There were two reasons that I wrote the diaries, the first one being that I’d always written, since I was about twelve. It seemed to calm me, getting anything that might be chaotic behind the eyes onto the page in front of me where it could do me less harm. Along the lines of the saying, “Better out than in,” though that refers to vomit. Maybe more like, “Better an empty house than an unhappy tenant.” Not that writing on my notepads managed to actually empty my mind—though some would argue—but I was grateful to relieve the overflow.
The second reason I wrote them was that I couldn’t talk to Harrison. Basically about anything, but especially about the entity that was “us”—not that there actually was such a thing. Not only couldn’t I converse with Harrison, but given that my weekends with Harrison were a secret, it became something that was better left unsaid, to discuss, only with my pen in hand, with the journal in front of me. I felt that I couldn’t confide in anyone else what was happening with Harrison, because Harrison was married. And not to me.
So it might get awkward if I told a person about us, because then that person might tell someone else, and that person would tell another person until eventually Harrison’s wife might hear about it and react other than positively about it in the extreme. And nobody wanted that. Not that Harrison and I had ever discussed not wanting it. It was an understood not-wanting.
I think that might be an overall understanding one arrives at, either verbally or otherwise, when you’re having an affair with someone who is unaccountably a married person, unless perhaps the wedded individual tells you that his wife doesn’t understand him, which is why he wants to leave her to be with you. Or, in this instance, me. And no one was telling anyone that they felt misunderstood and as such there wouldn’t be anything leaving-wise in this instance. So that was that.
I only know about the understandings you have with married men and such from movies or books. Never had an affair with a married man, that was me. I’d barely had understandings with a single man. And I’ve never been with someone wedded since. As I may have mentioned, I had really only had a relationship of any sort with one human being prior to my being with Harrison.
But Harrison didn’t know that right away. All he knew was . . . essentially nothing prior to our initial weekend of untold romance and unforgettable passion. I mean, you know, general stuff that you write on forms. Name. Parents. Siblings. Friends. Schools. Plus, anecdotes intended no doubt to hold me up to a good light. Amusing stories! How fun I was! How easygoing and irresistible was I?
What I didn’t know was that Harrison may have been listening to me. To what I said. Specifically, about men. Listening for anything confirming that I was an available and experienced gal! He could have been gathering these rosebuds in order to come to the conclusion that he might have wanted to come to. Or, the one he ultimately came to anyway. The conclusion that it would be okay to take me home with him, or take me to my house with him. And that was that.
• • •
all through the Star Wars workweek I waited in vain for some indication that (a) we had ever been together at all (or had I imagined the entire event?) and/or (b) if indeed it had occurred, would it ever occur again in any form, ranging from another inarticulate weekend to finally marrying (after a discreet amount of time had elapsed since his eventual and uncomplicated divorce). I’m sure that on our relative lists of priorities as we went about filming, I might have ranked as high as number fifteen on his agenda, while Harrison was my number one. So this was the way I made it from that first weekend to that second. Would we share another monosyllabic weekend, or would I spend the ensuing Saturday and Sunday virtually alone, wondering what I’d done to already push him away? How could I have when we had barely been that close, just close enough to ignite an almost full-on obsession in me?
But spend a second weekend we did. Once again we were together in our apart way. We met at the North Star Pub in St. John’s Wood, between Elstree and central London.
I’m sure I selected the place because it was the pub I had gone to when I was at drama college all those months ago. Months from when I’d dropped out of drama college in order to star in a space fantasy called Star Wars. Which must’ve seemed like decades before that evening at the North Star, because essentially everything in my life had changed. I was no longer a drama student doing Shakespeare and Ibsen with a fellow-student boyfriend; I was now an actual actress with a job in a film that took place in a galaxy far, far away. A space fantasy. Perfect. And now I was having an affair with my costar from that film. Just like I pretended to want, without understanding what that meant, and here I was in a pub in London having a drink with him after a day of filming.
I believe I may have previously mentioned that Harrison was not a garrulous person. Given that, as we sat in the public house, I inadvertently held my breath quite a bit—a lot—while fretting over what I would and would not say during that evening. I knew without believing it that I would not say a charmingly helluva lot. I would be calm and succinct and ask thoughtful questions and then listen to his answers intently. Had I been able to manifest the demeanor just described, this would have been the night he discovered yet another of my many characteristics that would cause him to rethink any less than positive opinions he had—obviously prematurely—formed.
He would wonder where I had been all his life and then recall with a bemused, ironic sinking feeling that I had yet to be born for much of it. The important thing was that at least he’d met me now. He would remind himself to try to make up for all of our lost time for the rest of our compatible lives. But for now we didn’t think about ever needing to make up for anything, as we had barely amassed any amount of time together at all.
In fact, what happened was Harrison and I both began to drink and at some point early on I said, “Do you want to see me do an imitation of you?”
