Both of Us Read online

  “Gee, that one looks good, Barbra.”

  “Kill it.”

  “But I like—”

  “Kill it!”

  “Barbra, it’s hard to achieve the perfect shot, and I look good in that one!”

  “Nope, nope,” she’d say, flicking one discarded photo after another onto the floor.

  She’s never satisfied with how she looks. But that’s not unusual in Hollywood. Some of the biggest stars carry the most burdensome insecurities. One of the few people I know who is consistently self-confident is Ron Reagan, now Governor Ronald Reagan, who’s announced his candidacy for president. He’s likable. He’s an effective governor under difficult circumstances, but I don’t think he’s president material. He has the actor’s gift of making a speech and he looks the part, but the economy is still shaky and the cold war is in a deep freeze. Washington is a hell of a lot bigger than Sacramento, and I’m not sure what’s inside that brown suit. I worked with Nancy way back, 1959, in a General Electric Theater production. She played my mother. He was always on the set supporting her. Today, years later, thinking about them reminds me of what Farrah and I had.

  Farrah and Barbra will meet at the house of my agent, Sue Mengers. Sue is a powerhouse, represents Barbra and many other luminaries of the time: Burt Reynolds, Cher, Joan Collins, Michael Caine, Sidney Lumet, my former director and former friend Peter Bogdanovich, Herb Ross. Sue is married to director Jean-Claude Tramont; Barbra was the maid of honor at their wedding. There’s a party every weekend at Sue’s house, always with a wonderful cast. Sue makes an effort to ensure that everyone’s at ease. Her Bel Air home is lavish, reminiscent of Hollywood’s golden era, and invitations to her soirees are coveted. In the movie business, films are packaged and Sue is a wizard at the game. She’s the one who gets the producer to buy the script that’s written for her actor client, who only works with a director who’s another client of hers, or some such tangled maneuvering. I bring Farrah to one of these parties. Gore Vidal is there, and he and Farrah talk about the movie based on his novel Myra Breckinridge, which she was in with Raquel Welch, the only woman I can think of whom Farrah ever had a problem with. (Once, at an event, Raquel complimented Farrah on her beautiful white teeth, then added demurely, “Of course all the ones in the back are yellow.”) Rod Steiger, who always seems to be doing an imitation of himself, is there; so too are Tony Perkins; Neil “Doc” Simon and his wife, Marsha Mason; Jack Lemmon, who, as usual, plays the piano without being encouraged; Walter and Carol Matthau. Some years back, Walter had made the film version of Hello, Dolly! with Streisand. They didn’t get along. Walter was famously quoted in an interview, “She has no more talent than a butterfly’s fart,” a comment neither chivalrous nor accurate. It’s a star-bright evening. Maybe it’s best that Barbra isn’t there. Jack Nicholson arrives late after the Lakers game. We talk politics with Warren Beatty, Gene Hackman, Blake Edwards and his new mate, Julie Andrews. My instincts are liberal, like most of the people I know, maybe because we can afford to be. But we have problems here that no one wants to be honest about. Southern California is not the paradise it was only a dozen years ago. You can’t see the mountains most days for the smog, and the 405 threatens to become a parking lot rather than a freeway. A guy I know told me about the Central Valley farms and the Mexican migrants who used to be seasonal. Now they don’t go home after the harvest. Who can blame them?

  I remember another gathering at Sue’s, which would happen later, after Farrah and I have been long together. I’m agitated that night because Mickey Rourke is monopolizing Farrah. He isn’t coming on to her, just keeping her to himself. I’m actually jealous. Farrah notices, leaves Rourke, grabs my arm, and says, “Come with me.” She marches me up the stairs to a bathroom and, without bothering to even lock the door, straddles me on the toilet and makes love to me. “Feel better now?” she says. I certainly did.

  When Sue asks to manage Farrah, she whispers to me, “She’ll be as big as Streisand.” Barbra sees the future in a different way. When she meets Farrah at another of Sue’s gatherings, her casual comment about our relationship is “I give it three weeks.”

  But now, at the beginning, the night of the Lazar party, I wonder: What’s with this Texas girl, this poster beauty with a wonderful tenderness who doesn’t seem affected at all by the tumult of pop stardom? We hesitate, then finally kiss for the first time. She is a great kisser. She has such sweet breath. I knew by the way she was kissing me that she had made up her mind.

