Both of Us Read online

  Over the years, I often expressed my anger and frustration with Tatum to Farrah. She was never cold or unsympathetic. Early on she would listen to my woes about my children and offer reassurance, but eventually she would grow aloof. She had to in the interest of her own survival as well as our relationship. One day she sat me down and said, “Ryan, I can’t be your whole world. It’s not healthy. It’s also not possible. We’re both too dependent on each other, but I have a few close friends I can confide in. We shop, we gossip, we do lunch. You don’t have anyone like that. The only grown-up men in your life are Freddie Fields and your father, and you can go to them for practical advice and they’re helpful, but you don’t talk to them about feelings, hopes, dreams. I love it that you trust me enough to tell me everything, but I’m not a sage and at times I feel overwhelmed, inadequate, and I resent the fact that you ask too much and I’m only able to give too little.” She was right and just as I didn’t know what to say to Freddie or my dad when I was hurting, I didn’t know what to say to Farrah then. I didn’t want it to be different. I didn’t want to need anyone but her. The two ends of our rainbow were no longer secured.

  Before we’re able to process the difficult events of the summer, autumn is upon us and duty calls. I’ve been cast in the Norman Mailer film Tough Guys Don’t Dance, and I’ll be on location in New England for a couple of months, after which I’ll go to Maryland for Griffin’s trial. Farrah will visit me briefly on set but she’s busy preparing for Poor Little Rich Girl, the made-for-TV bio about Woolworth heiress Barbara Hutton, who had vast wealth and seven husbands but never found love. It’s an elaborate production. They’re shooting in London, Morocco, Los Angeles, and finishing in New York.

  One of the luxuries of having a toddler is that you’re able to travel as a family without having to worry about your child missing school. As soon as the holidays are over, Farrah, Redmond, and I, and Red’s nanny, are on our way to London, ready for our next adventure. Before we even get out of the country, there’s a Dickensian twist to our departure. We’re in the air. We’ve just left Los Angeles International Airport. Suddenly, I feel the plane turning around. The pilot gets on the intercom and announces that we’re rerouting the flight back to the airport for an emergency landing. There’s an audible gasp in the cabin. Farrah’s got Redmond in her lap. She tightens her grip on him. She is a soldier and a mother. While she may be terrified inside, nothing shows. Redmond picks up on her calmness and doesn’t fuss. I reach over to check her seatbelt, and then give my own a good, strong tug. Farrah tightens her grip on Redmond. The woman sitting next to us pulls out a rosary, starts to pray. Some passengers are crying. Redmond’s unaffected. He seems to think this is a fun new game. The pilot’s voice booms over the intercom again. “Folks, we’ll be using the emergency exit system today. Leave your carry-ons on board, and the flight attendants will direct you to the evacuation slides.”

  By now people are on the edge of hysteria. The plane makes its final descent and the wheels screech to a halt. The flight attendants pull open the emergency hatches, inflate the slides, and begin hustling everyone to the exit doors. I ease myself onto the slide, tuck Redmond firmly between my legs, and Farrah sits behind me, her arms and legs wrapped around me, and together our little family descends to the tarmac. “Again, again!” shouts Redmond. He thinks we’re in Disneyland. We’ve been instructed to run as fast as we can to the ditch at the end of the runway. I hoist Redmond onto my shoulders, and the three of us scurry. We’ll read about the reason for the emergency in the newspaper. Apparently the IRA notified police there was a bomb on board. This was during the Troubles in Belfast. A terrible business, but at least the Irish occasionally warn you first.

  The next day we’re back on board and up we go again. The bomb threat has upset Farrah. It’s the first time I’ve seen her concerned about flying. So I take out the travel-size chess set that I’d brought along and teach her how to play, hoping it will keep her mind occupied. Not only does it distract her, but by the time we’re making our approach into London’s Heathrow Airport, she’s checkmated me. I try to be a good loser. She loved that. Farrah was cunning, but when you’re that pretty, people rarely give you any credit for your intelligence. Farrah had a keen mind. When she’d be handed a contract to sign, she’d review every line, and her questions would impress some of the best attorneys in the entertainment business. There was so much more to her than gleaming teeth and a bountiful head of hair. Farrah Fawcett wasn’t beauty with brains, she was brains with beauty.

