The Company She Keeps

by Georgia Durante

  “That fucking asshole! Doesn’t he know what he’s got?”

  “What he had, Jim. I’m planning on looking for a place tomorrow.”

  “Are you really going to leave all that?”

  “All that doesn’t mean anything if I’m not happy. I refuse to live with a man who’s blind to what’s important in life. If he can throw it all away so easily, he isn’t worthy of another minute of my time. I’ve wasted too much already. I wanted a family, not an instant replay of my past. There’s no point in staying. I know from experience it can never be the same.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Georgia. Think about it for a minute. Where’re you going to go? You don’t have any furniture—you gave it all away. Your prenuptial agreement only allows you $30,000 if you leave now. How far can you go on that with two kids? That won’t even pay a year’s rent. Think about Toni. This is the first time in a long time the kid’s been settled.”

  “I’m more aware of that than you are,” I replied, reflecting sadly. “I hate him for this!”

  “Well, I think a sudden move like that would be too traumatic for Toni. I don’t think she could handle it. I’m not saying you have to live as man and wife, but Christ, Georgia, at least stay put until you have enough money behind you to make it on your own. Have you forgotten how you struggled after you left Joe?”

  “I know what you’re saying, but right now I can’t stand the thought of living under the same roof with him, much less in the same room!”

  “It won’t be as easy as you think going from princess to pauper. This’ll be a tough transition for both of you.”

  “I just can’t go back there.”

  “You don’t have to decide anything right now. Stay here tonight. Tomorrow your mind will be clearer,” he said as the phone rang. “Are you here?” he asked before answering it.

  “Yeah, I have no reason to lie.”

  Jim answered and handed me the phone. “What do you want, Richard?” I asked calmly.

  “I want you to come home. The baby needs you. How could you just walk out on him that way?”

  “I walked out on you, not him. Take him to Marina’s room. She’ll care for him if you can’t handle it.”

  “He wants his mother. What is it with you and Jim anyway? Is this the excuse you were looking for to have an affair with him, or have you already?”

  “Drop dead, Richard!” I slammed down the phone.

  “Why do all your husbands hate me?” Jim asked after I told him what Richard said.

  We both got silly at that one. He broke open a bottle of wine and we spent the rest of the night drinking ourselves into a stupor.

  They called it the “baby blues.” I slid into a severe depression for a good month. The blood in my veins had turned to ice, and so had my heart. My protective armor was so thick it couldn’t be penetrated. Georgia Black was in full command. I handed her the reins. It was over.

  When the reality of it all set in, I realized Jim was right. I had to bide my time until I could walk away comfortably. I worked out like a madwoman trying to get my figure back so I could return to modeling and finance my departure. Soon I called my agent, telling her I was ready to pound the pavement again.

  “Perfect timing,” Janette said. “I got a request for you today.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “It’s seven days on a cruise ship in Mexico. You’ll be shooting print for a brochure, but they’re also going to take the stills and turn it into a commercial. I know your husband isn’t wild about long location jobs, but it’s a good one, sweetie.”

  Fuck him. Who cares what he thinks? Look out for yourself, White. No one else is going to—you should know that by now.

  “I’m in. When does it shoot?”

  “Next week. I’ll get back to you with the details. I’m glad you’re back in action, sweetie.”

  “Me too,” I answered.

  I not only needed to build up my bank account; I needed to get myself out of my depression. Work was always a great escape. Our friends couldn’t understand why the girl who had it all would continue with her profession. What more could she possibly want? Richard and I behaved civilly, like a happy couple, but we both knew the truth. Only those close to us were aware of a problem.

  My parents were saddened to see my life take another solemn turn, but I continued to wear a smile and assured them it was really okay. Richard’s mother was happy. She knew she’d soon have her baby all to herself again. But until then, I played the great pretender. We still went out to dinner a few nights a week and entertained at home. I’d worn this mask before—it was nothing new. I had the part perfected by now.

