PAUL
After what happened with Bailey, I went up to the Vineyard to stay with my mother and sisters at Wild Acres. Wild Acres was Mother’s summer home. Not far from Thorncroft, my grandparents’ estate, it was a 125-year-old farmhouse that she had remodeled into a charming, inviting home. Neither the house, nor my family, nor the Vineyard’s brilliant blue skies lifted my spirits. Desperately sad, I walked on the beach, played with Nan and Bobby, and listened to a band concert in the village. I was waiting for the right moment to tell Mom about Bailey, but when we were finally alone after the girls were in bed, she broke down and told me she was divorcing Dad. I was stunned by the news. It was Dad’s drinking, of course. I was afraid for her, and for Nancy and Bobby, who were as protective of Mom as I had been at that age. I was worried about their being alone.
I could see how unhappy my mother was. My broken heart would have only added to her sorrow, so I returned to New York keeping my troubles to myself. I stood on the deck of the ferry, waving good-bye to those three little faces smiling bravely up at me from the dock. They made me even more determined than ever to work harder and become successful, so that I could be of help. And as soon as I reached New York, my prayers were answered. I was asked to sing at the Club New Yorker.
I started rehearsing. I didn’t dare allow myself to think about Bailey, or to speak of him to anyone, not even to Ware or Jeannie. He was a taboo subject, until Jeannie broke the ice. “You don’t know how lucky you are,” she said. “I told you he was a creep, not worth your little finger.”
“Just wait,” Ware chimed in. “Someday you’ll meet the man who not only loves the body, but the voice, the charm, the character of the girl.”
“Find him for me!” I pleaded, laughing.
Then I met Paul.
THAT FIRST NIGHT that I met Paul, at the New Yorker with Betzi, Fred, Jeannie, and Ware, once Jeannie had explained that “oil” was not a stage show but gasoline, Paul suddenly turned to me.
“I just struck a new field in Oklahoma, Teddy, so let’s all go to Elmer’s and celebrate right now!”
“It’s too late for us, Paul,” Betzi cut in. “Couldn’t we make it Sunday?”
“Fine with me!” he replied. “Ware, what about you and Jeannie?”
“Sunday’s perfect!” they answered.
“And you, Teddy, will you still join me tonight?”
I glanced over at Betzi. She nodded with a smile.
I looked back at Paul. “Yes,” I said, “I’d love to.”
As we said our good-byes, I took Paul’s arm, stunned by the suddenness of it all. We walked down the spiral staircase and out into the night.
“Elmer’s” was the nickname for El Morocco for those who frequented the New York nightclub world. When we arrived, it was obvious Paul was well known there. Passing the famous zebra-striped banquettes, we were immediately greeted by owner John Perona, who quickly signaled a waiter.
As if by magic, a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a tray of caviar followed us to our table—which was nowhere to be seen. Waiters soon appeared, carrying our table aloft. They placed it in a corner of the dance floor, there being no more room anywhere. We were quickly seated as the waiter popped the cork with a flourish. Paul smiled and lifted his glass. “Here’s to a girl with a lovely voice. And I’m going to tell her what she should do with it, but first—let’s dance.”
His words startled me. What did he mean? I had no time to think, because he had quickly led me onto the dance floor, and was holding me as if he never wanted to let me go. The floor was so crowded that the other couples just stood and swayed to the music. So did we. I closed my eyes and let my body respond to his. I was in the arms of a stranger, but I felt I belonged there. For one mad moment, I wanted to belong to this man I knew nothing about, who had already tried to take possession of my future artistic plans, and who was now taking possession of me.
After the band stopped playing, we stood there a moment. What must he be thinking? Does he feel the same way I do? I wondered. I looked at him; he smiled. I turned away, trying to hide my thoughts and feelings from him, but I could tell that his eyes were reading mine. We sat down and I took a pack of cigarettes out of my purse and put one to my lips. He lit it. I closed my eyes as I inhaled. I blew the smoke out slowly and up into the twinkling lights. I knew he was watching me, that he found me desirable.
