Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty

by Theodora Getty Gaston

  Thanks for the lovely photos and the sweet inscription.

  Love, Paul

  Mother asked, “How is Paul, and where is he, Teddy?”

  “Still in London, Mom, but he is so funny. Listen to what he says: ‘I hate to owe so much money in hard times and expect to spend the rest of my life paying off my debts.’ What a cheerful thought! Honestly, from this letter you’d think he was the only one in the whole wide world who owed any money. Everyone does.”

  “Well, Teddy,” Ludwig remarked, “that’s what makes him the stupendous, unique businessman he is, for he’s conscientious not only about every single aspect of his business—large or small—but also about his debts.”

  “Would that others were like him,” Mother interjected.

  “Ludwig,” I said, “isn’t my mom the most beautiful mother?”

  He smiled and said, “She’s very beautiful. And what’s more, she looks young enough to be your sister. You know, Louise, I’ve always said you and your three daughters are quite special. And as for your husband, Teddy, what he has accomplished this past year is quite unparalleled in the history of the oil business.”

  Mother asked, “What do you mean, Ludwig?”

  “Well, I understand that while the other American oil giant Aminoil were debating whether to make an offer to the Saudi Arabians, and if they did, what amount to offer, Paul just walked right in, fearlessly on his own. With the courage to use only his own capital and the same daring he has always used in the past to challenge the seeming unobtainable, he plunged into this hazardous venture before others dared. And so, he victoriously came out with the prize. In brief, he not only had the ambition, the drive, the courage, and the willingness to gamble his fortune, but he had perception of the ultimate accomplishment.”

  I shouted, “Ludwig, that’s the word! Perception. That’s exactly what Paul has. Do you know, Ware told me that over a year ago Paul came to see him in New York and asked if he would order a complete language course on records in the Arabic language from one of Ware’s clients, the Linguaphone Company. So you see, even then he was planning to learn the language, so that he could speak with the Saudi Arabians in their own tongue—actually speak their language and not be at the mercy of interpreters. And that’s why he succeeded. Isn’t he terrific? But . . . I still wish we could be together more. It’s lonely being married to an ‘explorer who now is almost always on safari.’ And what hurts me more is that he doesn’t need me when he’s away—in Paris, London, or Rome. In fact, that’s what he said right before he left. And he added he ‘needs me here.’ So, I’m localized. I’m here, always waiting for him to return. I’m not even a part of this new part of his world. Oh, please understand—I’m proud and happy for him, and I thoroughly realize that Paul is now in the international arena; but his dreams—his ambitions—are world-projected. And mine? Well, Paul is my world.

  “I remember when we first met, I said (and I’ve said it many times since), ‘He is like a comet, and I, like a stargazer, trying to follow his blazing trail across the sky through a child’s binoculars.’ I guess I should have realized right then that we perhaps were too far apart to begin with. But I loved him and still do, and because I do, I want to protect our marriage. Being separated for so long puts him in a vulnerable position, and I feel so intently the danger of women he will naturally meet, and who themselves are already a part of this new cosmopolitan world of his. Beautiful, elegant, intelligent, worldly, exciting women . . . some who love intrigue and live for it (and by it) . . . some who search out men of status and wealth . . . and some who just like to break up marriages. So, how can I combat this if I’m not there? It scares me, just like it would any woman who loves her husband.”

  “My gracious, Teddy,” Mother said. “I never realized you were so concerned. But, darling, don’t anticipate the worst. You know, beautiful, educated, artistic women have always attracted men, and Paul’s no exception. Now that he has become more involved in the world of international finance, and his absorbing love of art and his collection, he’s bound to be exposed to many women from all walks of life, whether socially prominent or not, who will hold an absolute fascination for him. You know, the right ones.”

  “Mom, I’m not afraid of those. It’s the others.”

  “Teddy, dear”—and she spoke with great tenderness, just like a mother—“yours is certainly not the ‘usual marriage,’ for neither of you are ‘usual people.’ You both have strong, independent natures. Remember, Teddy, you let Paul come home by himself and you stayed on in Italy. But I’m sure he loves you.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he does. But he loves his Ardabil carpet too . . .”

