CHAPTER FOUR
And so it was that my years of loneliness and being alone were to come to an end. Lonely, you ask? Being alone? Yes, I had been lonely and alone, despite the multitude of men in my life. None of them had given me what I wanted and there had been an aching void inside me for years. Now I had decided to marry a man that I liked and cared for – a man who I knew would be a good husband and father, and would treat me well. I hoped that would be enough. I had experienced enough sex without love to last a lifetime. Perhaps a real relationship could be forged from friendship and mutual liking. We would see.
Our wedding was planned to take place on December 7th, 1969, the anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Bill chose the date so he would never forget our anniversary. Hmm, was that a portent of things to come?
We had four months to get to know each other better, and we made the most of it. We drove out on several occasions to Hesperia to meet his lovely mother, Dorothy, who lived in the desert, near Apple Valley. His father was dying in a hospital at that time, so I never got to meet him. As we drove the many miles to visit her, I noticed the tumbleweed flying across the highway, and wondered why anyone would want to live out in the boonies with no ocean or green grass.
His mother was the dearest soul and welcomed me with open arms. She was thin and spry, with tightly curled grey hair. Her house was small but functional, and she had prepared a special dinner for the three of us. As usual, I was starving, and could not wait to eat. Dorothy had prepared chicken for our meal, but I was eyeing the tray of roast potatoes, my favourite, that were sizzling on a large platter nearby. I could not wait to eat and as soon as Dorothy served me, I popped a potato into my mouth.
It was one of the most shocking moments of my life. This was not a roast potato. What on earth was it? I swallowed the bland, mealy vegetable and inquired brightly “What is this, Dorothy?”
“Oh darling, that is a sweet potato,” she responded.
A sweet potato? What on earth could that be, I wondered. In disappointment, I pushed them to the side of my plate and ate the rest of my dinner in silence. I guess my greed, or anticipation of meeting Bill’s mother, must have caused terrible indigestion, because I had to retire to the guest room for an hour or so while blinding gas pains doubled me over. Not the best start with my new prospective mother-in-law, but she loved me already and didn’t seem to notice.
On another occasion, I met Bill’s older half-brother, Ed, and his wife, Ernie, as well as their son, Gary and his wife. Bill didn’t have much family, so I figured mine would fill in the gaps at our wedding. Bill told me that he had a fifteen year old son, Larry, who lived with his ex-wife in Oregon. Wow, I thought. I’m going to be a wife and a step-mother. How cool is that?
Bill introduced me to his best friends, Carl and Ruth Moroney. Carl worked as a referee in the Juvenile Courts, and his wife, Ruth, was a teacher. As an engaged couple, Bill wanted to show me off to his friends, so we went over for dinner. I loved them both as they were funny, warm and welcoming. After dinner and games, we left their home with Ruth’s whispered words ringing in my ears . . . “Be careful, he’s been married twice before.”
His other close friends were Dan and Dotty Mark, who lived in a beautiful home in Encino. I enjoyed spending time with them, and getting to know their young children. Bill decided to ask Dan to be his best man at our wedding, and he accepted. Dan was an entertainment attorney, who later became involved with O.J. Simpson’s production company, before the murder scandal happened many years later.
My mother had offered to pay for my wedding and gave me a small budget to work with. I had reunited with my best friend from seventh grade, Deana Miller, and we had spent a day together. She was now married and had a small son. I wanted her to be at my wedding, even to be my bridesmaid, but she refused. She said she could not attend my wedding if I wasn’t going to marry a Jewish man. I was very hurt and disappointed, but had no choice but to accept her refusal. However, something really strange happened which entailed one of her family being at my wedding after all.
Jackie had been living alone in her apartment and was finding it difficult to make ends meet, so she advertised for a room-mate. She eventually found a suitable applicant and the two of them seemed to hit it off. Jackie called me one day and asked me to come over to meet the young woman.
