by Gill Paul
By the end of the month, her rage at Jack had subsided and she began to miss him. They’d spoken on the phone several times, but the calls had been practical rather than romantic. Lee and Stas were usually within earshot, and Jackie hadn’t been in the mood for sweet talk.
After they were driven home from the airport in D.C., she headed straight to the Oval Office, but Jack’s secretary told her he was in conference and couldn’t be disturbed. He didn’t come to the Residence for dinner, and it was ten at night before he appeared, looking haggard.
“What’s up, bunny?” Jackie asked, embracing him. “You look as if you’ve been through the wars.”
He shook his head. “I can’t tell you. But it’s not good. I’ve got my hands full.”
She didn’t press him when he refused to talk about the job. Instead she relayed some anecdotes from their vacation—Caroline’s first attempts at waterskiing, John’s funny mispronounced words—but could tell he wasn’t listening.
It was only over the next few weeks that Jackie heard from other White House staffers that Soviet nuclear missiles had been photographed on Cuba, just ninety miles off the Florida coast. She was horrified. When she’d sat next to Khrushchev at dinner in Paris, he’d been full of wisecracks, a regular Abbott-and-Costello type; he had even sent a puppy as a gift for her children, after they shared a joke about Laika, the space dog. Yet now it looked as if he were willing to plunge the world into a nuclear war that could wipe out a third of the human race.
The physical toll on Jack was soon apparent. A furrow was etched between his brows as if with a chisel, and the bags under his eyes grew heavier, almost folding over on themselves. His back was flaring up, and he swallowed handfuls of painkillers and God only knew what else. When he got to the Residence in the evening, he didn’t want to discuss the crisis. Jackie mixed him a stiff daiquiri and urged him to relax, but he was often interrupted by phone calls till the early hours. She was weighed down by anxiety but hid it, so as not to spread alarm to the staff and the children.
As she watched Jack’s October 22 television address to the American people, the weight grew heavier. “Our goal is not the victory of might, but the vindication of right,” he said, after listing all the countries that the Cuban missiles could strike in an act of “sudden mass destruction.” He announced an immediate blockade of Cuba to prevent any more missiles reaching the island, and they waited to see how Khrushchev would respond.
“Maybe you should take the children to Europe,” he suggested that night. “Washington is likely to be targeted in a first strike.”
“We’re not leaving you,” she insisted, although her throat was so tight with nerves it was as if a fist were gripping it.
“But there’s only limited space in the White House bomb shelter and so many folk to fit,” he argued.
Jackie was adamant. “I’d rather die here with you than live without you. I’m staying, and that’s that.”
He accepted her decision, and didn’t ask again. She had no regrets, but she wished she could help in some way other than mixing daiquiris and offering back rubs.
Her feet often led her to the West Wing, where she hoped to hear the latest developments from staffers. Everyone was in a hurry, few had time to stop, but she learned about the challenge to the American blockade on October 25, about the American pilot who went missing over Soviet airspace and was only rescued in the nick of time, of Khrushchev’s offer on the twenty-seventh to remove his missiles from Cuba if America removed theirs from Turkey. . . . It was an impossible dilemma for Jack, because America could not be seen to back down in the face of threats. She knew he was seeking former president Eisenhower’s advice by telephone, and she was glad of that; he needed all the wise counsel he could get if he was to resolve this without starting the war that could end all wars.
On the twenty-eighth, agreement was reached but still there was much that could go wrong. “Reds Back Down on Cuba” read the headlines, but Jackie knew it wasn’t that simple. The agreement still had to be implemented. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, the missile crisis lasted thirteen days. For Jack—and for her—the pressure went on a lot longer.
Many nights during that period Jackie suffered from insomnia, and she raised herself on one elbow to watch Jack sleep. He always lay on his side, his cheek sagging into the pillow. He made no sound, no grunts or snores, and his expression was peaceful. She marveled that he could sleep so soundly when the world had come within a hairsbreadth of nuclear war on his watch, and she prayed he would always have that ability.
