The Road to Reality

The follies which a man regrets most in his life are those
which he didn’t commit when he had the opportunity.
— Helen Keller

It was September 29, 1989, and I couldn’t stop smiling. Lately, I’d been grinning so much that my cheeks hurt. Happiness is great, but I had reason to wonder if I’d lost my mind. Was I deluded? Living in a fantasy? Throwing my life away? I thought about the possibilities in my immediate future and smiled again. I stood at a precipice—poised to make a leap that might reward me with supreme contentment. On the other hand, it might be disastrous. I just didn’t know.

The boarding announcement was called out a second time as my mind raced through the events that had brought me to this moment—a scenario that just a few months earlier hadn’t seemed to be in the cards.

It had all started with the magic jeans—the Levi’s that Wendy had lent me back in June. After that night at Spodiodies—and all through the following weekend—I couldn’t stop thinking of the Englishman whose kisses had knocked me off my feet.

“Helloooo, Dianne, get a grip!” called out the voice of reason back when I had one. Geez, I’d only kissed the guy, and we’d held hands on the way to the train station and kissed a few more times. I was making too much of it, the rational part of my brain pointed out. And then the irrational part of my brain reminded me that I’d never, ever felt such passion with anyone before. If someone had snapped our photo with infrared film, they would have seen sparks flying.

But I wasn’t the only one acting Cupid-struck. On Monday, back in the office, just when the rational part of my brain had appeared to emerge victorious, the phone rang. It was Mark. “Can’t stop thinking of you,” he said. “Those kisses.” And then he hung up.

In the afternoon, he called again. “When will I see you again?” And from then on, he called every day.

Mark didn’t have any scheduled trips to New York, but three weeks later he convinced Faces president George Goldberg, his wife’s stepfather, that a situation had arisen requiring his presence at the Manhattan branch.

From the minute he popped his head in my office that morning, I couldn’t think of anything but Mark and our secret date planned for that night. He took me to one of Manhattan’s most romantic spots—the posh Indian restaurant Nirvana.

Perched atop a skyscraper, the window-wrapped penthouse restaurant revealed dazzling views of Central Park and the glittering Manhattan skyline beyond. With spangled tapestries billowing from the ceiling, batiks on the chairs, and a sitar player dressed in white plucking away, Nirvana was the most exotic restaurant I’d ever been to (good-bye, Panama Hattie’s!), and it had been a favorite celebrity hangout since its opening party thrown by George Harrison and Ravi Shankar.

The night we dined there, Ed Bradley from 60 Minutes sat at the table to our left, and actress Martha Plimpton was to our right. But the celebrities kept glancing over at us—the googly-eyed young couple who kept stealing quick kisses between courses.

“Here’s to Anglo-American relations,” Mark said, as we toasted with champagne. At first, I tried to stay composed and hide the way I was feeling—but as we were nibbling on samosas, Mark kept cracking me up with his asides, and impressing me with his stories about being a paratrooper. I’d never known I liked military men before. But by the time the spicy chicken tandoori arrived in a ceramic pot, I couldn’t mask the fact that I was entirely smitten. Either Mark was doing a fine job of acting, or he felt the same way.

It was after midnight by the time we left the restaurant, but the summer night was still balmy as we strolled along Central Park.

“Hey, you two look crazy in love,” one of the horse-and-buggy guys called out. “Want to go for a ride? I’ll give you the lovebird discount.” From the minute we stepped aboard to the minute we descended, the ride was one long, scintillating kiss.

“What time is it?” I asked, as we stepped out of the carriage. “I’ve got to go.”

Long Island trains were already on their late schedule, running only every hour and a half. If I left right at that moment, I would just make the 12:40 train.

“Penn Station isn’t safe at this hour,” Mark said, slipping his arm into mine. “Stay with me.”

“I’ll buy you something to wear to work in the morning.” He gave me another kiss. “It’s decided: you’re staying with me.”

