They're Playing Our Song

by Carole Bayer Sager

  “I’m not so crazy about Abby Leff anymore either,” he said. “For the same reason.”

  Richard’s voice was annoying me now. I started to yearn for Burt’s soft, sensual tones. I wished I wasn’t having this conversation. I’d rather be making love with him.

  He continued. “Soooo,” letting the O sound linger and linger. “Monday night, what time do we have to be at the Davises?”

  I hated having to answer him. It just happened. Just like that, every word out of his mouth was now annoying me.

  “They’d like us to be there at seven thirty.”

  “Well, that means I should pick you up at about seven fifteen.”

  Why was this conversation making me so crazy?

  “Yeah, seven fifteen sounds okay, or seven thirty? I mean, we don’t have to be there at exactly seven thirty.”

  “Well, I like to be on time. That’s when they called it for. That’s when we should get there.”

  I didn’t answer. He went on. “And what about Wednesday? I’m seeing you on Wednesday, right? We’ve got the Simons.”

  I was thinking he might have been premature telling me the details of his deathly allergy to nuts. If a person wanted to kill him . . .

  “They had us,” Richard said, “so we’ll take them to Spago. And Friday night? What time is your friend Sandy Gallin’s dinner?”

  How was I ever going to get to Friday with this guy when I was having trouble getting through this conversation? I decided to be honest with him.

  “You know, Richard, it’s funny because in all the years I was married to Burt, I really wanted him to commit to times and dates and he couldn’t. I mean, if I asked him at five o’clock what time he wanted dinner that night, it was like I was pressuring him. And now it’s kind of weird because you’re exactly the opposite and I feel like I’ve turned into Burt. I mean, all this planning. It bothers me. It feels so unspontaneous.”

  “Well,” he answered, “grown-ups make plans. Sooooo, what time Friday?”

  I answered, “Seven forty-five,” with resentment in my voice.

  I wondered why I couldn’t be more understanding. It wasn’t that I wasn’t happy to have plans. It was that Richard was his plans. He needed them to feel safe the same way I needed Burt to feel safe. Maybe that’s why it was so irritating.

  I also knew that seven forty-five on Friday would be our last date. How could a man who was so insecure offer me any security? I’d just have to keep looking. I’d start at seven forty-six.

  Thirty-Three

  I MET MY FRIEND Mindy Seeger at an Al-Anon meeting and bonded when we found ourselves taking the same Jael Greenleaf course for Adult Children of Alcoholics. She was a recovering alcoholic who took her program very seriously—she also went to AA meetings—and when I met her she was already ten years sober. Mindy was very insightful and funny, and was willing to spend hours on the phone with me helping me process the end of Burt and the enormous bandwidth it was taking up in my life. One day I told Mindy that I was sure I was shrinking.

  She told me that was impossible, but I really believed it. I showed her how my shoes were getting too big for me, and my fingers were getting smaller. I was the thinnest I had ever been, the weight I always dreamed of, and both surprisingly and not, it alarmed me.

  Without Burt, I felt like I was getting tinier with each month following our split. I felt so diminished by the colossal size of the loss, and being alone felt like I was missing a limb.

  Carrie Fisher fixed me up with George Lucas. She failed at first to say he lived in Marin County, but when she added that part, it did not deter me. In my ongoing search for my next Burt, what was an hour’s flight? Besides, Narada Michael Walden, a hot music producer at the time, had been asking me to come up and see if we could write something together. His studio was in Marin, so a trip north seemed to be in order.

  I flew up to San Francisco that Friday morning.

  After checking into the Four Seasons, I quickly left to meet Narada for a writing session. Narada was given his name by his Indian guru, so that should tell you something about what his studio both looked and smelled like. Incense was wafting from half a dozen pots placed strategically around the rooms, as were Indian shawls with tiny mirror cuts all over them, usually in oranges and blacks, and pillows on makeshift couches. There were two wooden tables with prayer beads and flowers sitting on top.

