“Tim—be serious. How do I really look? Am I okay?”
“Yes, really, Mom. You look beautiful, but be sure to wear the flowers the airline gave you.”
We landed easily, and in seconds we were in the airport. From that moment I wasn’t aware of anything except looking for Paul. And there he was, scanning the crowd for us. He looked wonderful. Just then, the customs officer said, smiling, “You may go, madame.” Timmy and I moved along down the ramp, and at that exact moment Paul saw us, too. He waved, and we both rushed toward him like the UCLA football team.
After giving us a very warm welcome, as though we had never parted, Paul drove us back to Paris, the three of us sitting in the front seat. He drove right down the Champs Élysées to the Hotel George V, where we found our rooms ready for us—and—we were ready for them.
Paul noted our meeting in his diary entry of June 5, 1955:
Drove my new ’55 Cad to Orly, saw Teddy and Timmy 50 yds. away going thru Customs, Teddy looked very glamorous—was wearing an orchid. Timmy looked much larger than I remembered him. Soon I greeted my dear ones. So glad to be with them. 4 years! They came to my room, #801 after an hour in their room, #533. Timmy has some vision and is now wearing glasses. He seems bright and well. He runs and plays. I love him dearly and admire him.
That evening we three had dinner at the Tour D’Argent. As we left the George V we saw Jack Forester. Teddy hadn’t seen him since 1940 in Rome.
She had had dinner with Jack and Frank Ryan just as war broke out. Teddy looks about the same as she did 4 years ago and was good enough to say that I did too.
That evening, Paul was invited to go to a huge party given on a barge floating down the River Seine. He wanted me to go with him, but I couldn’t leave Timmy. The next morning, Paul called to tell us what the party was like. It sounded fabulous.
When I read Paul’s diary, years after this trip, I found passages describing that visit from Paul’s point of view:
June 11, 1955
Timmy came to my room alone—he found it alright. We had quite a talk. He then asked me to name a few dinosaurs. I remembered all but one, triceratops. Timmy laughed and said, “Daddy, just remember, ‘Try-Cereal-Tops.’ It’s CEREAL, like the kind you eat at breakfast.” This made me laugh, and now I’ll never forget it.
June 14, 1955
Timmy is 9 years old today. So glad to be with him. Gave him 30,000 francs for his birthday present and a big birthday cake at dinner that evening with Teddy and me. Surprisingly, Marion Anderson and her son, Jan, joined us. They’re here visiting Paris. Now Timmy has someone to play with, though Jan is a few years older.
Our routine during our stay was simple. Paul would call us every morning to let us know when he could see us, for he was extremely busy. I’d ask Marion and Jan to spend that time with us visiting the most important places one must see when in Paris—Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, and especially Versailles.
Sometimes Timmy seemed tired and would have to rest, but moments later he’d say, “I’m okay now, Mom.” And we’d go on. But we’d take it very easy.
One afternoon we went to Montmartre, where we browsed through a few art galleries. At one, we met the artist Michel-Marie Poulain, who, fortunately for us, was at the gallery showing his work. It was exciting for Timmy to meet a real artist. Poulain was known for his portraits of young people, and Timmy saw two that he wished to buy with his birthday money. One, a pretty girl surrounded by several French sailors at a dance hall, and the other, a young girl smiling.
On meeting the artist, we were not only captivated by his work, but by his charm and the fact that he was known all over the world. We sent these paintings back to Santa Monica, only after first showing them to Paul, who approved of his nine-year-old son’s charming taste.
When Marion went away for a week, she asked if Jan could stay with us. I ordered another bed to be put in with Timmy and me, much to the amazement of the waiter who brought us breakfast the following morning. Also amazed was the maid who was to clean our room. Later, when she assumed we’d left for the day, she made the mistake of looking through the keyhole of our door to see if we’d left. The boys were waiting for her with a water gun, which sent her dripping down the hall.
Once or twice that week, Timmy went out in the morning with Jan, both of them wearing blue-and-white-striped sweaters and berets. I wouldn’t know where they were for hours. I didn’t think Timmy could see very well, but he saw well enough to get around, and always knew how to get back to the hotel.