I rang the doorbell of Jackie’s apartment, and she let me in. “Valerie, let me introduce you to Binnie,” she announced. “Binnie? Binnie Miller?” Could it be? Deana’s younger sister, Binnie, who had loaned me those precious jeans all those years ago? There was no mistaking the bright green eyes, huge grin and freckles. Yes, it was Binnie, and we hugged and kissed, happy to find each other after all these years. What a coincidence. And of course Binnie agreed to come to my wedding, even if her sister didn’t want to.
Binnie and I took the opportunity to go out on the town together one night, as the blues singer, Ernestine Anderson, was appearing at Ye Little Club in Beverly Hills. You may recall how I took her under my wing on one occasion when working at Granada, and was anxious to see her again. Binnie and I had a wonderful evening listening to Ernestine sing, and later on we went back stage to congratulate her and to renew our acquaintance.
In the midst of all these preparations there was one huge problem that I could no longer avoid. As I sat in my bedroom at Park La Brea, I wondered how to tell Steve the news that I was getting married. Our phone conversations had been taking place on a weekly basis, and as far as he was concerned, I was still madly in love with him, and looking forward to our reunion, whenever that might be.
One of my weaknesses had always been the inability to tackle an emotional problem head-on. If I was upset with someone, or unhappy about something, I found it difficult to verbalize. It was just easier to write a letter, expressing my feelings that way. I could not bear to tell Steve over the phone that I was going to marry someone else, so I wrote him a letter. I knew it would take at least a week for my letter to arrive, so I chose to put him on the back burner and get on with my preparations. I rationalized that if he didn’t love me enough to fly over, or even propose marriage, then he didn’t deserve me.
I got into the spirit of the wedding and spent my lunch hour at a local department store, looking at wedding dresses. There were only a few on the rack, but I picked out one, tried it on, and it fit perfectly. It was a floor length white satin sheath, with a high modest neckline and long lace sleeves. I found an appropriate fluffy veil, a pair of white satin shoes, and I was done. I had no-one with me to ask for their opinion. It was a necessary task, and it took me half an hour to complete my purchases. I have not been nicknamed “Expedia” for nothing.
On my return to the office, my excitement over buying the wedding dress was dampened when I learned from Ed Perlstein that his job had been cut back and he only had another week left to work at Universal. This meant that I would be unemployed as well. I was devastated at having to leave Ed and the new friends I was starting to make. Not one to let the grass grow under my feet, I immediately registered with the Apple One employment agency, hoping they would find something fabulous for me by the time I returned from my honeymoon in Acapulco.
On the Friday before our wedding was to take place, I received a frantic phone call from Bill at work. He said he was driving to the studios, and I should come downstairs immediately. “Oh, no,” I thought. “He’s changed his mind. He doesn’t want to marry me after all.”
I flew downstairs to the parking lot, and jumped into Bill’s car. He looked pale, so I knew it was serious. Bill explained that he had left his second wife, Lee, eight years earlier due to her being an alcoholic. What he had not done was actually sign the finalized divorce decree. When he checked on the status earlier that day, he found that the decree would be final on Monday, December 8th. We were due to be married on Sunday, December 7th!
“Oh my God,” I shrieked, as he pulled the car out of the parking lot and into the Friday night rush-hour traffic. “We are going t
o be bigamists!”
It was 4 pm and the traffic seemed to become more and more congested as we drove in a panic to the Inglewood Court House, hoping that his judge friend, Ginny Chernack, would be able to help us. We raced into the court house, panting, just minutes before 5 pm, as they were about to close. Smiling, Ginny came out of her chambers, wearing her black robes, and listened to our garbled request for help. The necessary documents were signed, and I was able to marry without fear of being arrested after the ceremony.
Two days later I woke up thinking, “Today I am going to be married. I am finally going to have the life I have always dreamed of.”
As I got out of bed on my wedding day there was a very tiny voice whispering “Valerie, are you sure?” but I pushed it away, and went into the bathroom to get ready. As usual, I smoked as I put on my eye make-up, making sure I looked as sultry as possible. My hair was always short, so all it took was a good back-combing to give it height and I was done. My cousin Jackie’s father, Uncle Tony, had divorced Aunty Corry, and had immigrated to America just a few months prior. He agreed to drive my mother and me to the restaurant where the ceremony and reception were to take place.