  In London we’re staying at Claridge’s, a classy hotel near Hyde Park. The first night we’re running through the TV channels when, to our surprise, we come across Love Story. With Redmond asleep beside us, Farrah and I watch it together for the first time, neither of us knowing how surely it predicts our future. Then again, the evening started out prophetically. A few hours earlier we’d called for room service and when our order arrived, as I was looking for my wallet, the guy dressed as a waiter suddenly has a camera aimed at us. He wouldn’t stop. So I wrestled him out of our room. The incident was unsettling because someone must have helped this guy from the inside. I alerted the hotel manager, who was mortified and assured me that nothing like this would happen again. Wishful thinking. The next time we’re so nakedly invaded will be twenty years later under horrific circumstances, when everything else Farrah and I will have endured will bear no comparison.

  It doesn’t take long for our family to return to our routine on location, though we do have an unexpected challenge the first few weeks. The nanny, a wonderful woman whom Redmond adores, injured her leg during our terrorism scare, and has to be excused for a while. So while Farrah’s filming, I watch Redmond and bring him with me to the set as often as possible. Farrah owns her craft now, and I’m moved by that newly confident girl who still wants my judgment and opinion.

  This production will prove even more physically taxing than the one in Paris. Farrah is portraying Barbara Hutton from youth through old age, and must endure long hours in the makeup chair each morning as a team of artists transforms her into a believable illusion of a woman at different stages of her life. Layers of latex, glue, and heavy pancake makeup are applied and reapplied until they achieve the desired effect. They must create molds of her head and face, which makes her look mummified. It makes me feel claustrophobic to watch. And then, after all that, her day starts, and she’s got to act for eight to ten hours.

  The public has romantic notions about being an actor, that we’re constantly pampered and served. If you traveled with Farrah and me on location, you would see the truth of this life, and like us, I’m betting you, too, would have moments when you’d catch yourself looking for the nearest exit. I’m not saying there aren’t some delicious perks. The best hotels, a car and a driver always at the ready, invitations to exclusive dinner parties, most of which we didn’t attend because Farrah’s schedule was so brutal, except of course in London, when we’re asked to dine at the American ambassador’s residence. But when you’re away from home, simple acts such as driving yourself to work and buying your own groceries become the soothing routine that you desperately miss. And sometimes the longing for home can be overwhelming. When Redmond, who’s teething, has kept us awake until the wee hours, I know as I watch Farrah leave our room in the morning that it’s going to take everything she’s got to hit her marks that day.

  But now Farrah is the consummate pro. No matter how hard she’s struggling, she shows up prepared and ready to work. Then she sheds the persona of Farrah Fawcett with all its burdensome complications, and slips into character, allowing the person she’s portraying to enfold her, become her. It’s one of the reasons she’s so good in this part, and will be nominated for another Golden Globe. It makes me feel envious at times, but I’m glad that one of us can enjoy a respite from the train wreck I’ve made of my life. We both entered this relationship with baggage, but she brought a carry-on, and I came with a trunk.

  To offset some of the stress, Farra
h and I make the most of our time together on her days off: splashing with Redmond in the pool in Morocco; giving him his first swimming lesson; shopping at the casbah in Tangiers, Farrah relishing the market’s exotic offerings, and me seeing her light up like a teenager when she successfully bargains a reasonable price for an intricate handwoven rug. I also take pleasure in doing little things for her. An inevitable reality of living in hotels is the exorbitant price of laundry. In some of these places, having underwear washed is more expensive than room service champagne. Neither Farrah nor I are cheap, but that feisty Texas girl in her doesn’t like being taken advantage of. It’s another of her qualities that I respect. I remember once she told me she got into a taxi in New York, and the cabbie tried to take the long way around to her destination. She demanded he stop the car and when he refused, she threatened him with her stiletto heel. So one day, while Farrah is on set, I gather all her delicates and wash them by hand as a surprise. When she gets back to the room and sees her bras and undies hanging neatly across the shower rod drying, she gives me an Eskimo kiss, then whispers in my ear why she loves me. It’s one of the sweetest moments of the trip. Afterward, I would always pack a bottle of Woolite whenever we traveled.

