The Irresistible Mr Wrong

by Jeremy Scott

  It is presumptuous of me, an aged male, to attempt to write about these six women with empathy. I would not have dared to do so without the help of three women editors who have guided me in those pathways of the heart denied me by my gender. This book is gratefully dedicated to them: Marcelle D’Argy Smith, Nina Risoli and Jaime Brahms.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Chapter 1: Flor Trujillo, Dominican Republic, 1932

  Chapter 2: Flor Trujillo, Dominican Republic, 1932–37

  Chapter 3: Danielle Darrieux, Paris, 1940–41

  Chapter 4: Danielle Darrieux, Paris, 1941–45

  Chapter 5: Doris Duke, Caserta, Italy, January 1945

  Chapter 6: Doris Duke, Paris, September 1947

  Chapter 7: Doris Duke, Paris, 1947–48

  Chapter 8: Zsa Zsa Gabor, New York City, New Year’s Day 1953

  Chapter 9: Zsa Zsa Gabor, New York City, January 1953

  Chapter 10: Barbara Hutton, Deauville, August 1953

  Chapter 11: Barbara Hutton, Deauville, 1953

  Chapter 12: Barbara Hutton, New York City, November 1953 Chapter 13: Zsa Zsa Gabor, Los Angeles, Christmas Eve 1953

  Chapter 14: Zsa Zsa Gabor, Las Vegas, Christmas Day 1953

  Chapter 15: Barbara Hutton, New York City, 30 December 1953

  Chapter 16: Barbara Hutton, New York City, New Year’s Eve 1953

  Chapter 17: Odile Rodin, Paris, June–October 1956

  Chapter 18: Zsa Zsa Gabor, Los Angeles, Easter 1957

  Chapter 19: Odile Rodin, Paris, 1957–61

  Chapter 20: Odile Rodin, Paris, Independence Day, 4 July 1965

  Chapter 21: After Rubi

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Sources

  Copyright

  What’s wrong with marrying rich women? Those little bastards who criticise me don’t understand. I took them simply as women.

  And what’s wrong with taking presents from a woman? I give them too, even though I give a ring and she gives a bomber. An aeroplane is not the moon, it’s a toy. If you can have a bomber you have it. So what?

  Porfirio Rubirosa

  INTRODUCTION

  Why do women fall for scoundrels? Not all women certainly, but an identifiable number of them – including almost all heiresses – find themselves drawn to, even marrying, a thoroughgoing bastard who cheats on them, steals their money, abuses them physically and mentally, then dumps them. Why, to these otherwise balanced young women, is Mr Wrong irresistible? What is it about him, what is it in them, that causes it? In short, what is the nexus between wealth, celebrity, sex and self-destruction?

  This is the serial biography of five women who were all serially married to the same man: Porfirio Rubirosa. All, plus Zsa Zsa Gabor, the Hungarian adventuress who did not wed him, were advantaged and privileged individuals. They shared one characteristic: power. The father of the first, Flor Trujillo, owned a whole country; Danielle Darrieux was a movie star by the age of sixteen; Barbara Hutton, the ‘poor little rich girl’, was extravagantly wealthy; Doris Duke the richest woman in the world; Zsa Zsa was endowed with beauty, wit and glamour; Odile Rodin with looks, talent and youth. All were ‘born in a happy hour’ and gifted by good fortune. They had – on the face of it – choice in how they ran their lives, together with control.

  Rubirosa was vulnerable only in one way: he had no money. There, except for Odile, the women held the material advantage. Yet without hesitation they abjectly yielded that power to a dominating male with no conscience in exploiting them.

  Flor at seventeen was an innocent and Rubirosa an unknown quantity (perhaps even to himself then), but the women who followed her as his successive wives were fully aware of his nature and his past before they married him. They knew he was a boozer and hell-raiser, compulsively promiscuous, a jewel-thief and unscrupulous crook, that he exploited and beat up women, and had been involved in two murders. He’d concealed nothing from them and enjoyed his reputation as a cad. Yet nothing could deflect them from their focused determination to capture him as a husband. Why should they elect to make such a choice, for which they paid so extortionate a price both emotionally and financially?