  JOURNAL ENTRY, OCTOBER 9, 1979

  I’m still in a state of tranquility. Could this be love? I mustn’t do anything to harm it. My little family needs someone of grace and goodness. Farrah and I talked and kissed till past 3 a.m. (no real lovemaking yet). She said that since the moment Lee left for Canada she’s been desperate to see me. I was stunned. This woman has kept herself in check for many years. We give each other strength and hope. Being fair to Lee is not the least of our problems. When I am sure, I’ll tell him. Tate will be both puzzled and thrilled. She’s never really found a girl she could turn to, confide in, be a sister.

  Reflecting, I remember the insecurity that would take hold of me while waiting for her phone calls, worrying I wouldn’t be able to hold on to this extraordinary creature. She once told me, with a wink and a smile, that she was maybe the most recognizable person in the world, and I said, “What about Muhammad Ali?” She answered, “Well, okay, the most recognizable Texas girl in the world,” and we both laughed because it was true. Imagine the pressure of loving someone whom millions of men fantasize about and desire? Imagine trying to be that woman and having to live up to your own poster. They would be obstacles we’d both struggle dearly with. But I don’t know any of that now.

  JOURNAL ENTRY, OCTOBER 10, 1979

  This is the part I hate most. The waiting. All right, she called and Lee had been on the phone with her from Canada for that long hour. She’s concerned about him, trying to be decent. I admire her more and more. Now I’ll dress nicely and go to see her. She’s sad about her situation. And while I occasionally feel a wave of guilt, I keep telling her she is in fact a happy woman and she should act like it. No tears. I can make something out of her and she me. A kind and generous Catholic girl with morals and clear thinking. I’ll disrupt that but only in part. I quite like it in her.

  Two nights later, we see Ry Cooder. I take her home and we make love for the first time. She has her period and she’s shy because she thinks it might offend me. I tell her that I’ve never been as excited.

  JOURNAL ENTRY, OCTOBER 11, 1979

  Tonight I’ll take her to dinner, tomorrow the fights, Friday J. J. Cale and Saturday the beach, followed by a Dave Mason concert. Dave called today and asked me to come. I wonder if she’s up to such a full schedule. She’s an exciting lover, at once innocent and uninhibited. There is no one in my life to compare her to.

  Went to my jeweler today and found the most beautiful garnet ring. It turns out to be her birthstone. Maybe I’m crazy for such impulsive actions but this feeling is so rare and delicate that I tend to be excessive, at least a little bit. Besides her natural allure, there’s a dignity that is bewitching and disarming. She smiles with aplomb. I’m a lucky guy.

  Lee is not happy. He has a right to be sore. Farrah telephones and says he’s been talking to her from Montreal and that he’s clearly upset she went to a party with me. He doesn’t deny telling me to call Farrah. He just didn’t think I’d go out with her. Later he relents and admits that he did suggest I take her out but that he didn’t think I’d actually do it. Who wouldn’t go out with her? I feel like flying with her to the moon, to borrow a lyric patented by Sinatra. All this turmoil makes her sad and slightly hopeless. I’m ready to call him myself. She wants to wait for a decent and delicate way to confirm that the marriage is over, but I doubt that’s possible. That part of her life has become disheartening. When she’s with me, she’s a different person, happy and full of cheer.

  As the days become we
eks, my relationship with Farrah deepens. I’m like a schoolboy, calling her every day, telling her how desperately I love her. I’m forever bringing my darlin’ flowers, surprising her with little presents, spending long, lazy nights making love. This earth-daughter has touched me like no other woman before her. Our blissful romantic bubble will be punctured by reality soon enough, but for now, I’m luxuriating in every minute of this feeling.

  I’m not the only one who’s been struck with Farrah fever. My sons Griffin, fourteen, and Patrick, twelve, adore her too. Griffin is Tatum’s younger brother from my first marriage, to Joanna Moore, and Patrick is from my second marriage, to Leigh Taylor-Young, both actresses. I get the boys every weekend. Patrick is serious and respectful. With Grif, you never feel that one day he’ll be a model citizen. He is already defying authority at every juncture, whether in school, on the playground, or with me. He has an angry wall around him that seems to become more impregnable every year.