The Santa Ynez Inn in Pacific Palisades was a beautiful venue overlooking the ocean. My mother outdid herself, especially considering her limited funds. Our old flat-mate from Beverly Hills, Jean, was my matron of honour. I had no bridesmaids, but my handsome cousin Larry (Aunty Betty and Uncle Ernest’s son), gave me away. He and his wife, Ada, now had two little girls, Robin and Vivienne, who both attended the ceremony. I remembered Robin as the baby I had cared for when I was sixteen; she was now eleven years old, and her younger sister was nine. Unfortunately both girls had cerebral palsy and were very fragile children.
Jean helped me slip into my gown in the small dressing room provided by the restaurant, and told me I looked lovely. Bill was wearing a black silk Italian suit, with a blue shirt and tie. He looked very handsome, almost like a movie star.
I walked down the “aisle” that the restaurant had assembled, flanked by white beribboned chairs and pots of flowers. Our friends and relatives were sitting there, heads turning, anxious to be the first to spot the bride. I could see Bill standing at the end of the white runner, looking for his bride-to-be. Larry held my arm very tightly as we took the practised steps in time to the music, and I finally reached the man I hoped would change my life. As I stood there next to him, the smell of the stargazer lilies was so overpowering that I almost fainted. Bill put his hand on the small of my back to steady me, and I was ready to take my vows to love him forever, forsaking all others.
Valerie’s wedding day, December 7, 1969
One of the benefits of working at Universal Studios was the contacts one made. Darling Ed Perlstein had arranged for Bob Hope’s personal musicians to play for us after the meal. In fact, Ed was the only person who stood up after our final “I do’s” and clapped. I never saw that happen before or since at a wedding. I think this was probably the first time in my life that I felt truly beautiful. It was certainly the first time that everyone had come together because of me, and that was a very special and warm feeling.
Before the festivities of greeting and dancing began, we all sat at a long table for our wedding feast. I had selected Chicken Kiev because it sounded exotic. I had no idea what it was, but was assured it would be delicious. As we tucked into the tasty dish, there came a scream and a shout from the end of the table.
All eyes turned. There was dear Aunty Corry with butter dripping down her new silk suit. Outraged, she sprang from the table and marched off to accost the head waiter. Apparently she didn’t know what Chicken Kiev was either, because she plunged her fork into the plump breast, and the butter spurted out, covering her from neck to waist.
I later heard that she demanded recompense from the restaurant for the dry cleaning and spent most of the reception trying to sponge off the stains in the ladies room. Poor Uncle Tony was quite happy that he had not been her escort on this occasion.
Bill had wanted us to go to Fiji for our honeymoon, but considering I was jobless, Acapulco was a good second choice. We flew out that same night, with the joking words of our best man, Dan Mark, ringing in our ears. “I give it two weeks.”
We arrived later that evening at the Las Brisas resort in Acapulco. We were given our own motorized cart for the week, and were able to drive it not only up the winding pathway to our unit, but also into town. I stepped into our room and was mesmerized by the perfection. The room was cool and spare, with a glass window leading to the patio. As I stepped onto the patio, I saw we had our own small, private pool, filled with flowers. Not big enough to swim in, but certainly just the right size for two honeymooners.
Bill Fee, Acapulco 1969
Obviously I was still in denial regarding our sex life. I kept hoping it would get better, and it might have done except for one really huge problem. I know you are going to think I am totally shallow when I tell you this, but it put the whole kibosh on our physical relationship.
