No Ordinary Woman

by Valerie Byron

  We usherettes had to wear a uniform and each time I came in for work, I had to grab a pair of burgundy, wide-legged silky harem pants and a tight fitting, long-sleeved jacket from the rack in the employee lounge. Most days the uniforms fit; however, there were days when the pants were too short and the tops were too big. We had to take what was available and deal with it. Nothing was assigned – it was just “first come, first served.”

  I absolutely loved working in the movie theatre. I watched “An Affair to Remember” with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, “Love in the Afternoon”, “Peyton Place” and other such romances over and over again, until I could repeat the dialogue off by heart. Up in the loges, the seats were deep and comfortable, and people could smoke to their hearts’ content. I could not believe I was actually paid to work in such a wonderful environment.

  One balmy Southern California evening, I donned my favourite lilac dress, which was most becoming, and took a stroll with my mother up Beverly Drive. It was so warm that we decided to stop in at a Baskin Robbins ice-cream parlour for a treat. The place was crowded with people, and we stood in the back, waiting our turn. I watched the ice-cream servers and noticed one in particular. He was so good-looking that I felt my heart stop beating. I had never seen such a handsome young man in my entire life. When it came time to be served, I could barely look him in the eye. He smiled flirtatiously which, to my innocent mind, meant he was interested in me. My new nose had healed beautifully and in my mind I looked like all the other beautiful young Beverly Hills teenage girls. My confidence had blossomed, and my libido was starting to kick in.

  Oh yes, I went back, over and over again. I would walk up the famous Rodeo Drive at night, oblivious of the fancy stores, with one aim in mind – to see Paul. Finally, he realised that this little girl was interested in him and he didn’t know how to deal with it. After the store closed one night, he took me into the back room. We talked for a while and he told me his name was Paul Marianetti, and he was from San Francisco. He was twenty-six years old, eleven years older than me. I told him I was sixteen, but I don’t think he believed me. He was about 6’2” with short dark hair, green eyes, hard thighs and a face to die for. For the first time in my life, I was in lust!!

  Paul offered to drive me home one night after the store closed, and I accepted. We parked outside my apartment, and I was unsure what to do next. We talked a little, and he smoked a cigarette, while telling me about his desire to be a successful actor, and the films he had already worked on. He spoke to me as if I was his equal, and when he reached over to kiss me, I was overcome with embarrassment, and turned my head away. I wanted more than anything in the world to kiss him, but refused because I had no idea what to do.

  As I sat next to him in the car, staring straight ahead, my heart beating a mile a minute, I told him I worked at the Fox Beverly movie house.

  “I can get you in for nothing if you like” I whispered, and he explained that because he was an actor, he would love the benefit of free admission!

  “We’re alike, you and I,” he confided. “We’re both loners.”

  As he drove away, he flipped his cigarette butt out of the car window. I picked it up, ran up the stairs to my apartment, and placed the crushed end of the cigarette to my lips, trying to imagine what it would have been like to have kissed him.

  Paul, who later became the popular actor Paul Mantee, star of the film series “Robinson Crusoe on Mars” in the early 1960’s, did take me up on my offer of free movie admission. To my dismay, he brought a friend with him and I realised that he just wasn’t interested in me. I maintained an unrequited crush on Paul for a while, but our brief friendship ended as quickly as it had begun. I was to be in contact with him fifty years later… but that is another story.

  Jimmy, the young mechanic I had been dating, was a kind and understanding person who put no pressure on me to “go steady”. He remained in the background, realizing that I was young enough to want to date boys my own age. However, he was always there when I needed him and I remember him taking me to a movie in Hollywood at the Grauman’s Chinese Theater and showing me the delights of parking in the Hollywood Hills at night. We would sit and look at the lights shining below us and smooch in his car.