  He was known to everyone as ‘Rubi’ and, displayed in the shop window, his image was alluring. To look at, he was an attractive item. Although not tall (5ft 8in), he had dark wavy hair and a permanent tan; he was either one quarter or one eighth black, resulting in an enviable skin tone. His nose was broad (he would have it fixed) and his lips thick in a high-cheek-boned handsome face. His body was slim, fit and well-muscled; he moved with an athlete’s grace, fully at ease within his own skin.

  For a woman meeting him while in his thirties – by which time his early macho brashness has long been replaced by the confidence he can have any woman in the world – he represents a desirable sexual proposition, if one to be approached with caution. He is a ‘playboy’ and predator, a creature of his time and place and social circumstances, a man who has been created by women and defined by the lovers who made him famous: Christina Onassis, Ava Gardner, Eva Perón, Gene Tierney, Countess Maritza of Spain and Queen Alexandra of Yugoslavia, plus countless others.

  He possesses looks and sex appeal, a quick smile, good teeth and bedroom eyes. An adolescence passed on the fringe of the in-crowd in Paris has gifted him with social ease, wit, and opportunistic guile. He can converse engagingly in several languages. He is romantic, bold in his wooing, generous and impulsive; he never bores. His technique has proved irresistible, for he listens with his whole attention on the woman confiding in him. He remains mindful, sensitive, sympathetic; she believes he understands her.

  These characteristics form the basis to his persona, but it is enhanced by a number of worldly skills. He is an able horseman, a boxer and a fencer; he dances, skis and plays tennis well. He is a rated polo player, knows how to pilot a plane and handle a racing car nimbly as he can a pony. All these pastimes which so well suit him cost money, and here lies the fundamental flaw in Rubi’s world. His image is without solidity. He possesses the tastes, energy and appetite for the life of a celebrity playboy – but he lacks money. He’s blithely indifferent to it except as a necessary resource; he has no desire to amass capital, only to have fun and spend freely.

  Rubi also lacks something less tangible than cash. He is an entirely social animal and, as a fish in a bright-lit aquarium, entirely dependent on his artificial environment to give him life. He is alive only among others in the setting of bars, restaurants, resorts, in a glossy milieu composed of glamour, gossip columns, photographers, seductions and escapades. With Rubi, what you see is what is, he has no inner resources. If he’s alone in a room there is no one there.

  Perhaps to compensate for this existential lack of substance, providence has gifted him with a singular and outstanding attribute. In the 1960s the giant pepper grinders brandished by waiters in fashionable trattorias were named ‘Rubirosas’. His third wife Doris Duke states that ‘he had the most magnificent penis I had ever seen’. Her godson, Pony Duke, quotes her saying, ‘There has never been anything like it … six inches in circumference … much like the last foot of a Louisville Slugger baseball bat.’ The society photographer Jerome Zerb, who followed him into the men’s room in Deauville casino, reports, ‘It looked like Yul Brynner in a black turtleneck.’ And Truman Capote wistfully eulogises about ‘that quadroon cock, a purported eleven-inch café-au-lait sinker, thick as a man’s wrist’. In the fashionable world it had the nickname and reputation toujours prêt – always ready.

  Yes, Rubi was phenomenally well-endowed, and certainly this formed part of his attraction but, as many hundreds of wo
men could testify, you did not have to wed him to sample it. It was on offer to any female bidder and for the right price it was available for rent. Rubi possessed more. He had an air of natural entitlement, a charismatic presence and with it charm, which worked not just on women but also (most) men. He behaved as he felt like behaving and saw no reason not to do so. Yet he was no braggart and happily told stories against himself. He was worldly, suave, he had an air of mystery and reeked of danger. Twenty-five years before the invention of James Bond, he set the prototype – except that Rubi served no country but himself.

  No woman in her right mind wants to marry James Bond. That’s not what he’s for. To marry Rubi was an equally misjudged self-destructive act. To understand why these particular women took that mortal step it is perhaps necessary not so much to scrutinise him as examine them.