  The vibe was mellow, very peace and love. But as for our collaboration, it just wasn’t happening. For one thing, Narada was never a hit songwriter; he was a hit producer. And second, I was too fixated on my upcoming date to center myself and write. This trip was happening for only one reason: I wanted to meet George Lucas.

  Narada drove me back to my hotel, where I had two hours to get ready for my date.

  I came down to the lobby looking good. I immediately spotted him waiting by the house phone. He was dressed very preppy, chinos and tweed, and the look worked.

  Maybe it wouldn’t work quite as well on someone else, but on George Lucas, it looked very right.

  He spotted me across the lobby and watched me as I came toward him. I did make a mental note that he didn’t step toward me, but I’d already traveled four hundred miles, so another twelve feet wasn’t such a big deal.

  “Hi,” he said. I was relieved that he recognized me.

  “Hi, nice to see you,” I said, realizing instantly that I should have said, “Nice to meet you,” since this was our first face-to-face encounter.

  “Well, I’m glad you came,” he said reassuringly. “Let’s get dinner.”

  Oh, good, I thought. He’s glad I came.

  I was looking forward to dinner. I did notice he walked very fast. After half a block, we were not walking side by side. I was now following him up one of those ridiculously steep San Francisco streets with another two more still to go until we reached the restaurant. I had no idea why we were walking there. (Well, he was walking, by now I was almost running behind him—in heels, feeling like at any moment the wind could propel me backward down to the bottom of the hill, and he would never know what had happened to me.) Maybe he puts all his dates through a fitness test before he feeds them, I thought. I was completely out of breath and hoping I wasn’t going to break out in a sweat.

  We entered a very small French restaurant where the maître d’ greeted him effusively. He helped Mr. Lucas sit down while I was left to seat myself.

  George asked me if I wanted wine. Not a drinker but most certainly a people pleaser, I said, “Sure, if you do.”

  He asked me what type of wine I preferred.

  I said, “White, please.”

  Had I known this was going to be the last question he would ask me all night, I would have savored it, made it last, drawn it out. In all fairness to George, I was asking him a lot of questions. Not completely out of a deep curiosity, but I had read in a recent magazine article that a man was more prone to look favorably on a new date who showed an interest in him and his work.

  “So,” I asked, “how did you ever come up with the idea for Skywalker Ranch?”

  Two hours later, I knew more about Skywalker Ranch than I did about my own home in Bel Air. It consisted of three thousand acres, with a barn and animals, vineyards, a garden where fruits and vegetables were harvested for the on-site restaurant, a theater as well as multiple screening rooms, and parking that was mostly concealed underground to preserve the natural landscape.

  He’s created his own city, I thought admiringly. It did occur to me that it was going to be difficult for him to move all of this to Los Angeles. At some point he mentioned that he disliked LA and that was why he had worked so hard to make Skywalker a place he never had to leave.

  I felt myself deflating as I heard his words. This was a wasted trip, I was thinking, when the waiter brought our desserts to the table (apple crumble with ice cream for George, berries for me).

  “I really hate LA,” George continued, taking a spoonful of his dessert, the smell of the warm apples distracti
ng me from my boring berries. “The people, the smog, the traffic. The values. The business. I avoid it as much as I can. That’s why I made my world here. I have everything I need,” he paused, “. . . except the girl.”

  I suddenly perked up. I had been praying for a sign. Was I that girl? Because Marin County is only across the bridge from San Francisco, which is a breathtakingly beautiful city.

  The check came, George took care of it, and then he was up and walking ahead of me again. A little winded, I caught up with him in the lobby. We stood facing each other.

  “I probably talked your ear off,” he said.

  “No,” I said, “it was fascinating.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Well,” he said, “you know my feelings about LA, but I do get down there occasionally. So maybe we can have another dinner.”

  “Great,” I replied. “I’d love that.”