  Later, he started to pick me up after work in his ’57 Chevy to drive me home, often stopping for a hamburger at the Dolores’ drive-in on Wilshire Boulevard. He always smelled of Old Spice after-shave lotion, grease from his job as a mechanic, and Juicy Fruit gum. I could see he was very taken with me, and my mother seemed to approve, despite his being eight years older. In fact, Jimmy took my mother and me to see the Tournament of Roses Parade in Pasadena one New Year's Day, which was a momentous occasion for both of us.

  Jimmy was turning out to be my very first steady boyfriend, and although he was not handsome or sophisticated, he loved me. He was part American Indian and lived with his grandmother in the San Fernando Valley.

  We dated seriously for almost a year, at which time he enlisted in the Army. A few weeks before he left, he took me to the British Motor Cars’ showroom after we had been out on a date. We walked up a short flight of stairs to a second level, where there was a small office, with a bed. I knew the time had come when he would want to have sex with me, and I was scared. I had no sexual feelings for him or anyone else. I was still young and my libido had not kicked in – at least not with him. If it had been Paul Mantee – that might have been a totally different story. There had been occasions when Jimmy had taken nude photographs of me in my mother’s apartment, but I thought nothing of it and allowed it to happen. He was a gentle, serious young man and I knew he was only taking the pictures for his own use.

  That night, after sneaking into the British Motor Cars showroom, we crept upstairs and I lay back on the small cot. I felt I owed it to him to have sex, because he had been so kind to me. I knew he had waited a long time, and I didn’t like to say “no.”

  I closed my eyes and kissed him, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much. He was not a masterful or experienced lover, and there was little foreplay. I was dry and tense, totally unready to lose my virginity. He used a condom and then pushed into me. The pain was horrific and I felt suffocated by his body. I tried to pull away in a panic, but he was intent on deflowering me, and so he did. All I wanted was for him to get off me, as the feeling was intensely claustrophobic. I did not enjoy a moment of the sexual act, but when it was over I felt a strange surge of triumph. I stood in front of the mirror, tidying my hair, and thought “I am no longer a virgin.” I wondered if anyone could tell just by looking at me.

  Jimmy – 1957 in our Beverly Hills apartment

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jimmy went off to do his National Service and I went to stay with Aunty Betty’s daughter, Barbara, and her husband Burt. They had a young son, Robert, who was about three years old. They lived quite a distance from Beverly Hills in the San Fernando Valley. In those days there were no freeways, so it was a very long drive to get there. Barbara would pick me up and I would stay for the weekend. My job was to babysit, free of charge, which I did willingly. Looking back, I remember I was always babysitting for Barbara or her brother, Larry, for no pay. But I was young, and the novelty of staying in a house, rather than an apartment, seemed payment enough. As I sat in Barbara's kitchen, I packaged home-made brownies, sending them with daily letters to Jimmy, as he fulfilled his National Service. Now that I was truly a “woman”, I was starting to notice boys in the neighbourhood and wanted to date them too. So although I wrote long, passionate love letters to Jimmy, at the same I was looking around for a romantic replacement.

  One day, my eyes turned to a magnificent looking young man who I saw singing in the choir at Beverly Hills High School. Dave Brown was absolutely gorgeous and I eventually got up the nerve to ask him to be my date for an upcoming Sadie Hawkins dance at school, never dreaming he would accept. He was the epitome of Prince Charming in my eyes. Very tall and handsome with dark hair and broad shoulders, Dave was the sort of boy
who would never have looked at me twice in junior high. He accepted my invitation and I was in seventh heaven, believing him to be everything I wanted in a boyfriend.

  During those early days of dating, I was like a kid in a candy store, and had no compunction about dating anyone and everyone who asked me. It was only after I started dating Dave Brown that I realised that his best friend, Mike Schlesinger, had taken me to the prom at the Riviera Country Club some weeks earlier. Although I liked Mike, he was nowhere near as attractive as Dave, and I dumped him without ceremony once I discovered they were friends. It was only many years later, in my sixties, that I discovered how distressed he had been when I dropped him. He held the anger for decades.

