I went to the mailbox and your letter wasn’t there. Does Dianne really like me?
The Englishman was passionately pursuing me in a way I found difficult to refuse. It was like he’d walked out of Central Casting in the fantasy of my mind: Charming, romantic, intelligent, witty, worldly, and adoring, Mark Burnett was not only handsome, he was markedly different than any man I’d dated previously. He spoke French, had lived in London and France, had traveled all over Europe, and struck me as sophisticated; he symbolically provided a getaway vehicle from suburban Long Island. Around Mark, I felt giddy. Around Jake, I felt nothing but a headache coming on.
July 27, 1989
I’m trying to figure out what to do, and who I should be with. Here’s how Jake and Mark stack up.
JAKE:
Pros: Free drinks (and chicken wings) at TGI Fridays; helps around the house; doesn’t complain about deveining shrimp and shucking clams when I make pasta diavolo; wants to get married; familiar.
Cons: Boring; doesn’t read anything except sports page of newspaper; comes home late; insanely jealous and possessive; romance is ho-hum; I think he’s cheating; I’d be bored out of my mind if I married him.
MARK:
Pros: Handsome; romantic; intelligent; funny; self-starter; entrepreneurial; loves to read; traveled all over; makes me laugh; love that accent; love those kisses; gives me chills when I think about him; I’d love to spend the rest of my life with him; sexy; adorable; makes me feel secure.
Cons: Married; lives in California; if our romance is discovered, I’ll get fired; I know he’s cheating (on his wife), even if he justifies it by saying it was all about getting his green card. And if he’s doing this to her, would the same thing someday happen to me?
In August, Jake and I broke up, and he moved out. And then I did something entirely out of character. I took a vacation with my friend Virginia—to L.A.
“Wow, he’s really cute,” Virginia whispered when Mark pulled up in front of LAX in a flashy sea-foam green convertible—a Mercedes 450SL with the license plate EAST NDR, a reference to London’s East End (his birthplace). Mark treated us to lunch, then a tour of Universal Studios. Unfortunately, that week he had friends visiting from England. Fortunately, he still snuck off with me in the afternoons, and he wanted us to dine at the same restaurants he was dining at with his friends—surreptitiously, of course. It felt daring, but thrilling at the same time.
For the next three nights, at his invitation, we “shadowed” Mark and his friends; the adventure gave me a glimpse of his world, a world that I wanted to be a part of. At that moment, it appeared that only Kym stood in our way. She was a gorgeous brunette—and came from a wealthy family. I was flattered that Mark was willing to risk everything for a petite blonde from working-class Long Island, and it only underscored the feeling that he felt as madly about me as I did for him, and that we were meant to be together.
At Nicky Blair’s in West Hollywood, and then Rebecca’s in Venice Beach—both chic restaurants filled with beautiful people—Virginia and I sat across the room from Mark, who in between yukking it up with his friends, shot smoldering glances at me that made me nearly faint. The third night, at the popular Chaya Brasserie, a romantic upscale restaurant, he daringly slipped a note to the waiter, who delivered it to me with a knowing glance. A few minutes later, Mark passed by my table, subtly gesturing for me to follow. We met out of the sight of the other diners.
“Mark, it’s wrong sneaking around like this,” I said, between kisses.
“But doesn’t it feel so right?” he asked, setting my mouth on fire again.
All’s fair in love and war, Virginia noted. But by the time I arrived back in New York, I felt entirely conflicted. I didn’t want to be “the other woman,” a home wrecker sneaking around behind Kym’s back. We needed to make a decision: either we had to lift off full-throttle or crash-land this affair, which was now affecting all aspects of my life. I was having a hard time concentrating on anything. Happily, I was still on a sales streak at work, but the truth was, I was on autopilot. I knew I had it bad the day I found myself sharpening my ballpoint pen. The next day, I poured lemonade into the coffee maker instead of water.