  “Now, Teddy . . .”

  “Now, Mother . . .”

  “Girls,” Ludwig said, “I don’t know about you two, but I need a drink.”

  On June 22, 1949, Paul called from Anvers. “I’ve been on the Continent for two days and have a high fever. No other symptoms so far. I don’t know what causes it. Teddy, do you know I considered taking the Dover Ostend boat, but took the Dover Calais instead? Yesterday afternoon, as I drove through Dunkerque, the boat I considered taking struck a mine two miles offshore and sank in minutes.”

  “Oh, Paul, thank God you’re safe.”

  “How are you and Timmy?” he asked.

  “We’re fine. And I have a surprise for you. Timmy’s taking piano lessons.”

  “Piano lessons? Isn’t he a bit young to learn piano?”

  “Well, he’s no Mozart yet, but he’s loving it.”

  Paul laughed and asked, “How about your show? Is it still running successfully?”

  “Yes, darling, we’re playing to capacity audiences.”

  “Teddy, you know it’s lonely here, and I dread being sick in a strange land among strangers.”

  “Well, there are no strangers here, so you better come home. In the meantime, rest, and Timmy and I will pray for you. I wish you were calling me from Santa Monica right now instead of half a world away.”

  “Darling Teddy, I love you, and I’ll call you soon from New York. Bye.”

  “Bye, Paul. I love you, too.”

  I started to hang up the phone but I heard, “Oh, Teddy, I forgot to tell you. I lunched with Harold Christie at the Ritz yesterday. Remember him? He remembered you. He said you were such a beautiful girl, and that everyone loved your singing when you were at the British Colonial Supper Room in Nassau years ago.”

  “Yes. I remember him. Everyone called him ‘Mr. Nassau’ in those days.”

  “Well, they still do. Teddy, you certainly must have made an impression on him. Would you believe he had the nerve to ask me for your address and telephone number? I think it came rather as a shock to him when I told him we were married. Strange, isn’t it, he didn’t know? Well, believe me, he knows it now. I stopped him cold.”

  A few days later, Timmy and I were having breakfast when the telephone rang. It was Paul. He was calling from Paris to say hello and to reassure himself that we were well. “What room are you sitting in?” he asked. “Is Timmy with you? What are you two doing exactly?” Did it in some way reassure him he could call “home” and find us right where he’d left us?

  Timmy excitedly begged to talk to his dad, and after a few breathless moments, during which he told his daddy how well he could swim across the pool, he relinquished the phone to me and dashed off to nursery school with Lela.

  I sat there for a long time, just wondering why he’d want to know what we were doing. It was quiet in the house, only the sound of the sea, and only Robert calling to Hildy and the puppies for their breakfast broke the silence. What was it? What possible reason could it be that Paul didn’t want us with him this time in Europe? And as for not being able to afford us, or our being in the way of any business deal he wanted to make, that was absurd . . . Or was it?

  Then suddenly it came to me, and I knew . . . and the knowing broke my heart.

  My presence in Europe, being Paul’s wife and half Jewish, might ve
ry well have ruined any deal Paul was about to make with the Saudi Arabians. How I wish he had told me this, for it must have been the reason, and he must have been extremely upset, not wanting to hurt me . . . But more important, he didn’t want to lose the deal.

  CHAPTER 33

  NEW YEAR’S EVE, 1949

  Paul was delayed in Paris by business and didn’t return to New York until late November. Then he went on to Tulsa.

  After hurriedly finishing his work at the factory, accompanied by his eldest son, George, and Pop Morey, one of his most able assistants, the three drove to Kansas City. On arrival Paul telephoned to say, “Darling, we’re having dinner at the Muehlebach Hotel, then on to the Ice Follies, then I’m going to catch the Super Chief, which goes through here about midnight, heading for California—and you, my love. I can’t wait to see you, Teddy.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, and Timmy keeps saying, ‘If Daddy doesn’t hurry up, he’s going to miss Christmas.’ Wait till you see him. He’s grown so much.” It had been eight months since Paul had seen Timmy.