From feeling so upset with him over Marilyn Monroe, she’d turned 180 degrees to feeling freshly in love with him again.
Chapter 31
Athens, Greece
Spring 1963
Shortly after her mother’s suicide attempt, Maria tracked down her father through relatives in Athens and sent him a note, asking if he would like to meet for lunch. She wanted to find out why her parents were no longer living together, and perhaps discover what had driven her mother to take such a drastic step, but at the same time she was apprehensive about where any reunion might lead. She’d managed just fine without her family all these years.
George Callas was a quiet-spoken man, whose life had not been a happy one. Never the successful businessman whom Evangelia had wished for in a husband, he had teetered on the edge of bankruptcy several times.
He wrote back to Maria, saying he would be happy to have lunch with her and asking if he could bring her sister, Jacinthy, as well.
Maria was curious to see Jacinthy. They’d never been close—their seven-year age difference, combined with their mother’s blatant favoritism, had seen to that—but they had shared a childhood, and that had to mean something.
Maria’s busy schedule meant it wasn’t possible to meet them until early in 1963; she chose Vassilenas, an old restaurant with a pretty rooftop garden near the port of Piraeus. When a waiter showed Maria to the table, Jacinthy rose to greet her. Slim and pretty, with scarcely a wrinkle, her hair expensively colored and set in a shoulder-length style, she looked every bit the upper-class Athens socialite. When they embraced, Maria felt a warmth from her sister that surprised her. Then she hugged her father. He had aged: nothing she could put her finger on, but his face had drooped like melted candlewax and his hair was thinner. She felt a wave of compassion.
Maria asked where both were living and was pleased to hear they were not far from each other in the city. Her father explained that he was separated from her mother, although not divorced. Jacinthy had been living with a wealthy shipowner’s son, Milton Embiricos, since before the war. They had never married because of his family’s objections to the match but had been lovers for over two decades, until he had died of cancer the previous year.
“I hope his family are treating you with the respect due to his widow,” Maria said, after expressing her condolences.
“Hardly.” She glanced off into the distance, and Maria could tell it was a sore subject that she did not want to discuss. “How about you? Do you still live in Milan?”
“I’m selling my house there, since I scarcely use it, and renting an apartment in Paris.” Maria didn’t add that her Paris apartment was around the corner from Ari’s. “But we spend most of the summer on Ari’s yacht, the Christina.”
“Would you not consider returning to Athens?” her father asked.
Maria shook her head. At the end of the war, thanks to her mother’s forcing her to date the enemy, the Conservatoire had sacked her. She worried that there were Athenians with long memories who still thought of her as a collaborator. It had colored her attitude to the city.
“Ari has a villa in Glyfada where we stay if we’re in town,” she said. “And he is buying the Ionian island of Skorpios. We want to create our dream home there.”
It felt good to say that. After almost four years together, she felt secure in the relationship, happy to plan a future, and still hopeful that fertility treatments would one day res
ult in the longed-for baby, although so far there was no sign. Every month she felt downcast when the bleeding started. She glanced at Jacinthy and wondered if she had wanted children. They weren’t the kind of questions she could ask when they hadn’t seen each other in—what was it?—almost eighteen years.
The conversation continued, polite and general. They commented on the food, which was top-notch. They talked of their plans for the remainder of the year. Maria told them of the singing engagements she had committed to, in Germany, London, Copenhagen, and Paris. None of them mentioned Evangelia until after the plates had been cleared, when Maria asked her father whether she had fully recovered from her suicide attempt.
Jacinthy and her father looked at each other, and her father spoke. “To be frank, I don’t know. She is furious with me for leaving New York, so her letters at the moment are not very civil.”
“I don’t blame you for leaving,” Maria said. “No one could. Her suicide note says it was my fault for being such a terrible daughter, but I don’t accept that. She’s just an impossible woman.”
