing at the opera house there.
“That’s not true. I would never fall out with Costa,” he countered.
“Yes, but only because you can’t afford to; he knows where the bodies are buried.”
Ari laughed, knowing the truth of it.
“And I hope I will never fall out with you either.”
“You’d better not!” she warned. “I also could locate plenty of skeletons.”
ARI WAS IN a playful mood that autumn, probably because business was going well: he had lots of new schemes under his hat, which he boasted to her about. There had been a military coup in Greece and he was talking to the colonels in charge of the government about a massive project to build an oil refinery and an aluminum smelter outside of Athens. Project Omega, he called it. He’d made investments in South American gold and oil, in Manhattan property, in Persian chemicals, in tourism—Maria lost count of all the countries he had business interests in. The Onassis empire seemed to expand every time he drew breath, and she was proud of his success.
They went dancing one night that November, at Chez Régine, a fashionable nightclub in the Latin Quarter. They both drank too much and danced cheek to cheek to the latest hits: Gene Pitney’s “Something’s Gotten Hold of my Heart” and Frank Sinatra’s “Somethin’ Stupid.”
As they were leaving the club at two in the morning, both of them giggling and unsteady on their feet, there was the usual clutch of photographers outside, snapping away.
“Any truth in the rumors you two are getting married soon?” one called.
Maria turned to Ari, letting him answer.
“You’re too late,” he replied. “We got married fifteen days ago. It was a wonderful thing.”
The questions came thick and fast then, the camera shutters clicking like crazy.
Ari’s driver pulled up and they climbed into the backseat without further comment.
“They’ll be rushing off to search the marriage registers,” he said, smirking. “That will keep them busy.”
Maria wasn’t sure of how she felt about his flippant comment. To her, it was no laughing matter, but she played along. “Perhaps you should buy me a ring to confuse them further.”
“Perhaps I will,” he said, sliding his hand beneath her dress.
AFTER A DAMP and freezing winter in Paris, Maria and Ari flew to the Caribbean to board the Christina for a two-month cruise. They’d both had lingering colds, but, descending the steps of the plane into the vibrant color and warmth of Port of Spain, she felt instantly healthier. Milky turquoise water, pale gold sand, and skies full of birdsong: she breathed in the tropical scents.
The plan was to sail up through the Windward Islands to Haiti, where Ari had some business to attend to, then on to Jamaica. Maria planned to shed some weight and to work on her voice. She’d brought a tape recorder and would record herself, then adjust her delivery till she achieved a sound she was happy with.
She also planned to encourage Ari t
o cut back on the cigars and booze but knew it would have to be done with subtlety; he didn’t take orders gladly. Healthful food, swimming, and sun on their skin would do them both a world of good.
Less than a couple of weeks into the cruise, Ari got word that a rival Greek shipping millionaire, Stavros Niarchos, had presented the colonels running the country with a counterproposal to Project Omega, and his face went purple with rage. For a moment Maria feared apoplexy.
“How did you find out?” she asked.
“I have spies in Niarchos’s household. He can’t sneeze without me hearing about it.”
“Does he know about Project Omega? Maybe the government is trying to push up the level of your investment by bringing in competition.”
Ari was concentrating. “I’m not sure. His bid concerns bringing oil from the Middle East, mine from Russia. They’re not the same, but I have financial backers while he is putting up his own money. So if he fails, he could go bust.”
Maria could almost hear the cogs whirring in his brain. “Are you planning to sabotage his bid?”
“I need to fly to New York,” he said, then caught her disappointed expression. “Don’t worry—I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone.”
“Do you want me to come?” she asked, and was relieved when he said no. She was enjoying the Caribbean weather too much to exchange it for the snowstorm she’d read was hitting the Eastern Seaboard.
IT WAS ONLY after Ari left that Maria began to worry. In their last conversation about her “jealousy,” he had promised to tell her the truth whenever he dined with other women, in return for which she promised she would not throw a fit, but the agreement had yet to be tested.
After he returned, she waited a few hours before asking, in a casual tone, “Did you see Lee in New York?”
“No, but I gave Jacqueline and her children a lift to Palm Beach on my jet,” he replied. “You’ve got no idea how badly she is pestered if she takes a commercial flight. People approach her for autographs and photograph the children. She was grateful for my help.”