  Mike Schlesinger and Val attending prom, age 15

  In June 1958 my mother was involved in a serious car accident on her way to Palm Springs with our flat-mate, Jean, and broke her leg in several places. She was taken to UCLA Medical Center, and a metal pin was placed in her ankle. She lay on the bed with her leg up in the air and suffered a great deal of pain and suffering.

  I remember taking the bus to UCLA to visit her and she told me she would have to stay in the hospital for several weeks, and that it would be best if I stayed with my cousin Larry and his wife, Ada, and help take care of their new baby, Robin since it was the summer.

  I found it very difficult indeed to be confined to the house, looking after the baby, who took forever to drink her bottle. I spent hours with a crick in my back, holding the nipple in her mouth, begging her to finish. It was not long after that we discovered Robin had cerebral palsy.

  I would spend lonely nights in my room, writing endless poems, wishing I could be out with my friends, especially with Dave, who had become a possible steady boyfriend.

  After days of boredom and just hanging around the house, Dave finally telephoned me and asked for a date. I knew Larry and Ada would not let me go out, so we planned a getaway. I was to wait outside the house after everyone was asleep, and he would pick me up in his car. Off I went, thinking no-one would miss me, but of course they did, and I faced a furious set of cousins on my return in the early hours.

  It was at this time in my life, age fifteen, that I started smoking. I felt quite sophisticated and grown up puffing away – but of course cigarettes were hugely addictive. My mother begged and pleaded with me to stop, but I found it impossible and continued to smoke despite her constant nagging.

  My sixteenth birthday was spent with Deana, her current boyfriend and Dave Brown. On the evening of my birthday, July 4th, 1958, we all drove to Santa Monica beach to see the fireworks, and took my birthday cake with us. We placed it on the sand, only to find it covered in ants a few moments later, a memorable end to my last date with Dave.

  Our relationship had been intense and painful, mainly because his parents, who had never met me, told Dave “she is not Jewish enough for you.” In desperation, he took me to see his rabbi, who was no help at all. It all became too much for both of us, and shortly after my birthday, he started dating my girlfriend, Connie Freed, who had very long hair and a record contract! I was a little peeved, but was not the type to brood over broken relationships. There were too many other men, and always someone new around the corner.

  My reinvented life as a beautiful girl was exciting, and I looked forward to meeting as many handsome and interesting young men as I could. What I didn’t realise at the time was that I didn’t really want or like sex; I just wanted to be loved by a man. I wanted a daddy. I wanted to be valued for me. Unfortunately, I had no confidence in my ability to interest men based on my personality or intellect. I felt I had nothing to offer except my body and I had no real understanding of how really beautiful I was becoming.

  I spent two months of my summer vacation attending summer school, attempting to bring up my grades, and taking a drama class for fun. I made a few more friends, but none of them ever invited me to their homes or to go out with them. My only real girlfriend had been Deana, but she transferred to Hamilton High, so I was basically friendless at school. My first year of high school had not been too productive academically, as I had focused more on dating than getting good grades. I found it difficult to fit in with the popular set as, in those days, students at “Beverly” were wealthy, well dressed and usually had a car. I had a wardrobe from Lerner’s department store, no cashmere sweaters, a short haircut rather than the requisite ponytail, and two legs, rather than an automobile.