“Betzi tells me you’re from Greenwich,” Paul said, “that you studied in Paris, that you were both in the same show on Broadway. Before she married Fred, the two of you shared an apartment at the Algonquin Hotel.”
“I’m still there,” I said.
He looked straight through me with those very blue eyes. “I want to know more about you,” he said.
“But we’ve talked about me all night,” I replied. “It’s your turn, Paul. I only know you’re Betzi’s friend from California. You produce oil for cars, you just arrived here in New York, you love to dance, and you are very persuasive in telling this girl, a perfect stranger, what she should do with her career. Now, please, tell me about you!”
He smiled. “Why don’t we have supper tomorrow night, Teddy, after your performance, when we have more time? You must know I want to see you again, and then we’ll talk about me, all right?”
I nodded yes and walked out of El Morocco on a cloud. When we arrived at the Algonquin, Paul escorted me into the lobby. As I entered the old elevator, I saw him stop and smile as he watched me disappear . . . And suddenly I realized I didn’t know his last name!
Arriving at my apartment I found this note under my door.
Teddy, You certainly made a great impression on Paul! I’ve never seen him so attracted to anyone as he was to you tonight. Hope you had fun.
Call me tomorrow,
Betzi
All the next day I kept thinking about Paul, about his wanting to see me again—and so soon—and about what I felt when I was in his arms. Damn! I wished I could talk to Betzi, but she wasn’t home. Older men kind of scared me. He was probably only about forty, but he seemed so wise.
“Oh, Teddy,” I told myself with a sigh, “just be yourself. That’s who he wants to know. You: Miss Teddy Lynch, the glamorous debutante singer of the Club New Yorker . . . who is really a scared young girl, afraid that if he finds out who she really is, he’ll never call again.”
CHAPTER 6
VERSAILLES
The night after I met Paul, I saw him again in the audience at the New Yorker, sitting at a table all by himself. The minute I finished, he was beside me, smiling and applauding with the rest of the crowd. “You were great, Teddy,” he whispered. “Come . . . let’s go to Versailles.”
It was always flattering to a girl to be taken to Versailles. It meant your escort wished to show you off. Versailles was the best of New York in the 1930s—the city at its most exciting and glamorous. Its walls were decorated with murals of the great palace. Crystal chandeliers, gleaming white linen tablecloths, sparkling silver, and elegantly dressed waiters in scarlet uniforms added to the illusion that one was living in the days of the Sun King, Louis XIV.
The Beautiful, the Social, and the Would-Be-Seen flocked here for fun and publicity. When we arrived, it was jammed. Harry “Puttin’ on the Ritz” Richman was to appear within the hour. Because it was his opening night, the club was a madhouse, but the doorman easily recognized Paul. We were ushered right in, past others who were waiting, and escorted to a banquette close to the stage.
Coming in from the bar area was Hope Hampton—a famous radio personality on the show First Nighter—draped in diamonds, all in white, with a young man at her side. She led the line, and was shown without delay to a ringside table. There, too, was the nightclub hopper and asbestos heir Tommy Manville, black shirt, white tie, with one of his eleven wives. Gypsy Rose Lee, who had already made the difficult transition from burlesque stripper to actress, saw me and waved hello, as did Cornelius Vanderbilt Jr. Columnists, including Walter Winchell, Ed Sullivan, Dorothy Kilgallen, and Leo
nard Lyons, were all there, taking notes, as were Cholly Knickerbocker (Maury Paul) and Nancy Randolph.
Once we were seated and had ordered our supper, Paul turned and looked at me. “You were great tonight, Teddy, and I wasn’t wrong. You’re young, beautiful, and talented, even more than you realize and . . .”
“Paul,” I put my hand out, “please . . . You promised we’d talk about you tonight, remember?”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I? Well, where shall I begin? With my ancestors?” He smiled. “Their name was Getty. They came from Gettystown, Ireland. The sons of John Getty left Ireland for America at the end of the eighteenth century. There were three of them: John, James, and William. John, a mercenary soldier, probably fought in Paris during the French Revolution. He eventually opened a tavern in Cresaptown, Maryland. I was told that when he was seventy, he married for the second time, fell off a horse after a drinking bout, and froze to death! James had a better fate. He eventually bought land in Pennsylvania, where Gettysburg stands, thus forever naming the famous battleground of the Civil War.”