“I know what you went through with her,” Jacinthy said, “and I have never blamed you for cutting her out of your life. I still correspond with her, but I sometimes wish I had your courage. She can be vile.”
“I’m paying for her psychiatric treatment and I hope she’s getting the help she needs. But I don’t hold out any hope for a personality transplant.” Maria wondered what her mother was living on, but assumed her father must be sending an allowance.
The waiter brought the bill and Maria paid, then asked if they would like to come for coffee on the Christina. They glanced at each other before agreeing. People were always curious to meet Ari.
There was no missing the Christina, which was so long it took up an entire pontoon by itself. When they approached, Ari came to the top of the gangplank to greet them. First he backslapped her father in Greek fashion, then he greeted Jacinthy, kissing her hand. A bottle of champagne was opened, toasts were proposed, and Ari played the convivial host meeting his in-laws.
Maria watched them chatting, feeling strangely detached. Her father and Jacinthy were like acquaintances from a distant past. She was happy that Ari welcomed them as if they were close family, but it wasn’t true. They were all acting a part.
When they rose to leave an hour later, promises were made about keeping in touch, about having lunch again soon, but Maria knew she would not be in a rush to arrange the next meeting. She had nothing in common with them anymore. It made her feel a little melancholy.
“What did you think of them?” she asked Ari. She always enjoyed hearing his views on people they met.
He considered before he spoke. “Your father is a decent man to whom life has dealt an unfair hand. And Jacinthy? She seemed guarded. You told me you were jealous of her as a child, but now it appears the shoe is on the other foot. You are far more beautiful, and far more successful, and I could see her swallowing that knowledge with every sip of champagne.”
“Really? You think she is jealous of me?”
“Of course she is.” Ari joked, “She must be mad with jealousy that you have me as your lover.”
Maria laughed and mock-punched his arm. “Isn’t it strange that my sister and I are both religious women who ended up living with men to whom we are not married? She waited two whole decades for a ring on her finger and never got one. I’m giving you fair warning that I don’t have her patience.”
Marriage was a subject that came up from time to time, but it never seemed pressing. Ari was divorced from Tina, and she had immediately remarried an English aristocrat, but Maria had reached a stalemate in her attempts to divorce Battista. Their legal separation had been agreed at a court in Brescia, but that settled only their estate; it didn’t mean she could remarry. If she could have claimed that he had been unfaithful, she could have divorced him in America on those grounds, but she was sure he had never strayed. She could have asked for a divorce on the grounds of “emotional cruelty” but she would have struggled to provide evidence in court. It would have been embarrassing and untrue. And neither reason would be accepted by the Orthodox Church, so if she and Ari were to wed it would still not be recognized where it mattered to her the most.
“Are we not happy as we are?” he asked, reaching out to take her hand, pulling gently on her fingers.
“We are.” She smiled. “But if I get pregnant, I want us to be married before the child is born. Take note.”
“Duly noted,” he said; then his expression changed. “I wish we could get Alexander to be more civil to you. I’m sure his mother is behind the rudeness. When he grows up, he will understand that love is complicated.”
Christina had accepted her presence, and even let Maria paint her nails and style her hair, but Alexander remained hostile. He refused point-blank to sit down for dinner at the same table as Maria, and when his father was out of earshot he called her Kolou, meaning “big ass.” It was only with difficulty that she refrained from slapping him.
“Perhaps it’s time for you to be stricter with him,” Maria ventured. “He is fifteen—old enough to know better. If you spent a tenth of the time explaining our relationship to him as you do discussing the finer points of the shipping business, he would have accepted me.”
Ari shrugged. “It’s difficult for men to discuss such things. If we leave it, he will come round eventually.”
Maria didn’t agree but felt she was on shaky ground telling him how to behave with his own children. She wasn’t an official stepmother, just their father’s mistress.