  In the years to come, I’ll learn to string together those moments like a strand of pearls that I can remove from the box and admire when I need to remind myself why this love is worth fighting for. I have to open that box some days more than others. After we return to London from North Africa, Farrah and I attend a fashion show, and the following morning, as I’m reading the paper over coffee, I come across an article that stops me cold. Here’s an excerpt: “The 39-year-old former Charlie’s Angel hopes the £10 million mini-series Poor Little Rich Girl will make her a TV star again. Ryan, whose career is in the doldrums and who looks after their two-year-old son Redmond while Farrah is filming, earned his keep this trip.” Farrah is unfazed by the article and unsympathetic to my distress. Mean-spirited press doesn’t affect her the way it does me. Not yet.

  The article sets me off. It magnifies something I’m already dealing with privately: feeling emasculated. That night I’m supposed to join Farrah and some friends for dinner, but all I can think about is getting the hell out of London. So I do what any red-blooded male would in the same situation. I pick a fight with my woman, hoping I can piss her off just enough that she’ll insist I leave. Instead I find this on the dresser:

  DARLING RYAN,

  I am terribly sorry that you’re depressed but I feel you are reacting to many things and the article just compounds them. We are so strong together, things like this shouldn’t touch us at this point in our love affair. Your not wanting to come tonight has greatly affected me. You are the life of any party and most certainly always of mine. Tony’s dinner at Tramp’s is at 10:00, and the theater isn’t over until 10:30, so why don’t you go ahead and enjoy yourself without me until I arrive. I seem to be the one depressing you and you’ll have more fun and I’m sure be greatly appreciated. Just be happy and know that I love you more than ever, so does Redmond. I thought we were the happiest family ever. Am I wrong? Please don’t leave me.

  FOREVER,

  FARRAH

  After reading the note, I stay. Wouldn’t you?

  By midsummer we’re back in LA. Griffin is in trouble again, this time for leading cops on a sixty-five-mile-per-hour car chase through Beverly Hills. He’s also remanded to jail for violating the terms of his probation on the Gian-Carlo Coppola case, not having completed the court-mandated community service hours. And my daughter informs me via post that she isn’t ready to see or talk to me yet (I wasn’t aware that we weren’t speaking; this was news to me) but will continue to send photos of my grandchild. Two months later, on September 23, 1987, she gives birth to another son, Sean McEnroe. I never knew she was pregnant. The presence of her absence haunts me. With material like this, perhaps instead of being an actor, I should have become a playwright. Eugene O’Neill, stand clear.

  Thank God I finally get a job to distract me from this long day’s journey into despair. In Chances Are, a quirky romantic comedy about past lives, I play the new husband of Cybill Shepherd, whose dead husband, reincarnated by Robert Downey, Jr., falls in love with his own daughter, or something like that. Geez, I can’t get away from this stuff. Anyhow, it’s a cute movie. Robert is a warm and engaging fellow and I take an immediate liking to him. I witness his affinity for partying during production, and today I have reams of respect for him for having been able to turn his life around. If only my son Griffin could have done the same.

  Looking back, I think it was during the filming of that picture that I began to recognize how much Farrah had changed me. We were staying on Antelo Road, and we were disagreeing about something, I don’t remember what. I retreated to the beach house in a huff. That evening I went out with Robert and his friends. Drugs and girls were everywhere. It was anything goes. I couldn’t wait to get back to Farrah. I didn’t want that life. I didn’t want to be free. I didn’t want to chase women anymore. They were too easy to catch. So I called her and said, “May I come back?” And she said, “Of course.” And when I pulled into the driveway, she was standing outside waiting for me. The old Ryan O’Neal would have dallied with every skirt in the place. Farrah was bringing out the better person in me, the man I wanted to become. Years later, I’d watch Robert being interviewed on ABC, confessing that his wife, Susan, had saved his life. I knew exactly what he meant.