“How fabulous! You’re part of our American history!” I exclaimed.
“We all are,” Paul said. “You, too, I’m sure.”
“What happened to William?” I asked.
Paul laughed. “No one really knows. He just disappeared someplace in the wilds of Kentucky.”
“Oh, poor man.”
“John Getty, my grandfather, was only a small farmer, but my father, his son George, worked his way through college, became a lawyer, and at forty entered the oil business. As for me, I went to UCLA, then to Oxford and, in between semesters, I worked in the oil fields.”
“And now you’re a producer, drilling your own oil wells,” I said.
He reached for my hand. “Shall we dance before the floor gets too crowded? We can talk more later.”
Again I was in his arms, he was holding me close, and it felt right. We didn’t speak, we just danced as a thousand questions whirled through my head. Suddenly he stopped and looked at me. “This Gene Berton you spoke of . . . is he really teaching you?”
“Yes, and I’m making a recording of some of the songs next week.”
“I want to hear them.”
“You shall,” I replied. “I’ll even give you one. My German isn’t very good yet, but the words are so tender and the melodies are divine.”
Paul smiled. “That’s a perfect description of German lieder. I can’t wait. Come, let’s eat!” We made our way back to the table, where a waiter in a scarlet uniform had just arrived with our food.
Harry Richman, still the great performer, excited the audience with his age-old songs. The show ended with six beautiful half-naked showgirls parading around, followed by Richman singing “Too Good for the Average Man” from the Rodgers and Hart hit show On Your Toes. The applause was thunderous and, as it died down, I looked over and realized Paul was not looking at Harry or the girls, but at me. I blushed.
“You’re very sweet, Teddy, and very tempting in that lovely dress.”
“It’s from Macy’s French shop,” I said proudly. “I buy all my evening clothes there. I love the color purple, and satin catches the light, so I kind of shine when I wear this out in the spotlight.”
“It’s not the dress; it’s the girl inside the dress,” he replied warmly. “You shine in or out of a spotlight, my dear. It’s an innate quality, something you were born with that just shines.”
“Thanks, Paul, and thanks for this wonderful supper. I didn’t realize it, but I was starving.”
“I’m glad it pleases you. In fact, I’m amazed and pleased that you have such a healthy appetite. Most girls I take out only pick at their food.”
“Most girls are afraid they’ll get fat,” I answered. “It’s the fashion today to be thin as a rail.”
“Keep on eating, Teddy! Your figure’s divine, and as for me, I’m happy to have found a girl who likes her food as much as I do. I’m going to ask you to dine with me every night, for as long as I’m in New York.”
I stopped eating, my fork in midair. “And how long will that be?” I asked quickly, perhaps too quickly. I didn’t want him to go. The thought of Paul leaving when he had only just arrived took me by surprise—as did my reaction. After all, I’d only seen him twice, but there was already this something that I felt, and I knew he felt it, too! It was an attraction I had not believed possible between strangers—till now. Then I heard that little voice inside my head. Dreamer, wake up! it said. I sighed.
“What’s wrong?” Paul asked. “I heard you sigh.”
“Oh! I was just waiting for your answer.”
He wasn’t fooled. “No, Teddy, you were a million miles away. You don’t have to dine every night with me. I’m sure there’s a long list of suitors just waiting to take you out. And if there’s someone special, I’ll understand.” I shook my head no.
As he helped me into a cab, Paul said, “I’m going to England soon. I’m not sure of the date, but I’d love you to be there when I am.”
I looked at him in amazement, but said nothing.
“You could sing at the Dorchester Hotel in London,” he continued.
“How could I possibly sing in London, Paul? I’d have to go there and audition.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he said. “I can guarantee the job.”
“Not unless you own the Dorchester.”
“I don’t own it, but the owner is a personal friend. I’m certain he would book you on my recommendation. It would help your career to appear abroad. And when you come back, you’d have added a dimension to your career.”
“Thanks, Paul,” I said, realizing he was testing me, “but I have all the dimensions I need right now.” I turned away.