Under the ruse that he was meeting Steve, his best “mate” from London, Mark flew east for Labor Day weekend. I took him to meet Mom—and he bowled her over. Upon meeting Joanie, he gave her a kiss on the cheek, and then turned to me. “Di, you didn’t tell me you had a younger sister!”
He told Mom that he’d come all the way from California to chaperone me on a visit to the coast. “Joanie, I saw action as a paratrooper. I know there are scary places out there. Iraq, Colombia, Somalia. But none more frightening than Long Island. Back when I was a paratrooper, we just called it ‘The 516 zone.’ Most dangerous area code on the planet.”
We drove to the easternmost tip of Long Island—Montauk, a rugged stretch of the Hamptons where the Atlantic crashes on white sand dunes, and the fresh air smacks of the sea. The secluded wilderness has made it famous as a place to escape for steamy weekend getaways, and it was also rumored to be the site of a 1940s-era secret military operation involving time travel, known as “The Montauk Project.”
Whether it was the marine air, the bonfires, the lobster bakes, or simply the thrill of finally being alone with Mark, those three days were the most amorous I’d ever known: we walked along the sand beaches to the lighthouse, read plays out loud, and slow-danced at the intimate piano bar in Gurney’s Inn, with my lover singing “A Kiss Is Just a Kiss” in my ear. Most of the time we spent cuddled up in our cozy hotel room at the Panoramic View, ordering room service. Even when the long weekend drew to a close, the romance continued, this time at my apartment in Huntington—where Jake no longer lived.
I called in sick to work on Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday, and the only time we rolled out of bed was to eat; he seemed to love my cooking, especially my pasta diavolo.
“Di,” he said on the third morning, “I’ve decided. I’m going to have to do an intervention!”
“An intervention?”
“I’m rescuing you from Long Island! I’m taking you out of the 516 zone!”
“You’re what?”
“Di, you’re moving to California!”
“I am?”
“Without delay.” He pulled me close again. “We’re going to live together.”
By the time Friday rolled around, we knew what we had to do.
Mark took the train with me to work. We got off at Penn Station, between 34th and 35th Streets, and 7th and 8th Avenues. It was a beautiful sunny September day as we walked to Faces International at 45 West 45th Street. When we got to the front of the building, I looked up, and then looked at Mark. We were both silent for a moment, realizing that what we were about to do was going to forever alter our futures.
I understood that our actions would mark the end of my very short time working in the city, and that I was about to rearrange my priorities. But deep down, I’d always wanted to start a family—complete with children and pets—with a wonderful husband who adored me. It was all about to happen.
I’m only 23, I thought to myself. I’m still young. I can have both a career and a family.
We shot up the elevator, stepped out at the penthouse floor, and made a beeline for Ellen’s office. We were crazy in love, Mark told her—and given that the president of Faces was his wife’s stepfather, we both had to quit our jobs. He immediately called up George Goldberg and told him, then hopped a flight back to California to break the news to Kym—and move out. Only a year before, Mark and Kym had stood overlooking the ocean at George’s Malibu home, exchanging vows. Now he was giving it all up for me. I was blown away.
I bought a one-way ticket to California for September 29, 1989. I rationalized that the move would help with my acting career, which I’d temporarily abandoned when I began working at Faces. But the real reason behind my move was simply that I wanted to live with my handsome Englishman, who’d galloped into
my world and was sweeping me off to the West. It was risky, for sure, and career-wise, we were now both starting from scratch; but we had no doubt that together we could launch something big.
The night before my departure, my sister Lisa held a going-away dinner party for me at her Bayside Queens apartment. We kept it intimate, and I invited the most important people in my life to join us. While everybody was happy for me, wishing me “Bon voyage,” my 13-year-old brother, Nico, sat quietly in the corner. He was upset that I was leaving, as we had grown very close over the years.
Wife Number Two pulled me aside for an unsolicited heart-to-heart. “Dianne, are you sure you’re doing the right thing?” she began. “Be careful. Straying husbands always get back together with their wives.”
I shot her a look, thinking that such hadn’t been the case with her and Dad, but she continued. “Have you thought about everything that could go wrong?” She outlined assorted dire scenarios. Maybe she was just being practical, but it sure was a buzz kill.