  “I’ll bet he has. Give him a kiss for me. I’ve missed him, too, but Teddy, dear, I’ve missed you more.”

  Two days later, very early in the morning, I drove over to Pasadena in my Continental to meet Paul. He looked wonderful. And when he kissed me, I knew how much I’d missed him.

  We drove hurriedly to the beach house. Paul was anxious to see our little redhead, who, as planned, was waiting with a warm “Welcome home, Daddy.” Then Timmy dragged his daddy to the living room, where he played his “first piece” on the piano for him.

  Paul was visibly affected by Timmy’s concentrated effort, and applauded him. Then, it was his turn to surprise Timmy, and he sat down at the piano and played a Rachmaninoff prelude for us. Timmy watched his father, intently fascinated. When Paul finished, Timmy walked over to the piano, took one of Paul’s hands in his tiny little hands, and said, “Oh—thank you, Daddy, for such an excellent concert.”

  After we three lunched on the terrace, Timmy went upstairs to take his nap, Paul left to look at his new office in Santa Monica, and I dashed off to shop for “something special” for dinner. With the car loaded with groceries, I picked Paul up at his office and we started for the house.

  Having come home at this time was of particular importance to Timmy. He was not quite three when his daddy went to Europe, and for the next eight months his waking hours had been spent in the company of his mom, his beloved “Lulu,” his aunts and cousins. While he always expressed deep affection for each one of us, it was apparent that this little man relished his relationship with Paul. Although he didn’t try to emulate his daddy, his attitude was one of a self-appointed assistant as he listened to Paul giving orders to the ranch foreman, Pat Fleming, regarding the care of all the animals and the pruning of the lemons and avocado groves. And although Timmy remained silent, he watched the developments at the ranch with tremendous interest and seemed to assume a certain responsibility as more statuary, furniture, art objects, and tapestries arrived and were brought into Paul’s museum.

  One of our most enjoyable activities at the ranch was the exciting excursion up the steel spiral stairway from the second floor to the top of the watchtower, and if we were lucky, it was the day of the races.

  We usually went to the tower in the afternoon because that’s when the water—“white-capped” by the prevailing northwest winds—made the “beat to windward” a wet one for the fleet of tiny sailboats racing offshore. This excitment took place right in front of us—as if we could reach out and touch them as they made the turn. At that point, Paul would say, “Watch, Timmy, they’re going around the last buoy. See? They’re setting their spinnakers for an exciting homeward run ‘before the wind.’ ” Fascinated, we’d watch them from our tower post and, as each sailboat “came about” and headed south, throwing sheets of water across their bows, we were always glad they were on their last lap, bound for the finish line off Santa Monica Pier. We never left the tower until the boats—“wee tiny specks on a whole lot of blue” (as Timmy called them)—were safe in the harbor.

  We never left the tower without a last farewell look at two tall, slender, white-barked lemon eucalyptus trees, which stood like sentinels on the far side of the lawn. When the wind blew and the boughs would bend and sway, a third tree could be seen growing beside the smaller one. Timmy would ask, “Daddy, tell me the story again about the three trees.”

  Whereupon Paul, with studied seriousness, would say, “Well, son, you see, when I bought the ranch, you, well, you weren’t quite born yet, and—”

  Timmy would interrupt, “Well, where was I, Daddy?”

  “Well, you were . . . well, you were . . . on the way. And when you arrived, I had these three trees brought in, and I personally helped to plant them. To me, they represent the three of us. Your mommy, you, and me.”

  Timmy never seemed to tire hearing “the story.” In fact, he always seemed as impressed as if he were hearing it for the very first time. And, he believed “the story” was true. I always loved to hear it, and I wanted to believe it, too.

  Paul was now more than ever consumed with business. He was at his office every day, constantly on the phone. Most evenings when I’d come home from a late reading, I’d find him in the living room, sitting in his favorite big green chair, a rum and Coca-Cola on the table by his side, surrounded by piles of papers, maps, and reports he had brought home from his office to study. After a quick “Hi, darling,” I’d run upstairs to kiss Timmy good night and then join Paul for dinner, after which he’d go back for a while to his papers and I’d go out to the lanai to read.