One morning, an extremely upset manager knocked on our door and demanded to see the boys. When they appeared, he looked at them and firmly asked, “Did you two change the shoes at everyone’s door on this floor last night?”
I looked at my son and said, “Timmy, did you boys do this?”
“Yes, Mom,” he answered. “We did, and I’m sorry.”
“Me, too!” Jan added.
“Well, go put those shoes back where they belong, and apologize at once to this gentleman,” I said.
I then turned to the hotel manager, threw up my hands, and said, “Je regrette aussi, monsieur.”
He bowed and said, “Ça ne fait rien, Madame Getty,” and followed the boys out.
The next day we headed for Calais to take the ferry to Dover.
We stayed in London for a month. Not only did they see the sights, but Timmy and Jan were taken out to Whipsnade, the famous zoo, by Paul’s special friend, Penelope Kitson, to see the Kodiak bear, among the other animals. When they returned, Timmy told me he’d had a great time, but decided Penelope wasn’t a very good mother.
“Why?” asked Paul.
“Because she doesn’t know how to make a peanut butter sandwich.”
“Oh,” Paul said, smiling.
That evening when we arrived at Paul’s apartment, Ronnie Getty was there. The boys were surprised and happy to see each other. Their last meeting had been four years earlier, in April of 1951, up at the Ranch in Malibu, when Eda Edson and her crew filmed Paul showing his art collection.
While waiting to see their father, the boys and I played cards on the floor of his drawing room. When Paul joined us, both boys jumped up and greeted their father. Then Paul walked over to greet me. I looked up at him. He seemed concerned.
“What’s wrong, Paul?” I asked.
“I just realized I’m in need of another name for our company. It seems Pacific Western doesn’t register well with the people of Europe. It sounds more like an island in the Pacific than the name of an oil company.” And he started to laugh.
I thought for a minute, then I looked up at him. “Why don’t you call it Getty Oil? It’s your name—use it like your friend, Harry Sinclair, the Sinclair Oil Company.”
“That’s a good idea, Teddy.” Months later Paul wrote Timmy from Saudi Arabia on Pacific Western letterhead. Above it was stamped Getty Oil Company.
Before we left London, I had a meeting with Paul and his lawyer, Tom Dockweiler, in Paul’s suite. I sat down with both, and when we started talking about Timmy, I burst into tears and ran out on the terrace. When I returned, I saw Paul had tears in his eyes. I thought they were just sentimental tears, brought on by my mentioning Timmy’s courage and faith in God. Paul told me then, and never stopped telling me, that I was a wonderful mother—that my love and devotion to Timmy was inspiring to all.
When Paul left the room, I turned to Tom. “I must get a divorce,” I said.
“Why?” he replied. “You have a wonderful agreement.”
“Are you mad, Tom? It may be good for Paul, but not for me, a mother with a son who needs a father. Don’t you realize Paul hasn’t seen Timmy for the last four years?! He never came home for that first horrifying operation, after he promised me he would. And when Timmy was finally well enough to travel, Paul wouldn’t let me bring him over to see him.”
“Well, if you divorce Paul, will you marry again?”
“I’d have to fall in love,” I replied. “I can’t live this
way any longer, Tom, to condone a marriage used as a protection for either of us. I loved him and believed he loved me. I thought the trial separation would save our marriage, hoping someday we’d get together again, but it hasn’t worked. I’m miserable living like this. Paul always said, ‘Put a value on yourself, Teddy’—and I think it’s about time I did. I can’t be married any longer to a man who’s constantly having extramarital affairs. It’s not right—I must be free.”
“My dear Teddy, I understand, but for the moment, take care of your son. And when he’s well enough, then talk of divorce.”
After Timmy left with Marion and Jan for supper and a movie, Paul and I were to have dinner alone in the hotel. I was sitting at the dressing table in my suite, getting ready, when I heard the click of a key, heard the door open, and called out, “Who’s there?”
“Your husband, dear,” Paul answered, walking in.
I was surprised to hear those words; they jolted me back into reality.