For the first time, I was struck by what a gamble I was taking by moving so far away. What if it didn’t work out? Even if it did, by moving cross-country, I would miss out on family gatherings, First Communions, graduations, Easters, and Sunday dinners. I’d be missing out on spending time with my mom. Mark didn’t have any family in L.A., either, so it would just be the two of us, starting our new lives together, alone as one. Despite the risks, I felt sure that this was the right move. I’d never felt so strongly about anyone; it seemed obvious that Mark Burnett was my soul mate.
The next morning, I slipped into a smart black dress, and looked around my apartment, not sad in the least to be leaving it. Dad loaded my bags in his car and drove me to JFK. When we arrived, he surprised me with a going-away gift: he’d arranged an upgrade, so I was traveling to Los Angeles in first class. Dad escorted me to the gate and gave me a hug and kiss good-bye, tears welling up in his eyes.
“Dianne, if it doesn’t work out, just come back.”
“American Flight 117 for Los Angeles, now boarding at Gate 6.”
It was exactly three months from the day I’d first kissed Mark. I was moving 3,000 miles away from home to be with a foreigner who’d entered my world when he caused my client to convulse. I picked up my carry-on and walked down the ramp to Seat 1A, realizing as I stepped on the plane that I was taking the journey to the land of dreams that my mother had longed to take decades before.
“Lucky guy,” said the CEO in 1B after he asked why I was going to California, and I told him the story. “If it doesn’t work out, give me a call.” He handed me his card.
“Oh, it will work out,” I assured him, taking it anyway.
Five hours later, Mark was grinning as he met me at the gate with a bouquet of red roses. “You made it! I was afraid you’d grab hold of your senses and back out.”
“Not a chance,” I said, throwing my arms around him.
Minutes later, we leapt into his convertible and drove off to our new life. When I left New York, the weather was just turning nippy, as the fall foliage signaled the early stages of winter. When I arrived in Los Angeles, it was palm trees, endless sunshine, and sand stretching out as far as the eye could see.
We checked into our home for the next month, the Cal Mar Hotel in Santa Monica, where Mark presented me with a chic burgundy crocodile purse the size of a business envelope. His mother had given it to him, telling Mark to give it to someone special.
“I want you to have it,” he said, wrapping his arms around me.
I brought it with me to dinner that night—at Chaya Brasserie.
Only a month before, we’d been stealing glances at each other from across the room. I was still dazed at how quickly things had happened and how rapidly I’d moved from the sidelines to center stage. All I knew was there was no place I wanted to be more than sitting next to Mark Burnett, whose charms had proved irresistible, and with whom I wanted to share eternity.
Mark ordered a bottle of Cristal champagne to celebrate. “To the rest of our lives, together,” he said, clinking his glass with mine. It was the happiest moment of my existence. Until, that is, I looked up to see a tall, stunning brunette, who looked livid, barreling across the room toward our table. Oh no—it was Kym, very recent ex-wife of Mark. But wait, just behind her was an identical image—another tall, stunning brunette, who was also steaming, and storming over to our table. I’d only had a sip of champagne, how could I already be seeing double? I blinked and looked again. There she was again—a third Kym, looking furious, and stomping to the table.
It turned out that Kym was a triplet. She and her identical siblings stood, glaring and cross-armed, in front of our table, where romance was quickly replaced with palpable anxiety, confusion, and, on their part, rage. I gulped at the nightmare in triplicate.
The real Kym walked closer. “Kymberly,” asked Mark, “what are you doing here?”
“God, Mark, did you have to bring her here?” she began. A litany of sharp words later, she turned to me.
“And as for you …” she stopped, then pointed at the maroon crocodile bag dangling from my chair. “That’s my purse!” She looked at Mark, then me, then the purse—then she picked up my glass of water and threw it in my face. The feisty New Yorker in me was about to respond, when luckily, the maître d’ rushed over and escorted the triplets right out.