  We’d end most evenings walking across the lawn as far as the gate, to look out at the sea. If it was stormy, we’d watch the thunderous waves sweep up the beach almost to where we were standing, then, in an instant, watch them be sucked back down into the sea by the fierce undertow. How wild to think that, two steps beyond that gate at high tide, we might well be fighting for our lives. How exciting to know we were safe in that little beach house Paul had built so many years ago. No matter how high the tide, or dangerous the winds, that house, built on pilings, could withstand any storm, even earthquakes. And with Paul’s arms around me, I knew there was no safer place on earth for me.

  Months flew by. The weather beautiful, Indian summer in late November. Before we knew it, it was Paul’s birthday, then Christmas Day, when Mother, my sisters, their husbands and children, and Paul’s dear cousin, Hal, joined us for the all-day celebration. We spent hours exchanging and opening presents. Timmy was thrilled at the surprises Santa had left for him. Then, after a delicious turkey dinner, we all went for a long walk down the beach, and in the late afternoon had a Christmas swim in the ocean. Later, a very tired but grateful family said their good-nights. After everyone drove away and Timmy went up to the nursery, Paul and I fell into bed.

  Timmy was up early the next day. He just couldn’t wait to play with his new toys. Paul rose rather early, too, and was busy for hours talking business on the phone. At noon I was relaxing out on the terrace, enjoying the summer sun, when Mother stopped by with some strawberries. Paul joined us and greeted Mother warmly. Later, after waving bye to her as she pulled out of the garage, he turned to me and said, “Teddy, you’re so lucky to have your mom.” Then, in a sad voice he continued, “You know, I’m an orphan.” Without another word he got in his car and was off to spend the day at his office.

  What did he mean that he was an orphan? It wasn’t until much later in the day that I suddenly remembered that his mother and father had passed away many years before. No matter how important or accomplished this man was, for a moment, he was just a little boy again, who felt alone and lost without his parents.

  It was New Year’s Eve, December 31, 1949. Paul and I were giving our first dinner party at the ranch house. We had invited fifty guests to dine, and fifty more would arrive just before midnight to help usher in the New Year.

  The ranch house was ablaze w
ith lights and filled with flowers. We had a strolling combo for dinner, and an orchestra to play from ten P.M. on, for dancing in the theater ballroom.

  The caterers had been busy since five. The kitchen was humming with last-minute preparations of trays, and trays of hors d’oeuvres were placed in the butler’s pantry, and bottles of champagne chilled for serving.

  By 7:45, everything was in readiness . . . except Paul hadn’t come home yet.

  Promptly at 8:00 I met Timmy (who was wearing his Merry-Mite white suit) at the top of the grand staircase, and together we came down to wait at the entrance to receive the first guests, who would arrive at 8:15.

  The intercom buzzed. We knew the guard had opened the lower gate and someone was arriving. Five minutes later Mother’s car drove up and she, looking especially beautiful in a powder blue velvet gown, rushed in and said, “Teddy, the fountain isn’t turned on in the courtyard. And the lights are off in front of the guesthouse. You look so pretty in your new red gown, Teddy. Where’s Paul?”

  “He’s not home yet, Mom.”

  “Not home yet?”

  “Mother, why don’t you and Timmy go in the theater room and look at the bright decorations.”

  The Edward G. Robinsons were just arriving when I was called to the telephone. It was Paul. He said, “Hi, darling. I just picked Mitch Samuels up at the Beverly Hills Hotel. We’re at the beach house on our way to the ranch as soon as I change. Mitch is anxious to see you again. By the way, is Timmy with you?”

  “Of course he’s here. But, Paul—what happened? Why are you so late? Your friends—the Parkfords—are walking in right now. And David and Virginia Mdivani.”

  “Well, take care of them, darling,” he cut in, “and I’ll be there shortly.”

  “But, Paul, what kept you?”

  “Dear, if you must know, I stopped off to see an old friend at the Beachcombers.”

  “Oh, are they coming here tonight?”