  CHAPTER 1

  FLOR TRUJILLO, DOMINICAN

  REPUBLIC, 1932

  Homesick is how you get when you have to return there.

  That, anyway, is how it is for Flor as she stands in her First Class cabin watching the steward gather together her many items of luggage, twenty minutes before the liner’s arrival at the dreaded shore of home.

  Rather than the single dollar bill the boy would have got from other passengers, she tips him a five (worth around $100 today, but even a trainee celebrity is obliged to exceed), instructing him to bypass Customs on arrival – ‘Tell them who I am’ – and to load the bags directly onto one of the presidential limos he will find drawn up behind the quay. She checks her appearance for the last time in the mirror, which reflects the image of a slender seventeen-year-old girl with bobbed black hair in a small cloche hat and short-skirted linen suit, then quits her cabin to come on deck when the liner is still a mile from shore.

  Even with the trade wind ruffling the surface of the sea, the heat and blaze of light strikes her like a blow. She pulls down her dark glasses to shade an all-too-familiar view that evokes nothing but abhorrence. In the distance the close-packed buildings of the capital swarm up the flank of the mountain in rambling disarray. From the monumental sixteenth-century cathedral at its base rises a terraced maze of streets whose first tier is made up of the once-grand but now crumbling public buildings of the Zona Colonial; above these spread ascending levels of church towers, forts, roofs of rose-coloured tiles then, higher yet, a warren of clapboard houses and ramshackle old wooden mansions, painted in pastel shades of blue, pink and red, faded by the sun which washes out all colour from the scene.

  Flor Trujillo © Press Association

  The dilapidated city expanding up the mountain rests upon a shoreline rimmed by the Maleçon, a tree-lined boardwalk stretching as far as the eye can see toward the outer barrios and the shanty town, obscured by distance and the fume of charcoal cooking fires. A dark green band of mangrove swamp grows beneath the paseo, varied by the alluring glimpse of white sand beach.

  Flor Trujillo stands glaring at the idyllic view with fierce resentment. Many would have seen that sunlit prospect of palm trees, beach and lushly forested mountains as a tropical paradise; she knows it to be a prison. The picture-postcard scene fills her with revulsion. This was the stifling cage she grew up in, more restrictive than any convent … and she, little fool, believed she’d escaped it. What delusion, what naiveté to imagine so when no one escaped Him, least of all his first-born daughter.

  But for the past two years the fact is she had eluded him. She’d petitioned her father to allow her to go to school in France. Of course he’d been reluctant, but he wanted her smart and savvy and cosmopolitan as he would have liked to be himself. It had taken persistence and timing, but eventually he had yielded. So, with paternal acceptance if not approval, she had escaped into another existence she’d only read and dreamed of, thrilling in its liberty and promise. She had come to know the City of Light with its galaxy of worldly pleasures – not all of these though, for she was chaste and, even in Paris, closely chaperoned. Though not invariably, for vacations were spent with school friends and their parents in Biarritz, or skiing in Megève and St Moritz. At the exclusive girls’ academy, initially she’d felt a misfit. ‘Naïve, thin, with legs long like a stork’s, unable to speak French, I was the shy tropical bumpkin, the classmate of girls who included a princess. Now I, who had only ridden a burro, had a thoroughbred horse of my own…’ But she is quick-witted and adapts fast. Gawky and unsure at first among such sophisticates – the black girl from wherever – then with growing confidence in her looks, Flor learned how to play the game as it’s played in this world and run with its bratpack, gaining casual acceptance as a cadet member of the international set with her own mestizo style.

  Meanwhile in the course of that two-year span – during which she received no word from her father – she had changed, altered beyond recognition by experience, by association and self-assurance, but also physically. She had developed from a gauche Creole adolescent into a young woman in the flower of her youth, with the blood’s sap running in her veins, bold and aware of herself and what she wants from life. And this is not it. The liner she is aboard has slowed to quarter-speed to enter port and she is about to step ashore onto the island where she least wants to be in all the world. But what choice has she? Conscious that in France his daughter was slipping away from him, he had yanked on her string and she had obeyed him, as all obeyed him – or else. The Great Benefactor had sent for her and she was coming home.