Mark and I sat there for a second in stunned silence. He began blotting the water from my face with a linen napkin. At least the ice water cooled my Italian blood that had been racing up the temperature charts.
“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled.
“Well,” I noted, “thank God she didn’t throw the glass with the Cristal. Then I would have been upset.”
Mark laughed and raised his glass of champagne. “Here’s to the rest of the night.”
Chapter Six
ALMOST PARADISE
The be-all and end-all of life should not
be to get rich, but to enrich the world.
— B. C. Forbes
THE MORNING BEGAN LIKE an ordinary Sunday in our Santa Monica apartment: nothing foreshadowed that what was about to unfold would be a life-changing event. I was downstairs preparing our breakfast in bed—eggs over easy, turkey bacon, and Earl Grey tea with cream on the side.
I carried the tray upstairs, beautifully arranged with a flower from our garden, along with the morning paper, which I’d picked up on my early-morning walk. That was just one of the things I’d quickly come to love about living in Santa Monica. Back on Long Island, you had to be a multimillionaire in the Hamptons to live near a nice beach. In Santa Monica, you could live relatively affordably and be in walking distance to the ocean.
That morning, however, Mark had slept in as I wandered along the sand thinking about his relentless drive and entrepreneurial spirit. By then—1991—it was clear that Mark was the sort of person who had to be his own boss, and he loved getting projects off the ground. In the year and a half since we’d been living together, he’d started a new company: Sterling Financial, which issued credit cards through telemarketing. In an industry where there’s a fine line between legitimate and suspect practices, Sterling was well respected, and competing credit-card companies were putting in bids to buy it.
Lately, however, Mark was restless. I knew he was bored with finance and wanted to launch something new. That Sunday morning, I literally delivered the idea—which he later called “a sign”—on a silver tray.
“Ah, a cup of tea,” Mark said with a smile, as I entered our bedroom and set down the assembled brunch. He picked up the Los Angeles Times, his eyes falling upon a photo of a canoe being paddled through churning waters in an ominous-looking jungle. Underneath the photo was an article about a French long-distance endurance race created by Paris-based journalist and explorer Gerald Fusil. Called the Raid Gauloises—raid being the French term for “long-distance trek,” and Gauloises referring to the French cigarette manufacturer that was the sponsor—the two-week-long team even
ts subjected competitors to rigorous adventures—hang gliding, sky diving, mountain climbing, kayaking, and spelunking, among them—in rugged, far-flung locales. The Times article described the third Raid, which had just wrapped up in New Caledonia, an island chain a thousand miles east of Australia.
“Di,” Mark said, looking up from the article, “it says here there’s never been an American team represented in the Raid.” He got that funny look in his eyes that by then I knew well. “We could be the first!” I could nearly hear the idea machine revving up in his head.
A decade earlier, Mark had been in top shape while in the service of the British Army, seeing action in the 1982 Falklands War—and he remained a thrill-seeking man’s man. But lately, his thrills were more of the entrepreneurial variety. In the decade since his commando days, he’d been employed in far less physically-demanding positions—Malibu nanny, insurance salesman, T-shirt hawker on Venice Beach, and vice president of Faces, among them.
Back in those days, we didn’t climb mountains, scuba dive, or go whitewater rafting down churning rivers. For kicks, we traveled abroad—flying to London to visit Mark’s parents, Archie and Jean, or jetting off to Monte Carlo and Paris. Our vacations rarely involved anything more strenuous than a few laps in the resort pool or picking up binoculars and looking for the mythical Loch Ness monster.
Except for our bike rides along Venice Beach, and skiing during weekend getaways to Mammoth Lakes in the Sierras, where Mark tore a ligament in his knee after barreling down a double-black diamond littered with steep moguls, Mark had strayed far from the adventure trail and was no longer in tip-top condition. Back in February 1991 when he read that article about the Raid, I was the one concerned with staying physically fit and working out at the gym. My husband-to-be yawned every time I suggested he start working out. But that was about to change.
The Road to Reality Page 8