Harrison didn’t really walk, he swaggered, moving a bit like John Wayne in slow motion—he would take his seemingly bad attitude for a walk. In order to depict this, I moved out of sight around the corner from Harrison and after a moment reappeared, strolling as he strolled, sauntering my way into whatever fresh hell I found myself in. I’d become him, disenchanted Lord Ford, master of all he surveyed, if he got around to it. I studied my environment with bored disenchanted eyes and smirking mouth, behaving as if wherever I’d inadvertently found myself was no doubt some pathetic watering hellhole for a bunch of needy poseurs and poseur wannabes who unfortunately didn’t have the stuff to interest me/him.
I hadn’t looked at Harrison yet to see how my portrayal of him was going over—too busy appearing indifferent and impatient with my surroundings. I’d get around to him in good time. Until then, what criminally inept person had decorated this room I was in? Decorated? More like defiled! Wow. I was amazed my eyes weren’t bleeding from the insult some referred to as interior—shouldn’t that be inferior?—decoration.
As I continued to portray his inner monologue as I imagined it, I finally let at least one of my eyes slide wearily over to his face and saw that he was not only laughing, he was laughing that silent and hard laugh reserved for true enthusiasm. Almost forty years later, I still think of it as one of the greater moments of my life. My “love” life.
I tried not to let my relief interrupt my imitation and returned my gaze to the disenchanting room around us, but I didn’t intend for my portrayal to go on much longer—why press my luck? I mean, this could really be a game changer. If my portrait of my costar as a smug, scruffy-looking nerf herder went well enough, Harrison could unexpectedly (but gently and responsibly) leave his wife, and after a barely noticeable, dignified amount of time, he would marry me (in an unsentimental, tasteful way) and we would subsequently astonish everyone—including ourselves—by remaining together for the rest of whoever died first’s life. And all because I dared to do an imitation of him, for him, in the pub one night! That was the beginning of his realizing that I was the only per
son with whom he felt comfortable enough to be . . . well, still uncomfortable, but now at peace with finding the world a constant disappointment. I continued to swagger toward him, and then next to him, finally letting my eyes return to him.
To my amazement I now saw that he was still laughing, which almost caused me to laugh, but instead I was able to maintain my portrayal, stretching my lips to their side limits to indicate what perhaps might be identified as a smile, but what turned out to be a cease between scowls before returning my expression to its relaxed smirk mode. I remember distinctly that this was the part of my impression that amused him the most.
Not that anything could convince me that our little dalliance was much more than that. A summer romance without the romance—or without the summer for that matter. Now that I had elicited this amazingly enthusiastic response from him, the danger was that I would want to get him laughing like a human during all our upcoming evenings together. It was bad enough that I was doing it already tonight. Please, God, don’t let me feel the need to encourage him to be Mr. Chuckles on the set as well.
That would be a great idea, right? Making it my life’s work to cause Han Solo to giggle his way through an asteroid field or howl with laughter at how ridiculously hairy his Wookie copilot was. How about a spit take in full view of some unobtrusive mynocks?
No, Harrison was not on this earth for me to goad into uncontrollable fits of laughter. I would have to control the impulse to entertain him, most importantly so as not to call attention to the possibility that we were more than just costars. Maybe not much more where he was concerned, but I was not so lucky.
Ah, men.
If I’d never succeeded in coaxing this coveted laughter of his out into the waiting world, I would never have known what I was missing—just that I was missing something, besides his not being single or accessible or, for the most part, warm. I wouldn’t have been able to imagine his laughing wholeheartedly, or known how amazing it felt to actually be with the person you were with and feel that he liked you! You know, in that ongoing, let’s-keep-seeing-each-other way.
This was the first time I felt as though Harrison liked me. Not because he wanted to sleep with me, or because no one else was around in a way that was convenient. He liked me. I’d made him laugh. I’d done an imitation of him, for him, even though I was afraid of how he’d react, and it had worked out! Take a risk, win a prize—or borrow someone else’s prize for the duration of the film and hope things aren’t too awkward when you film the sequels.
When he’d returned to his paranormal self, we sat smiling at each other, each waiting for the other to—what? Say something! Say something!
“I do other imitations,” I finally offered, my shoulders up to my ears in a shrug. “But I don’t think they’d go too well in this particular environment.”
He lit a new cigarette and I quickly retrieved one of mine, letting him light it with another match while avoiding his eyes.
I went on. “Judy Garland for one—but you probably wouldn’t like it.”
“Why?”
“It’s pretty loud and includes some dancing and a lot of makeup.”
He nodded, picking some nicotine off the tip of his tongue and flicking it away. “Any more quiet ones? Like mine?”
I thought for a moment, searching for a funny reply. What to say? Make him laugh! Make him like me! Oh, please make him like me! Then everything will be fine or thereabouts. But no punch lines came to deliver that body blow that would reignite the blaze of his smile. What a jerk I was. I’ve always been a jerk and always will be. He hates me now and thinks I’m boring and stupid. B & S.
“I could do an imitation of my college boyfriend. He was super quiet.” “Super”?! Who says “super” and lives? Certainly not me.
Harrison raised his eyebrows slightly. “Oh?”