  After summer school ended, I had more time on my hands and found my focus constantly turning to boys. You could say I was “boy crazy.” Although I did not have physical intimacy with any of my high school boyfriends, I did notice a young man who lived in the apartment below ours. Since there was nothing else to do, I hung around the bottom of the apartment stairs, hoping he would come out and chat with me. Tony Novak was handsome and flirtatious, just a few years older than me. One day he did come out of his apartment, and noticed me standing there. We talked for a while, and then he pulled me into his apartment, and pushed me on his bed. He had swift sex with me while his mother was at work, and when it was over I left, never to talk to him again. The sexual act was no better than it had been with Jimmy, and again, I had found it really difficult to say no. I had no self-esteem and was happy to be paid attention, any attention. It was a distasteful experience, leaving me feeling ashamed and used. Tony turned out to be my first, but not my last, one-night stand,

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I started my sophomore year at Beverly Hills High School in September 1958, two months after my sixteenth birthday. The work was getting harder and I started to drop classes I didn’t like. Because I had been so advanced academically in England, I had repeated the same work for many years and had barely had to study in order to make good grades. Now I had no-one to help me with math, and had to rely on my mother to assist me with English. I realised that without tutoring, I was going to fail some classes. I didn’t tell my mother about my grades, and she never came to school meetings. I just ignored what was happening at school, and hoped I could magically get by.

  Jimmy had finally returned from National Service and we resumed our relationship. After a while, I began to view him as older and stuffy and certainly not as much fun as the boys at school. I found him waiting to take me home after school, which irritated me. I was embarrassed to have my classmates see me with an older man with thinning hair, and made excuses as to why I could not see him as much. To my real surprise, he said he understood. He was a loving, caring man who really loved me. He knew that it was time to let me spread my wings and fly.

  My evenings were spent working as an usherette, or babysitting, trying to earn as much money as I could to buy clothing that would match those of my peers at school. There were perks to my job that were quite fun. On several occasions I was asked to work at movie premieres and instead of wearing the usual uniform, I was allowed to don the blue full-length evening gown that I had worn to my high school prom.

  It was a very glamorous occasion for me, turning up at the Fox Beverly Theater one movie premier night. The film was called “An Affair to Remember”, starring Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, and attracted a great many celebrities. Dressed in my ball gown, my face made up with heavy eyeliner and lashings of mascara, I was as pretty as I could be. Holding a flashlight tightly in my hand, I escorted such celebrities as Groucho Marx (who pinched my behind), and the gorgeous Ricky Nelson, to their seats, loving every second of it.

  As my sophomore year drew to a close, I started to date older boys, mainly university types. Sometimes I would have two dates in one evening and would frantically push one young man out the door as another one climbed the stairs to our apartment. I was becoming more physically mature and my sexuality was also becoming more defined. My mother had little control over what I did, or where I went, as she had to work each day. Birth control for me? I never thought of it. Condoms were used but the Pill had not yet been invented yet, and we had no formal sex education in school.

  It was in earl
y May of 1959 when my mother received a very troubling letter from her lover, Alan Aitchison, begging her to come back to England. While we had been away, he had married for a second time, and had gone through hell with his second wife, who had been secretary to the British philosopher, Bertrand Russell. Not only had his stomach been removed, he had also been referred to a psychiatrist, who had prescribed electric shock treatment. Apparently his wife was so evil that she had caused him immeasurable emotional scarring. He went through with the treatment, which was supposed to help him forget all the bad experiences of his life. Unfortunately, it did the opposite – and he remembered every detail of the hell he had been through. He divorced his wife and felt there was nothing to live for if my mother, his “little bird”, did not return to England. She agreed to come back and told me to get ready to leave and start life anew in England.

  “Valerie, I have to go back. We have to go back. Alan needs me,” she explained.

  “Oh, right. Well, that is great,” I responded cautiously. “When do we leave?”

  No more school! When I heard the news I was once again filled with relief that I wouldn't have to deal with math or French. But what was I to do when we returned to England? I was only sixteen years old, with just two years of high school under my belt. My feelings about returning to the UK were mixed with relief at no more studying, but anxiety over my future.

  I had always wanted to be a psychiatrist, but knew I would never be able to achieve the necessary grades, especially not now. Additionally, my mother didn’t have the money to send me to university. She barely had enough money to put clothes on my back! I shouldn’t have worried. My mother had plans for me, which she would reveal when we returned to the U.K.