  Now close to land, the surface of the sea is smooth, sheltered from the breeze by the mountain, and the smell of the island steals across the water to embrace her: the fragrance of spices, flowers, fruit, with ever-present beneath it the whiff of rotting garbage and human effluent. Her gorge heaves at the familiar stench, she almost gags. She will never be free of this stinking hole till someone shoots him.

  As if on cue, as the liner clears the harbour beacon, altering course to come into port, his is the first image she sees before she even registers the crowd upon the quay. A giant poster of the Benefactor occupies the full height of the customs warehouse. Wise guardian of the people, unsleeping in his devotion, his watchful gaze scrutinises them unblinking – and seems to look directly at her. The portrait is an immense version of that same icon that hangs in the place of honour in every home throughout the island. By it, and spanning the full width of five houses on the waterfront, stretches a banner with scarlet lettering six feet tall: GOD AND TRUJILLO. The President recently has considered reversing the order of the two priorities.

  Great Dictators, whether building a memorial to their rule or exterminating their enemies, do nothing by half-measures. A homecoming must be a homecoming, a first-born’s welcome a state occasion. The harbour quay is usually a marketplace where turbaned women in the shade of brilliantly coloured awnings lord over stalls heaped with pyramids of tropical fruit; it is always busy. Now the place is a roiling mob of people jigging in the harsh glare of the sun. A military band is playing, its members’ shiny black faces throttled by the collars of their gold-frogged uniforms. To the flash of brass and crash of noise, the crowd in their brightly varied rags are shifting to the sound, calling out and rocking to the blare in a rising fog of dust kicked up by their stomping feet.

  Behind the crowd, in the shade of the Customs House, stands a platform elevated to shoulder-height above the tumult. The stage is occupied by some twenty men grouped around their principal figure. All are in uniform. Two or three are older, their chests spattered with medals and coloured ribbon, the rest in their early twenties, some even younger. Their white tunics, worn above breeches and highly polished riding boots, are broad shouldered, tight fitting, nipped in at the waist. They express swagger and machismo – which might be expected, for they have been designed by the President himself for his bodyguard with the same close attention as he has selected the youths who wear it. All are slim and fit, handsome, white or pale of skin, and all are aware they are on parade.

  At the centre of this cadre of young officers rises a dais, upon it a p
iece of furniture Flor recognises. The President seldom travels anywhere – even the short distance from Palace to harbour front – without the throne chair in his baggage train. It raises him head and shoulders above those attending him and its tall backrest conveys imposing dignity, while the elevated step where his pygmy feet rest remains unnoticed – along with the fact that the Benefactor, though the ideal of Beauty, Wisdom and Truth to all his people, wears built-up shoes and has unusually stunted legs. But this is a subject which, among many others, is never discussed aloud on all the island.

  The ship has disengaged its engines, drifting to a stop. A tugboat butts it through a narrowing gap of oily water choked with splintered crates, rotting fruit, garbage and small dead fish. From the deck, Flor’s glance passes over the Guard surrounding their Leader and is drawn ineluctably to the personage at their centre. Unwillingly, in a stew of emotions that includes aversion, fear, pride, awe and ambivalent love, her gaze focuses in upon the occupant of the throne chair. Clothed in a starched white linen suit, with eyes hidden behind dark glasses, her father stares back at her, his mouth pursed in a customary moue of murderous discontent.

  A shiver passes through her, despite the heat. She flinches, her look slides away… abruptly coming to rest, startled, on one of the young officers who stands by him. ‘I noticed him instantly,’ she says later. ‘Handsome in a uniform that had a special flair, even his gold buttons looked real.’ Electricity pricks across her nerves as she becomes aware he is looking directly back at her. The crowd and everyone on the quay are gazing at her, but his look alone has caught and held her. For a long moment, which while it lasts feels endless, their glance extends and a signal flashes between them, what the French call a touche. ‘It was love at first sight,’ she explains afterward.