  “Well . . . good night.” He awkwardly leaned forward and gave me a dry, mechanical kiss on my lips. It was worthy of R2-D2.

  “Good night, George. Thanks again for a wonderful evening,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment.

  In the elevator I began to calculate the cost of this fiasco. When I passed two thousand dollars, I made myself stop. Back in my room, I noticed the fire in the fireplace was crackling on artificial logs. The king-size bed now looked big and depressing, and the thought of packing up all of my endless makeup and toiletries seemed overwhelming.

  Well, he did kiss me, I told myself, taking it as a small victory and then lapsing into fantasy. He liked me a lot. And I liked him, too.

  Fantasy was so much better than real life. I started to dwell in my newest illusion. What a brilliant guy to create such an extraordinary world. Soon I was feeling hopeful, and as I got ready for bed, I wondered how long it would be before George asked Cristopher and me to move in to Skywalker Ranch.

  Thirty-Four

  THE NIGHT BEFORE ELIZABETH Taylor’s wedding to Larry Fortensky at Michael Jackson’s Neverland Ranch, I hosted a rehearsal dinner for all of the people in the wedding party at a nearby restaurant. The paparazzi were everywhere. All of Solvang, the closest town to the ranch, was swarming with photographers.

  When we were leaving the restaurant, Elizabeth said to me in her sweetest voice, “Oh, Little One, I just can’t stand having to deal with all those paparazzi. Will you do me a favor? Please?”

  Tell me who you think ever said no to Elizabeth Taylor, especially on the night before her wedding?

  “Well, if you’d just get in my limousine, I can leave here by the back door.”

  “Sure, Elizabeth,” I said.

  “Thank you, my sweet. I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

  So I popped into the limousine, hiding inside the dark tinted windows with photographers snapping pictures as the car returned to the inn where we were staying. When it pulled up to the front entrance, there were as many photographers as you’d expect to see outside the Oscars. I felt how hard it must have been to live your life the way Elizabeth was forced to live it. They were practically falling over the car. The driver opened the door for me, and I heard a zillion voices groaning, “It’s not her!” “Shit!” “Who is it?” “It’s only Carole Bayer Sager!” “No!” “Forget it!”

  I didn’t feel bad. I felt awful. I wished Burt were in the car. At least if we had gotten out, it wouldn’t have been so disappointing. Of course, the way it unfolded made perfect sense, but in my eagerness to please Elizabeth, I hadn’t thought it through to its logical conclusion.

  It wasn’t hard to get to my room. No photographers chased after me; they parted like the Red Sea and allowed me to walk easily between them. Her plan had worked. On to the wedding.

  A universal rule for anyone entering a rehab is no romantic relationships while working through your addictions. Either Elizabeth didn’t hear that one or it was just one rule too many, but she came out of the Betty Ford Center sober but in love with construction worker Larry Fortensky.

  Larry didn’t look like Richard Burton, and he certainly didn’t sound like him. His dyed blond hair hung too long from an era that had, thankfully, passed. He had a forgettable face, with bad skin that was always red, or maybe it’s called “ruddy.” His eyes were brown, but when you’re accompanying Elizabeth Taylor, who’s looking at your eyes anyway? Larry only became memorable because Elizabeth Taylor fell in love with him. Elizabeth did not know how to be in love with someone and not marry him.

  It all looked so beautiful. We had a rehearsal during the day. Marianne Williamson, an attractive southern brunette who became famous—especially in LA—as the self-help guru of the post-EST era, turning tens of thousands of followers onto the then very popular A Course in Miracles, was the pastor who was chosen to marry them. I believed Marianne to be a brilliant communicator of spiritual truths.

  After the rehearsal, there was a knock on the door of my hotel room. I opened it and there was Marianne, sobbing.

  “Marianne, what’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Can I come in? I’m so upset.” I ushered her in, handed her a tissue, and let her cry a bit. She collapsed on my bed.

  “It’s me,” she said, with an almost detectable southern accent. “They’re supposed to be facing me.”