  Richard’s drug problem worsened. The more he indulged in cocaine, the more he drank. He didn’t try to hide it anymore. He went from coming home late to not coming home at all. I never asked what he was doing; I asked only that he be discreet. He became predictable. I knew when he took out the Rolls-Royce or the Clenét, it was Hollywood Boulevard night. He’d cruise down the boulevard shopping for hookers. As if that weren’t bad enough, before he took them to bed, he took them to dinner at private clubs where we were members.

  Richard’s ego needed affirmation. He thought his improper actions made him the envy of all his friends. What he didn’t know was that his peers were all laughing at him. They watched him pitifully destroy himself over a bunch of street girls and drugs.

  Richard soon graduated to snorting coke with his morning coffee. By this time I realized the reason for the prenuptial agreement I’d signed. Richard didn’t want a marriage; he wanted a child. Years later, I learned from a friend of his that Richard had boasted, before he’d even met me, that he was going to find himself the perfect woman, marry her, get her pregnant right away, divorce her, and keep the kid. But he had a big problem—the child was also mine. There were no papers to take that from me, at least, not at the moment.

  Not too long after the job on the cruise ship, I landed one for a German cigarette ad that was to be shot in New Zealand. Six models, three men and three women, made the trek to that faraway land. I had never seen such fantastic scenery. Sheep snaked up narrow roads, surrounded on either side by lush greenery. Puffy clouds kissed the rolling hilltops. All of our shooting locations were in the deep backwoods, which we traveled to by helicopter and seaplane. From the air, the reflection of the mountains in the clear water was breathtaking. The mirrored effect made it difficult to distinguish which were the true mountains. I took a leave of absence from my emotional wounds to drown myself in this beauty.

  Manfred, the German photographer, was an extreme perfectionist. He refused to shoot a picture if a cloud was in the sky. Consequently, we spent a lot of time having the helicopter fly us from lake to beautiful lake, and we fished for five days before shooting one frame of film. We had all the latest gear, compliments of the German wardrobe stylist. We were being paid $1,000 per day to go fishing in the most picturesque place in the world.

  Sitting around the campfire drinking wine and eating fresh fish, the other models and I had long heart-to-heart talks. By day five we were old friends. All in our early thirties, we’d each been modeling for many of those years. The money was always sufficiently good so that we never thought of doing anything constructive with our minds. It was easy to make the same amount of money a doctor or lawyer could make in a year by smiling for the camera. But we were all aware that age would soon dictate a change, and we had to be ready for it when it came. During one of the campfire talks, I expressed my interest in a driving career, and my unsuccessful efforts at breaking into the field.

  Molly Lynn turned her head, and her long brown hair fell across her eye. “I know a guy who owns a driving team back in the States. I’ll call him when we return and set up a lunch so he can meet you,” she said.

  “I’m going to hold you to it, Molly,” I replied.

  “No problem. When this guy sees you, you’re in. Trust me.”

  On the plane ride home, each of us was paid $10,000. The plane lan
ded in Tahiti for fuel, and I decided to stay for a few days. I called my agent from the airport to put her mind at rest, letting her know we had received the money and that it had all gone well.

  “I’m going to take a little R & R in Tahiti, Janette.”

  “No, you’re not, sweetie. You got that other German cigarette ad you auditioned for before you left. You have to be in Europe by Monday.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “How long is the job?” I asked.

  “Ten days, just like this one.”

  Hmm . . . $20,000 closer to freedom.

  “I’ll see you at the agency sometime tomorrow,” Janette said. “Sorry you can’t stay in Tahiti. Maybe next time.”

  After shooting the second German cigarette ad, I landed a third one. Not once was I asked if I had a conflict, and as a result, that year my face turned up on billboards, the sides of buses, and magazine ads all over Germany—all for different cigarette companies. I already had a campaign going for More cigarettes in the States. When that contract was up, I did another one for Kent Golden Lights. From there, I went on to beer and liquor ads, both in Mexico and in the U.S. Molly Lynn kept her promise, and I started shooting car commercials as well. I guess you could say it was a year of cigarettes, booze, and fast cars.