  I have a sauna at the beach house, and Farrah loves to take saunas. The boys start hiding under the bench in the hopes of getting a quick peek, but she’s always running so late that by the time she finally gets into the sauna, they’ve been poached and have to be pulled out and doused with cold water. Farrah is always patient with them and kind. I’m especially pleased for Griffin, who can use all the attention and affection he can get. His and Tatum’s mother, actress Joanna Moore, has battled addiction and depression all her life, and it’s damaged the children.

  I know it’s only a matter of time before I’ll have to face what I call the third-date conversation, which I’ve managed to avoid until now. You know what I’m talking about: that meaningful exchange every woman who’s starting to fall for a man inevitably initiates, in which she wants to know more about his exes and his children. Not my favorite subject, but at least I’m ready for it when Farrah finally asks. We’re curled up on the couch watching reruns of Peyton Place, and she shyly admits that she was a fan of the series and used to have a crush on me. I admit not so shyly that I saw a few episodes of Charlie’s Angels and entertained a thought or two of my own about her. “Tell me,” she says. I do and she actually blushes.

  As we’re confessing to our mutual attractions, there’s a scene with Leigh Taylor-Young on Peyton Place. Farrah is watching in earnest, then turns to me and says, “How long did you know her before you were married?” I tell her it was only a few months. “Why so fast?” she asks. I decide to skip the details and get to the heart of the matter. “Because she was pregnant and I was still a good Irish Catholic boy under the sway of his parents’ morality.” Farrah looks perplexed, then says, “But isn’t that the same thing that happened with Joanna Moore?”

  “Pretty much,” I respond. “I felt responsible and I was too young to know any better. The difference with Joanna is that I wasn’t married to anybody else when we got together.”

  “Do you mean you were still married to Joanna when you started to see Leigh?” she says.

  “Technically, but the marriage was already over.” I’m trying to be honest here without incriminating myself.

  “Did you love them?” she says.

  “I did love Leigh and I tried to convince myself I loved Joanna.”

  Fortunately, Farrah’s best instincts kick in.

  “That must have been really hard for you,” she replies. “Knowing about your marriages makes me feel better about what happened with Lee, and now I get why you’ve been so understanding about him.” I say to myself, That was easy. Then, as if on cue, she says, “But what about the children? It must have been tough on them.” I take a deep breath and explain. “Patrick’s fine, and I think will stay that way. It’s been much more difficult for Tatum and Griffin, but now that she’s with me full-time and Grif is here on weekends, I know they’re going to be okay. And professionally, Tatum is already on her way and Griffin may be even more talented, so both could have big careers.” Farrah doesn’t press me, but I sense concern and a certain knowledge that we’re going to have this conversation again. But in that moment, I really did feel confident about my children’s futures, especially now that Farrah had entered our lives. In all honesty, it did occur to me that there could be problems, but I swatted them away like gnats, not wanting to spoil the moment. Entire relationships are built on moments like these and I didn’t want to waste this one. Farrah takes my hand and holds it to her cheek. Then she says, “I’m here to help you. I’ve never been a mother. You may have to guide me.”

  I tell myself this is a wonderful woman. Now my children and I can have both ends of the rainbow.

  Though Farrah and I don’t flaunt our affection for each other in public, and by now Lee, who’s still in Canada, has acknowledged our union, we both know that soon the tabloids will start commenting, and we’re lucky it’s Liz Smith, the doyenne of New York celebrity gossip, who first reports on us in her column in New York’s Daily News. She calls it “a very real love affair,” and the item is tastefully written. I bet Sue Mengers fed it to her. That’s Sue, always working an angle. She probably figures the publicity will increase our price. The papers continue to follow us but the coverage is rarely hostile; in fact, the reporters keep referring to us as “handsome together,” and they repeatedly hint at a love affair, which it certainly is. The only real rough spot is a piece in People magazine that suggests what Farrah and I share together is tawdry and inappropriate, but we get through it. While part of me is bursting with pride that this fair-haired goddess actually loves me, another part feels bad about all the publicity because it’s humiliating for Lee. Though I want nothing more than for each of us to be open about this love life of ours, and not let the world learn about it through the tabloids, it would be heartless for Farrah and me to rub it in Lee’s face by declaring publicly how much we love each other.