Bill had some kind of post nasal drip and he sniffed. Not a polite snuffle, but a big, earth shaking snort. You could almost hear the liquid rushing up his nostrils and down his throat. There were moments on our honeymoon that I felt loving and sexy, and wanted us to be close. I remember sliding my arms around him and turning to kiss him. As I opened my mouth to press it against his, he gave an enormous, slurpy sniff, and I was put off. Yes, put off enough that I never wanted to give him a proper kiss ever again. And I didn’t. Obviously we made love and it was all right. Not earth shattering, not passionate, and certainly not orgasmic. Just OK. I missed receiving the tender caresses and whispered words of love that I had been expecting. He wasn’t a touchy feely sort of man, and certainly not one to hold my hand or put his arm around my shoulder in public. Sex didn’t take long and when it was over, he turned his back to me and went to sleep.
On the positive side, he was fun. He made me laugh until my sides ached, and we had a wonderful time sunning ourselves on the beach, eating and drinking in fancy restaurants, and exploring the town of Acapulco in our little electric cart. Bill was also a good singer, and I urged him to sing to me on every occasion. When our honeymoon came to an end, I was looking forward to moving into our new apartment and becoming a mother at last. After all, isn’t that what this had all been about?
On our return we moved into a two-storey, one bedroom apartment on Cartwright Avenue in North Hollywood. It was pretty grungy and we had no furniture. I had to juggle registering with the employment agency, scouring the newspapers for possible jobs, and buying furniture for our new place. We saw an ad for an estate sale at Park La Brea, and raced over there before everything was picked over. We managed to furnish our entire apartment with second hand furniture, a donation of a sofa from Dan and Dotty, and plastic boxes to use as book-cases.
I decided that the place needed to be spiffed up, so we painted the apartment in the colours of the day. It was January 1970, and the styles were shag carpets and brown walls. Bill painted the bathroom a beautiful sky blue. The living room walls were brown, yellow and orange. Everything looked great, and I hoped the landlord would not be too upset, since he had recently painted the place for our arrival.
Now, all I had to do was find a new job.
CHAPTER FIVE
A few days after our return from Mexico, I received a phone call from the employment agency. They had duly noted that I wanted to work in the entertainment industry, and had set up an interview for me with one of the top theatrical agencies in Hollywood – Creative Management Associates, these days known as ICM. Their offices were located on Beverly Boulevard in West Hollywood, and I was thrilled and excited to get the interview. I drove to their offices and was interviewed by the Personnel Manager, who was extremely impressed with my credentials. I was immediately hired and instructed to report to work the following Monday.
Happy that I now had a car, I pulled my sporty MG Midget into the company parking lot, and confident
ly strode into the lobby of CMA. I had been told to report to my new boss, Max Arnow, whose office was on the 6th floor. It was interesting that I no longer worried about my appearance. I was a married woman now, with a diamond solitaire on her finger and a very wide platinum wedding band. Someone had wanted me enough to marry me. That knowledge gave me a self possession I had lacked for the prior twenty-seven years.
I softly knocked at the door, and Max called for me to come in. Knowing nothing about the Hollywood entertainment hierarchy, everyone I met was new to me, and I had no preconceived notions about anyone. It was evident that most agents at CMA were powerful, but to what extent, I had no clue.
Max motioned for me to sit down and asked me about myself. He then proceeded to give me a little background about his history. At that time, he was sixty-seven years old and had been working as a casting director for many years at Warner Bros and Columbia Pictures. I suppose the powers-that-be felt he was too old to cast movies any more, so relegated him to CMA as an actor’s agent.
I loved Max, who was friendly and avuncular, and like Ed Perlstein, he took a friendly, but non-sexual interest in me. I don’t think he had been given much to do, because most of the day was spent reminiscing about the past. I had to pinch myself sometimes. Here I was, Valerie Byron – no, Valerie Fee – sitting in the office of a famous Hollywood ex-casting director. This was certainly a far cry from the mean streets of Manchester.
Max told me so many wonderful stories, the least of which were when he worked at Warner Brothers. He told me of a young sportscaster, who had failed to stir much interest in his acting ability in Hollywood. Apparently, the young man was waiting for a train to return to Iowa, when Max hurriedly arranged a screen test for him. That audition led to a career known throughout the world. The young man was Ronald Reagan.
No Ordinary Woman Page 18