  Wally Crowder, who owned Motion Research Driving Team, thought he had hit a home run when he took me on. Another pretty face he could flaunt before his clients. The shock was, I could drive.

  The first job Wally booked me on was for Chrysler at the Laguna Seca Raceway near Carmel. The job called for two women drivers. I had no formal training from Wally and didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t have the slightest idea how to use the walkie-talkie, and the onset lingo was like a foreign language. Damn Wally for not preparing me. I tried to fake it the best I could.

  The other girl was in the same position. I had one advantage over her, due to my past racing experience: I knew how to handle a car. On the very first shot, she spun out on the track with the director in the car and came within inches of hitting the wall. She was sent home immediately, leaving me to finish the commercial on my own. The fact that the producers continued to trust Wally’s judgment was, to me, unbelievable—but a lot of political games were being played that I was not yet privy to.

  My real initiation was when I did my first conga line—six cars driving in a line about three inches apart from one another’s bumpers. I concentrated intensely on the car in front of me. The director’s voice came over the radio, asking me if I had white pants on.

  “Yes, I do,” I answered, taking one hand off the wheel to work the walkie. My eyes were still glued to the car in front of me.

  “Get ’em off. They’re causing a reflection in the windshield. Do it fast—we’re losing the light!”

  Embarrassed again. Damn that Wally. How was I supposed to know to wear black? We all came to a slow stop. I whipped off my pants from inside the vehicle and we began shooting again immediately. Little did I know they already had the shot in the can. The entire time, the camera car drove alongside my vehicle—filming my crotch! Never taking my eyes off the car in front of me, I was oblivious to this. Thank God, I had underwear on. Watching dailies the following day, everyone got a good laugh, including me. But I learned not to be so naive after that.

  I was never formally taught how to drive for the camera, but that’s not really something one can be taught. It’s a feel, an awareness of what the camera sees. I did take it upon myself to go to the Bondurant School of High Performance Driving. It looked good on my résumé, but mostly I learned from on-the-job experience. Being connected with a driving team gave me instant credibility, but with Wally that didn’t mean you were properly prepared. Fortunately, I had a good on-camera look, which opened the door a little bit farther. There weren’t many women in the business from which to choose, so most directors were patient with me when I messed up.

  With every job, I learned more. When I was asked to jump a car, I pretended that I had done it a thousand times—and did it as if I had. I just went for it. Unlike the apprehensions in my personal life, I never lacked confidence behind the wheel. In this arena, I had control. The power of life and death was in my hands. My choices in the driver’s seat had to be the right ones—no room for mistakes in this world. Shifting gears, I embraced my shadow side with every intention of driving forward with my life. I was soon doing more car commercials than modeling assignments.

  By this time, I had been married almost three years. As my money accumulated, so did the number of Richard’s girlfriends. “Discreet” was not a word in his vocabulary. Come to think of it, there weren’t many words in his vocabulary. It wouldn’t be long now. I had almost enough money for a down payment on a house. Living with Richard under these conditions was wearing on me. We never argued, but the air was always thick with unspoken words.

  Richard was out of town on my thirty-second birthday. I made reservations for dinner with some friends at Touch, a relatively new private club in Beverly Hills, exclusive to the “A” crowd. Touch was backed by Hugh Hefner and a few other partners. The price of the membership was set purposely high, excluding a clientele which lacked wealth or fame. The faces were all familiar. All the members from the Beverly Hills hot spot, Pips, had another club to frequent now.

  After dinner my girlfriends departed and I went into the disco. O. J. Simpson and his girlfriend, Nicole, were seated on the cushy couches along with some friends. Nicole, as usual, was sucking on a lollipop. It was her trademark; nobody ever saw her without one. I walked over to say hello.