“Yeah, well, maybe all boyfriends are quiet.” Not boyfriends! Harrison wasn’t my boyfriend and would never be. Fix this!
“Well, I wouldn’t know about all boyfriends really,” I rattled on. “Simon’s really the first boyfriend I ever had. And I don’t really—I’m not actually looking to—”
Harrison’s face had whitened and his eyes were suddenly concerned. A slight frown threatened. “What do you mean, your only boyfriend?”
I blinked. What had I done now? I struggled for something to say.
“What about all those guys you talked about?” he asked. “That Rob guy—the photographer—and Fred and Buck and . . .”
Still frowning, I said, “Fred? I didn’t sleep with him, I know him. Hey, you know him, too! Does that mean that you slept with him?”
Not waiting for a response, I continued, somewhat indignantly, “I don’t sleep with all the men I know and I don’t sleep with them just because I bring them up in conversation! Christ, if you thought that I slept with every man who found himself in some story of mine, you must think that I’m like a hooker or something! A slut! So I guess that made it all right for you!”
“Made what all right?”
“To fuck hookers! Your big, slutty costar . . . me!”
He interrupted, “All right! Enough!”
“Fine,” I said, totally sulking, “but you shut up also.”
(A version of that happened. A much toned-down version, maybe with fewer words and a lot less volume.)
Harrison was looking at the rug on the floor in front of him, blinking. Why was he so upset? Why did he want me to have slept with everyone with a penis that I brought up in conversation? He seemed so disappointed that I was as inexperienced as I’d suddenly revealed myself to be that I considered confessing that I’d let Buck feel me up under my shirt after the Shampoo wrap party (and then felt like a slut for days), but instead kept silent and watched the side of his suddenly serious face for clues as to why it was a bad idea that I’d only really been with him and Simon (oh, okay, and I’d slept with Griffin once in Las Vegas, but that didn’t count because he was a friend and we never did it again).
I thought men liked it if you were inexperienced. Was that only in Victorian times? Hadn’t I once heard that some men even paid to deflower a girl—not that Harrison had deflowered me in any way (as though you could deflower someone a little). If so, was I then implying that he had maybe batted away a petal in the deflowering process? What was I meant to do here? How could I return him to the laughing Harrison from just moments ago—a time that, in the ensuing confusion, was now rapidly beginning to feel like weeks ago? Would he ever completely forgive me for not being sexually . . . what? Sophisticated? Experienced? For being a nineteen-year-old who, despite using four-letter words with such ease and familiarity, didn’t turn out to be the pro, Scarlet Woman, tramp nymphomaniac I seemed to be?
It didn’t occur to me until decades later that perhaps what disturbed Harrison was the implication that he was subsequently burdened with something very like responsibility, in that he had somehow been given a gift he hadn’t wanted or expected.
• • •
well, we all know what happened after that . . . we slowly fell deeper and deeper in love (he more than I for obvious reasons). It was truly a surprise to us both, the night he took my hand in his and weepingly admitted that though he loved his wife very much, they had been growing apart for quite some time now, so that when he met me he knew I was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, both public and private. I was his soul mate—understanding him in ways he never thought possible. Here he had to stop speaking, he was crying so much, tears streaming down his manly face. Blowing his nose into his hand and wiping it on his shirt, he whispered, “Fate brought us together in space, but we brought ourselves together on Earth. But whether on Saturn or in South Kensington—please do me the honor of being the companion I share my life with.” That was when he slipped the ring on my finger that I never take off except when I’m waxing my knuckles. A gold band with diamonds spelling out th
e word he came up with, “Carrison.” (We also use it as a gate code in the home we share in London—in St. John’s Wood near the North Star Pub, so we’ll always be within walking distance of that place where we first discovered the shared passion that would continue secretly throughout our ongoing, enviable lives.)
• • •
how can I paint for you the picture of this brief three-month break in the bad weather of no feeling? Sadly, I cannot. And this is not because of the memory loss that typically comes with age—though that is a distinct factor. It is the memory loss that comes with marijuana use. Though in this case, it is not the long-term use that has deprived me of the recollections from these months from long ago. It is the three-month ingestion of what seemed to me to be the brutal strength of Harrison’s preferred strain of pot. This is what takes any and all vivid recollections and crushes them beneath its cruel inhaled heel.
At the time, the reefer took whatever certainty I possessed while in Harrison’s company and traded it for paranoia so intense it took my breath away. What I recall from the rubble of my brain cells is the discomfort I experienced between waking and sleeping, trying to think of something to say other than “Do you love me?” or “Why are you with me at all?” or “Do you know your lines for next week?” or “Can I get you another beer?” or “Where did you get that scar on your chin?” By the way, I believe the answer to that question had the words “acid” and “girl with freckles” in it, and “the toilet seat hit my head and cracked this cut into my chin.” But I am more than probably wrong.
I also doubt much of this was actually said per se, but I know he lay on his back on the couch in Riggs’s apartment telling me the story. And if he did say any of it, I’m sure he made it up.
The Princess Diarist Page 7