“There’s something I wanted to ask you,” she said. “Have you been intercepting letters from my mother? She is living alone in New York so I’m astonished her demands for money have not resumed. Even now I’ve left Milan, it’s not hard to reach me. All she needs to do is read the papers.”
Ari looked her straight in the eye as he replied: “I’m not aware of any letters, my love. Forget about her. She’s not your problem anymore.”
Chapter 32
The Mediterranean
Spring 1963
Maria loved playing hostess on the Christina. She discussed menus with the chefs, chose flower arrangements, and, if guests were staying overnight, ensured their suites were prepared with every comfort. She had entertained all of Ari’s closest friends: Prince Rainier and Princess Grace; Costa Gratsos and his wife, Anastasia; business associate Panaghis Vergottis; Baron van Zuylen and his wife, Maggie, a witty, warm woman of Syrian descent; Artemis and Theodore; and Stas Radziwill, a Polish prince in exile, with whom Ari enjoyed long boozy lunches at Claridge’s hotel whenever he found himself in London.
Stas had married Jackie Kennedy’s sister, Lee, and sometimes Maria and Ari had dinner with the Radziwills, but Maria found Lee difficult to talk to. She held her cards close to her chest and never volunteered information, meaning that conversations were hard work. Maria assumed she had to be discreet because of her famous sister and brother-in-law.
When Ari announced that he had invited the couple for a cruise in May, she made careful preparations, hoping she and Lee could at last become friends. It would make things much smoother, because their menfolk got along so well.
The Radziwills arrived at the Christina on a blazing hot afternoon, with porters dragging six huge leather suitcases behind them. Maria was surprised because she had thought they were staying only a few days.
Lee was wearing a chic cotton dress with a hem several inches above the knee, and her legs were slender as a foal’s. Maria knew that short dresses were in vogue but would not adopt the style herself, because even after the weight loss her legs had remained sturdy and definitely not her best feature.
“Welcome aboard!” she cried, with her broadest smile.
Lee air-kissed her with a lip smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Stas was more fulsome in his greeting, saying, “Thank you for arranging such glorious weather.”
“Glorious? I’m roasting alive,” Lee complained. “I simply
must have a dip in the pool to cool off. Which is our cabin?”
“Let me show you,” Maria said. “Have you been on the Christina before?”
“I came for drinks with Ja-ackie and Ja-ack a few years ago. When the Churchills were here.” She had a strange mid-Atlantic accent, placing an emphasis on ah sounds.
“By coincidence, I received a letter from your sister yesterday,” Maria told her as they walked down the main stairs to the cabins. “She wants me to sing at a White House reception for Emperor Haile Selassie of Ethiopia, but sadly I am in the recording studio on that date so won’t be able to make it.”
“Jackie throws the most wonderful pa-arties,” Lee drawled. “She’s a ma-arvelous hostess.”
Maria felt as if a gauntlet had been thrown down: would her hostessing skills match up? She opened the door of the cabin and Lee swept in, surveying the room as if looking for flaws.
“Do let me know if there’s anything you need,” Maria urged.
“I just need a swim to cool down, then I’ll be human again,” Lee said. “My dress is positively stuck to me.”
“I’ll see you by the pool, in that case,” Maria replied, closing the door.
When Lee emerged, she was wearing the tiniest bikini Maria had ever seen, in burnt orange with a white-and-green swirling pattern. The top was like a low-cut brassiere and the bottoms had suggestive little ties at the sides. She was even thinner than Maria had imagined, with a figure that was lithe and toned, like a teenage boy’s.
Maria had never stopped feeling insecure about her appearance, despite all the compliments that Ari lavished on her. She still hated her big nose, her chunky legs, and the dark hair that sprouted in the wrong places and required strict taming. Vanity meant that she seldom wore her glasses, even though anything more than ten feet away was a blur. And she wasn’t sure about the new, shorter hairstyle Ari had talked her into earlier that year; it felt less feminine than her longer tresses.