“Just give me a minute and I’ll slip into a dress,” I called out. But coming up from behind, he leaned down, kissed me on the cheek, and smiled at me from the mirror before us. I smiled back.
“You look beautiful, darling,” he said, as his hands moved down my body, caressing my breasts.
I pushed his hands away, stood up, reached for my negligee, turned, and kissed him right on the mouth. “Wait here. I’ll be ready in a minute.”
“Why?” he said, pulling me back, kissing me again and holding me.
I slipped out of his arms and walked into the bedroom. Shutting the door, I leaned against it, my heart pounding. I wanted to make love to this man more than ever. He must have felt this. It brought back our life together at the beach all over again. Stop it, Teddy! I thought to myself. It can never be the same. And just stop dreaming. He’ll never be a husband. You live in an empty home.
Paul knocked. “Need help?” he said, laughing.
“I’m fine, almost ready!” I called out, wiping tears from my eyes. I then hurriedly put on my dress, reached for my handbag, and opened the door. He was standing there.
“You know, you really haven’t changed a bit, Teddy Boo. You’re still the same adorable girl I’ve always loved.”
“No, Paul, I’m a woman. Now, let’s go eat.”
The restaurant was very quiet that evening; only the orchestra was playing. After we were seated, Paul ordered dinner and a bottle of wine, then studied me a minute, smiled, and said, “I’m really sorry you’re leaving. I wish you and Tim could stay longer.”
“Maybe you can arrange to see Timmy more often, for he has asked if you still love him. He’s a brilliant little boy, capable of doing something great in life . . . And you, his father, should be the one to guide him.”
“I want to.”
“Well, if you really do, Paul, don’t wait too long.”
I suddenly noticed the orchestra had started playing again. Our eyes met, we smiled. It was “Alone Together”—our song. He took my hand and led me onto the dance floor. The passion, chemistry, and love we had had for each other hadn’t changed from the night we had met in 1935 . . . but time had changed us.
He held me close. We danced in silence. I longed to go back, longed for those days, and in a whisper I said, “Darling, we must dissolve this marriage.”
He looked at me. “Teddy!”
“This separation agreement isn’t working for me. You seem to be happy, but I’m not. I need to be free . . . free to love . . . you understand, don’t you?”
“Teddy. Don’t you love me anymore?”
“Of course I do, but I want a whole marriage.”
“Teddy.”
“Paul, you’ve been absent from my life these past four years. You want me to be happy, too, don’t you?”
“Yes, but . . . what will this do to Timmy?”
“He’ll understand. However, I won’t start proceedings until he’s completely well.”
The day we were to leave for America, Paul called Timmy into his office, and they stayed there for almost an hour, talking. When they came out, Paul had his arm around his son and though they were both smiling, Paul looked as though he had tears in his eyes. I could see that Timmy was touched by his father’s embrace, especially when Paul leaned down and said, “I hate to see you go, son, but come back after your next school break.”
“I will, Daddy, and thanks, I’ve had a real good time with you.”
I joined them, and we all walked out of the hotel where Lee, Paul’s chauffeur, was waiting for us with the car.
Timmy kissed Paul, and turning to me asked, “Mom, may I sit in the front seat with Lee?”
“Of course, dear,” I replied. Lee took Timmy by the hand, led him to the front of the car, and buckled him into his seat.
I looked at Paul. He pulled me to him, put his arms around me, kissed me tenderly, and said, “I wish I were going with you, Teddy Boo.”
I smiled and said, “Me, too, Paul.” Then I turned and stepped into the car. Lee closed the door, and I closed my eyes, not wanting to say good-bye.
Lee drove us to Southampton, where we boarded the Queen Mary at night. It was exciting because there was a full moon and the sea was calm, and a huge bouquet of flowers from Paul greeted us as we walked into our cabin. It was a great trip, but rather sad. Timmy sometimes felt ill, but we walked the decks every morning, swam in the pool, listened to concerts, and watched movies.
Upon arriving in New York we were met by Ware who drove us out to the Silvermine Tavern, where he arranged for me to lease a charming little furnished house . . . Timmy returned to Daycroft for the school year.