  “Who? What?” I didn’t know Marianne well. I’d learned a few valuable things from listening to a small fraction of her sixty-plus cassettes that David Geffen had insisted I buy because her message was so brilliant. Their sheer numbers overwhelmed me, sitting in their blue canvas case with the white handle.

  My favorite quote of Marianne’s is this one: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.”

  This was the same woman who was now falling apart on my bed. “They’re not supposed to face the audience,” she went on. “They’re supposed to face me, and I face out to the audience.”

  Audience? I thought they were the invited guests. She got up to demonstrate, extending her arms out like a television evangelist, repeating, “They’re supposed to face me. That’s the correct way. That’s how they’ve done it in all of the weddings I’ve ever officiated at.”

  “But, Marianne,” I said, “this is Elizabeth Taylor. You’ve never married Elizabeth Taylor before, and if she wants to face her guests, that’s how it’s going to be.”

  “They must not know why I’m supposed to be facing outward. It has to do with the spiritual message being spread among everyone, and—”

  I stopped her, put my arm around her, and said, “Marianne, you’ve got to get yourself together. You have a ceremony to perform, and you’re going to be great. Elizabeth is counting on you.” She took a deep breath and thanked me for being such a good listener. We hugged and she left.

  At the ceremony, Elizabeth said her “I dos” facing her guests, against the backdrop of the roar of helicopters above, while a lone man who chose that moment to parachute onto Michael’s grounds was taken away by security guards.

  DAVID GEFFEN CALLED ME one day and suggested I drive out to Malibu to see a movie in his newly renovated screening room. He’d been waiting many months to once again be able to use it, and this was its inauguration.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, not sure I was up to making the effort to drive to Malibu.

  “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Marcia [Neil Diamond’s then wife] and Sandy are coming. Get in the car and I’ll see you at seven thirty.”

  David wasn’t up for a long conversation about my feelings. He knew the best thing for me would be to do what he suggested, so once he suggested it, he got off the phone. If I wanted sympathy, his number would not be the first—or the fortieth—I’d call.
If I wanted the brutal truth, there was no one but him.

  I was the first to get there. David answered the door in blue jeans and a white tee shirt. I couldn’t help but notice I was wearing the same thing. He looked good, very fit, and very cute. “You look great,” I said.

  “Thanks. You look good for someone who’s falling apart. Come on, let’s go wait for the others in the new room.”

  David had impeccable taste, and the screening room was no exception. Entering it I saw an enormous beige sofa laden with pillows in lush Rose Tarlow fabrics. It was all a cloud of pale neutrals, and I felt like the room was floating. One tier down there were two swivel chairs and a few beautiful large poufs to be used as seats, should he ever have more than eight people, which was highly unlikely. David didn’t like large groups.

  On the travertine coffee table sat a big red box of Edelweiss chocolates (an LA delicacy).

  When Marcia and Sandy arrived a few minutes later, I was happy to see them, which surprised me, since I was not enjoying seeing anyone during this postbreakup period. It had been four months now and it wasn’t getting any easier. David was immediately ready to start the film, no chitchat. The four of us sat on the couch and watched some soon-to-be-released masterwork that I cannot remember.

  When the lights came up, I recoiled. Marcia had chocolate all over her face and all over her long green cotton sweater. Sandy, forever and always on a diet, was also smeared everywhere. His tee shirt looked like Jackson Pollock had been painting on it, but just in brown. David and I gaped at them both, and I think we all saw it at the same time. David’s beige ocean liner of a couch was now doing a very good impression of a leopard. Fingerprints, streaks, spots of melted chocolate everywhere. Silently, I thanked God for helping me stay on my diet. My fingers were spotless. I was so relieved not to have contributed to the mess that I even held them up to David for him to inspect. Sandy and Marcia started laughing out of the horror of it all as David exploded with anger.

  “Look at you both! You’re pigs! Pigs!”