  JOURNAL ENTRY, NOVEMBER 1, 1979

  Starts slowly for both of us. The sun is already warming our old souls. The beach has never been so appealing to me. We ran and threw Frisbees, and played with our pups. Farrah brought her dog Satchel with her today. It makes me feel young when we’re together. Christmas is beginning to draw near and so I’m trying to get it organized properly and with these new additions to the family it becomes ever more complicated. And there’s the question of where Lee will be.

  Reading these journal entries today, I marvel at my determinedly frivolous judgment. And to be fair, everything really did seem okay. I was in love and very, very distracted.

  By now, Tatum is on her way home from Canada and all I’ve been hearing on the phone from her is how delighted she is that Farrah and I have found each other. Lee has never mentioned anything to her. She even hints that we should marry if Farrah divorces Lee. So I decide to surprise my daughter and take Farrah with me to the airport to pick her up, thinking she’ll be thrilled. I’m wrong. After our telephone conversation, I’m surprised that Tatum seems uncomfortable, defensive. All of a sudden, it’s almost as if she’s the jealous other woman. I begin not to trust Tatum with Farrah. Tatum is too talkative around her. I had known a few women. Tatum had been around them. Some she liked, some she didn’t. Not that there were hundreds, but there were a few and I’m still friends with most of these women. It’s out of respect for them as well as for Farrah, who knew about my past, that I don’t feel comfortable discussing my previous relationships. For somebody who’s been the center of an avalanche of publicity for fifty years, I live an unusually private life, always have, and I’d be a traitor to one of my few guiding principles if I changed now. And so the next day I plead with Tatum, “Please, let’s not remind Farrah. Let me be this virgin that she’s found, let me keep the illusion alive just for a little while.” Tatum will have none of it. One day, several months after Tatum’s return, Farrah and I are in the car, and she points to a street corner we’re passing and says, “That’s where your daughter told me about you.”

  “Oh, really, what did she say,” I reply, slightly sick to my stomach.

  “How hard you are on w
omen, that you’re not always a nice man, that I should be wary of you.”

  These were the ways that Tatum, who was living with me, tried to undermine my love affair with Farrah. She couldn’t help it. She suspects mixed motives because everyone in her life has always had mixed motives.

  I knew what was happening with Tatum: she was angry and confused. I just felt powerless to stop it. I was spending more time with Farrah than with her, and she saw it as a betrayal, that I was abandoning her. I adored Farrah, and felt I deserved this chance at happiness. In my defense, when Farrah came on the scene, Tatum was pretty independent, had her friends and her life, and didn’t need me like she did when she was a little girl. And so, to me, it didn’t seem that I was spoiling the situation. I was just happy with Farrah. Alas, the happier I was with Farrah, the less Tatum appreciated it. She believed I was withholding something from her and giving it to Farrah. Tatum and I still retained our daily routine. We’d run or take long walks on the beach. If either of us was up for a part, we’d read each other’s scripts. It was the evenings that were different. Tatum was no longer my regular dinner companion nor did she accompany me to parties. The evenings belonged to Farrah now. That was tricky for me, and I can’t say that I handled it particularly well. I wasn’t sophisticated enough to know what to do to get over this hump. I had a habit of making molehills out of mountains. I had allowed my daughter to become too close to me and now I had somebody I wanted closer.

  Farrah reacted in all the right ways, which moved me deeply because I suspected, even though she never said anything, that Tatum unnerved her, that she was afraid of her. Farrah was so loving and supportive, continually reassuring me, “It’s okay, we’ll see more of her.” She’d encourage me to bring Tatum with us to the movies, to dinner, anything to try to break through. Tatum turned sixteen on November 5, and we had her birthday party at Farrah’s, at the big house in the hills, and invited all her friends, including Michael Jackson, Melanie Griffith, and Andy Gibb, who was one of Tatum’s great crushes. I was upset when he died, so young and so mysteriously. As best I recall, at the party the kids kept listening to Pink Floyd and the Rolling Stones. They didn’t play pin the tail on the donkey or spin the bottle. But I saw the way Tatum was looking at Andy and I think they played something called “Truth or Dare,” a game I didn’t understand then and don’t now. The Diane Keaton look from Annie Hall made its appearance on two or three of the girls. The only thing I remember about the boys is that they all wanted to get close to Melanie.