Each day after homework, Tim would practice his drums (a Christmas gift from his dad), and during the days while Tim was at school, I’d keep myself busy studying concert pieces on a piano I rented, or sometimes meet with other mothers from Timmy’s school for brunch to arrange lectures and fundraisers. We had our own maid who came each day to help us.
In the evenings, the sound of the river would put us to sleep, in winter, snowstorms would make us grateful for that huge fireplace. It was a different life than the one we knew in Santa Monica. Across the road and up a ways was the area called the Silvermine Art Colony. It was there young artists studied while others showed their paintings for sale. There were several antiques shops and best of all, a small café, where you could order a cup of coffee and a sandwich. The only market within miles was on Valley Road, where one could walk safely and happily enjoy the river and the lush countryside, undisturbed by city traffic.
Soon after we arrived, I called Bill to let him know that we were home. He was in Maine and asked that I bring Timmy up to his island. “It’s great weather now. Tommy’s here, and it’ll be good for Timmy. Furthermore, it’ll be good for you, too, Teddy.”
A few days later, after getting settled in our new home, we drove to Rockland, Maine, and took the ferry to Vinalhaven. Bill and Tommy met us, and off we went in his boat to Crotch Island, which seemed from afar nothing more than a forest rising out of the sea. Then, as we drew closer, it was absolutely fascinating, for we landed there just as the sun was setting. The first thing I noticed as I stepped onto the dock was a beautiful green lawn with a tree in the middle of it, a rowboat beside it with a wooden mermaid standing in it, and flowers planted around the tree and boat.
Beyond stood the huge log house Bill had built himself years ago. There was a long porch the length of the house, with two inviting hammocks. Walking in, we found ourselves in a living area with an amazing fireplace at one end constructed out of enormous granite rocks. On the far side of the room, just two steps up, was a raised dining room that could seat twenty persons. Later, I learned Bill had built it as a stage to present plays.
Bill cooked the dinner that evening. We ate the lobsters Tommy had just pulled from his trap, and fresh beans and corn Bill had grown in his island garden. It was the beginning of a great week for Timmy and me. With no electricity and only a generator used for the television, la
sting about an hour and a half, it would be a calamity if it suddenly stopped before the end of a program you were watching. Bill carefully chose programs that started and stopped within the allotted time. I quickly learned how difficult it was to do the chores that have to be done if one lives in a house on a privately owned island without the conveniences of electricity, furnaces, washer-dryers, refrigerators . . . or servants.
Timmy, under Tommy’s instruction, was taught all about lobsters—how to tell their age, their sex, and whether they were big enough to keep. If they weren’t a certain size, one had to throw them back into the sea immediately. If you were caught by the Marine Police, you’d be fined. Red Phillips, Bill’s good friend from Vinalhaven, took Timmy fishing several days, telling him stories of his life at sea.
One night, after the boys had gone to bed, Bill and I were sitting on the big couch in front of the fireplace. He asked, “Teddy, tell me . . . are you and Paul divorced?”
I looked over at him. “No, I wanted a divorce, but he wanted a separation agreement, and then, when Timmy became ill, I just couldn’t. These years have been horrific. Paul wouldn’t come home and wouldn’t let me bring Timmy to him until this year.”
I sighed, got up, walked over to the fireplace, turned, and looked at Bill. Then, feeling I’d cry, I turned away.
“You know, Teddy,” Bill said, “Paul never mentioned when we met in Paris that Timmy had gone through such serious operations. He only said you were in California—so why don’t you call her?”
I looked at him for a long moment, smiled and said, “Well, you did, and it’s been wonderful, not only for Tim, but for me.”
“Then stay for a few more days.” With that, Bill pulled me to him and kissed me. For the first time in years, I felt safe, with a sense of belonging.
CHAPTER 40
CALIFORNIA OR BUST
In February 1956, I took Timmy into New York to see Dr. Hoen. All seemed well.
On February 21, after we decided to separate, Paul wrote a very loving letter to me.
Alone Together: My Life With J. Paul Getty Page 31