  Farrah and I also had a lot in common. For one thing, we were both athletic. Farrah’s body-sculpting method was calisthenics. That woman could do one hundred deep side bends, push-ups, sit-ups, all the exercises that might be considered old-fashioned today. The results sure didn’t look old-fashioned. I’d always been an active guy too, even owned a gym in Brentwood where bold-faced names worked out—Ali MacGraw, Jane Fonda, Mariel Hemingway, U2’s Bono—a place where I enjoyed spending time and still do. We were also avid racquetball enthusiasts. Farrah’s house on Antelo had a court. We’d spend hours playing racquetball or squash together. Farrah was a fierce competitor, graceful and powerful. Some of my most vivid memories are of Farrah and me playing doubles. I often believed the teamwork we shared on the racquetball court would translate well on camera. That’s why I accepted a surprise offer.

  Farrah and I battling it out on the racquetball court.

  Farrah is on location in Canada with Redmond. She’s in production for Small Sacrifices, a television miniseries based on the book by Anne Rule about a mother who tries to murder her children in a twisted attempt to win back her lover. I’ve just flown in from Vegas, where Griffin, surrounded by two or three dozen of his closest friends and former cell mates, got hitched, all expenses paid by yours truly. You may be wondering how Griffin could go from jail to marriage in a few short pages. If you’re bewildered, try to imagine how it was for me.

  Farrah and I have rented a sprawling ranch outside Edmonton, Canada, with rolling hills and rural views. There are several horses being boarded on the property. Farrah thrives in this environment, and Redmond has his first horseback ride. One evening after work we’re playing Ping-Pong (I put up a table and she’s beating me every game), and she tells me, in between serves, that the producers still haven’t cast the role of the lover, and would I be interested in playing him. Next, she places her paddle on the table, walks over to her purse, pulls out the script and hands it to me, and then leads me to the bedroom. Come morning, I’m learning my lines.

  I was right about our on-camera chemistry. Farrah is as playful as she is erotic. There’s this intimate scene where we’re supposed to be engulfed in uncontrollable passion, so Farrah yanks off my belt and starts pulling my pants down. I blush and fumble my lines. The crew can’t contain their laughter. She laughs, she flashes that heavenly smile, cocks her head, and says knowingly, “Too Texas for y’all?”

  About a month later we’re up at the house on Antelo, and Farrah is teaching me how to make chili. She’s written out a list of ingre
dients without proportions. I’m standing there with an open can of chili powder in one hand, a quartet of measuring spoons in the other, and asking her how much to put in, and she says, “All great cooks improvise; they make the recipe their own. You’re going to have to learn to trust your taste buds; it’s a little bit like acting.”

  “Well, I don’t like improvising,” I say. “It’s why I never took an acting class and why I always preferred to hang out with Bill Holden rather than James Dean.” Farrah rolls her eyes. “I’ve been thinking about taking classes,” she admits.

  “I’m insulted. Why would you need classes when you have me as your coach,” I say, only half in jest. She laughs. “Because almost everybody else we know, especially the ones from New York, take classes. They all feel it deepens their craft. It’s the same way I feel about my art.”

  Farrah was an art major at the University of Texas and that’s how she thought of herself, as a sculptor and a painter.

  “I stumbled into acting because a publicist saw a photo of me when I was in college and thought I could make a living as a model,” she continues. “I never wanted to be an actress, and now that I’m successful I just wonder how much better I’d be if I actually got some training.”

  “You’re a natural like me,” I tell her. “Classes would only ruin it.” I don’t know if I even believed that at the time, but I’ve always been a little superstitious, and she was on such a roll that I honestly didn’t think she needed anybody but me to help her refine her technique. And neither one of us had been conventionally ambitious. We cared without being driven. We took advantage of the opportunities that came along but rarely sought them. Mostly we just winged it. It almost always worked for us until it didn’t.