  O.J. stood as I approached. “Have a seat. Help us celebrate my birthday,” he said, greeting me warmly.

  “It’s my birthday too! I didn’t know July ninth was your birthday,” I said with surprise as the waitress approached.

  “Are you all set here, Mr. Simpson?” she asked.

  “Bring us another bottle of Dom Pérignon,” O.J. instructed.

  “Right away, Mr. Simpson.”

  “So, have you been doing any near misses with people these days?” O.J. asked with a dry laugh.

  “No, not since the Hertz commercial, unless you want me to count the times I wasn’t getting paid to do it,” I answered with a broad grin.

  “I gotta admit, even though I knew you were all professional drivers, I was a little uncomfortable dodging those cars crisscrossing in front of me like that,” O.J. stated.

  “What do you mean, professionals? That was the first driving job for three of those guys,” I kidded.

  He almost gagged on his drink, then realized I was pulling his leg. Shifting my attention to the dance floor, I watched as a couple danced exquisitely to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” When the song ended, I noticed O.J.’s eyes had become transfixed as he sipped his champagne. I looked in the direction of his chilling glare to see a man staring at Nicole. She was innocently licking her lollipop, but this man plainly had another image in his head. O.J.’s disconcerting gaze, magnified by the strobe lights flashing eerily across his face, grew more intense. The familiar sight made me go cold inside. My mind immediately flashed to Joe. I had never seen this expression on O.J. before. It scared me.

  Did Nicole have any idea what was in store for her? She was about the age I was when I first became involved with Joe. So young. So naive. What did I know at that age?

  My fears were confirmed when I walked into the ladies’ room. Nicole stood in front of the mirror applying makeup. The fluorescent lighting couldn’t hide the bruises she was trying to conceal.

  “Nicole, I know this is none of my business, but I think I understand what you’re going through—”

  “What do you mean?” she asked in an attempt to dismiss my suspicions.

  “O.J. did that to you, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, no,” she replied. “I slipped by the pool and fell on my face. I’m such a klutz.”

  “Oh, is that all?” I replied with a knowing lo
ok.

  No use in saying anything more. She was in denial, too blind with love to see. I remembered well. She wasn’t ready to talk, but a feeling of helplessness churned in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to shake her, but I knew she would have to learn the same way I did . . . the hard way.

  Richard and I had been leading separate lives. He left for the Las Vegas house one weekend with the kids. Despite the state of our marriage, he was good to Toni and he never left her out. When Richard had proposed to me, he’d expressed his desire to legally adopt Toni—another bit of bait for his trap. He did go through with the adoption, and it was finalized while I was pregnant with Dustin. Tom, her own biological father, had posed no objection.

  Toni’s life was now filled with dance and riding lessons, outings with friends, parties, and school plays—most of which Richard participated in. She felt she belonged, and was quite happy and content. Toni was the biggest heartache in my departure plan. How I agonized over her. But I couldn’t live this lie for much longer. It wasn’t healthy for any of us.

  While they were in Las Vegas, I decided to throw a party for the New Zealand crew. I was feeling particularly lonely with the house empty and needed the company of good friends to take my mind off the hellish charade my marriage had become.

  During the party I went looking for the pictures of our New Zealand adventure. It had been such a special time, and we loved to reminisce. As I was searching, I came across a bag of cocaine in Richard’s drawer. I had indulged in cocaine a few times with Richard, but stopped when I saw how seductive it was. The last time I had partaken was before I became pregnant. Looking at the Baggie of white powder conjured up images of destruction. I was about to flush it down the toilet when one of the guests walked in.

  “Hey, you going to share that?”

  I hesitated and then handed him the bag.

  “Here, have a party. Whatever’s left is getting flushed.”

  When the coke was passed to me, I refused. But after a few more drinks, I indulged. When the party was over, I threw the remainder away and never touched the stuff again.