“You’d be more in demand . . .” I heard him say.
“I’m in demand already . . . I’m booked solid,” I said. “There are a lot of girls trying to get my job at the New Yorker, but the management likes me, so I’m not really worried.” I felt myself grow cold. What kind of girl did he think I was? “You’d better take me home, Paul. I have to work with Gene in the morning, and it’s almost two thirty now!”
“Tomorrow is Sunday!” he protested.
“That’s the only time he has to work this week,” I explained.
“But won’t you still come to the Plaza tomorrow evening? I’m staying there. And don’t you remember? I’ve invited Betzi, Fred, Jean, and Ware for cocktails and dinner to celebrate. We’ll meet about seven o’clock in my apartment, then go to the Persian Room. Emil Coleman’s orchestra is playing. You don’t perform on Sundays nights, do you?”
“No.”
“Good. Because I really want you to be with me.”
The cab sped down Sixth Avenue. I was sitting as close as I could to the door on my side of the car and was rather silent when Paul said, “Please say you’ll come, Teddy. I know they are all looking forward to seeing you.” As he spoke, he took my hand in his. “My God! You’re cold . . . you’re shivering! What kind of an evening wrap are you wearing?” He felt it. “It’s too light!”
“It’s gold cloth,” I said.
“That’s not warm enough.”
“It’s pretty,” I said.
“You are really something, Teddy,” he said, laughing. “I know you wore this because it goes with your purple gown, but you must never jeopardize your health for your career. Here.” He put his arms around me and pulled a frigid me close to him. It felt so good to be held, to be in the arms of someone who really cared. We stayed that way until my shivering stopped.
“Are you warmer now?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Then don’t move.” I didn’t. “Will you come tomorrow night?”
“Yes,” I said. And with that, he leaned down and kissed me all the way to the Algonquin.
CHAPTER 7
ONE FIFTH AVENUE AND THE STORK CLUB
On Sunday morning I rehearsed my songs with Gene Berton, but then I spent the rest of the day trying t
o find the perfect dress for dinner. I was really nervous when I reached the Plaza, but was excited when Paul said how lovely I looked.
He introduced me to his friends, Ruloff (Rully) and Sunny Cutten. When Ware, Jean, Betzi, and Fred arrived, we all went down to the Persian Room. After dinner, I danced with Rully, Ware, Fred, and finally Paul.
“I’ve been wanting to dance with you all evening,” Paul whispered as he took me in his arms. “And now the evening is almost over!”
“I know,” I said, thinking the same thing, “but I should go home soon. I’m recording a new song with Gene in the morning, and I want to do my best.”
“I want you to do your best, too, and you will, I’m sure.” Again he held me close, and we danced the last few minutes without speaking. When the music stopped, we walked back to the table. After saying good night to the Cuttens, Ware, and Jean, I left with Betzi and Fred, who dropped me off on their way back to their home in the Village.
Just as I was going to sleep, Betzi called. “Darling,” she said. “I think my friend Paul Getty is completely captivated by you. The entire time we were dancing he talked only about how independent you were, how principled, courageous, stubborn, and talented! What about you, Teddy? How do you feel about him?”
“Oh, Betz,” I sighed, “I don’t know. He seems to see right through me and it scares me. He’s been telling me what I should do to have a more fulfilling career, and I seem to want his approval. I wonder why. It’s strange—from the night you introduced us, I’ve felt a great attraction, but maybe I’m dreaming!”
“If that’s how you feel, Teddy, I’m glad, because he is definitely interested in you, not only as a woman, but as an artist.”
Later I could still hear Betzi’s last words, “Don’t forget Teddy, voice or no voice, you’re someone special—and he knows it!” I smiled, thinking he was someone special, too!
When I hung up the phone, I walked over to the dresser, opened the drawer, and pulled out a lovely French handkerchief embroidered with the phrase “Qui ne risque rien, n’a rien” (“Nothing ventured, nothing gained”). Paul was saying the same thing, telling me what he thought was best for me to do with my career: “Attempt the impossible. Reach out for what you want.” His advice and encouragement made me want to keep trying.
Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty Page 4