My heart and body urged me to stay. My mind and conscience told me to bolt. My heart and body won the debate. We walked a block to Central Park South at Sixth Avenue.

I looked up at the art deco building that shot up 34 floors and was crowned with a gold arch on the top. It was the Trump Parc—formerly the Barbizon Plaza, a residence hotel that had housed celebrities during the Jazz Age. Not too shabby. Donald Trump had snagged headlines the previous year when he’d converted the apartments into luxury digs.

Faces International kept an apartment there. The white-gloved doorman greeted us, and I took in the chandeliered foyer as Mark led me to the elevator. The place was dripping in opulence—with special touches like handcrafted Venetian door knobs, oak floors, and elegant furnishings in the halls.

Once inside the condominium, Mark played the Gipsy Kings and poured us some wine, while I gazed out at the spectacular views overlooking the “front yard”—Central Park. Its “pond” was so close it looked like you could dive in from the terrace. Sweet.

“I really should go,” I said, not wanting to taint my well-earned reputation as a prude.

“Get those Minerva lips over here!” Mark ordered, giving me another zesty kiss that made even my feet turn hot.

The next day when I walked into work wearing the same clothes—I declined Mark’s offer for a new outfit—I was torn between three emotions: guilt, guilt, and all-consuming infatuation. I thought that I’d been in love before. But whatever I’d felt previously, it was never like this. From then on, throughout the entire summer, whatever the day, whatever the hour, wherever I was, I felt intoxicated.

A new logic quickly paved roads across my gray matter, and annoyingly, all avenues of thought led to the Englishman. When I saw pictures of movie stars—and I was surrounded by them at Faces—it made me think of Hollywood, which made me think of Mark. If I saw a picture of dowdy British prime minister Margaret Thatcher, it made me think of England, which made me think of Mark. Reading the word tea on a menu, or seeing a Levi’s billboard was enough to set me daydreaming again. I’d gone crackers.

“I think they suspect something,” Mark said when he phoned from L.A. the next day. He was so worried we’d be discovered that he began calling me from phone booths. And he switched his method of wooing me to something old-fashioned: handwritten letters.

Every day for the rest of the summer, Mark shot off another passionate missive, sometimes two—always sent to my mother’s address, since Jake hadn’t moved out yet, although he was looking for a new place—and always signed: “Your Mark.” He sketched out step by step how we’d gotten together, saying that from the moment his eyes landed “on the blonde bombshell,” he’d wanted to be with me, and how just that day Wendy had told him about “the magic jeans.” He was shocked that I’d turned up wearing them.

… I pulled her to me for the best kiss of my life. Lips were so soft that I sunk into them as I held her tiny body next to me and felt like kissing her for hours and wishing us both away from that place to be alone somewhere special. I suppose Spodiodies will always be special for me now, and I certainly couldn’t laugh at those jeans if they played a part. I have a real lot to thank them for.

We ended our evening walking through Hell’s Kitchen to Penn Station. Although to me, while walking with the blonde bombshell, I could have been in Venice or Rome or Paris or Vienna and not felt any happier than I was on that walk. Lots of things begin with wishful thinking, but few end up with your wish in your arms and on your lips. What a pair of jeans, and what a body inside them. I hope she ends up mine, but isn’t that wishful thinking?

I replied in the same love-struck tone, addressing letters to Mark’s post office box, since we wanted to keep our romance a secret until he had the courage to confront Kym. Whenever I thought of her, my fantasies melted under the glare of reality. I was carrying on with a married man. Before, I’d never even considered holding the hand of a married man, much less kissing a man who was married. Now I was flipping for one. What was wrong with me?

Mark continued to insist that his marriage of a year was more of a friendship, saying he and Kym weren’t in love, and that it had been all about getting his green card. Still, I didn’t like it. Every so often, the rational part of my brain convinced me that we had to end this long-distance affair. But my resolve would crumble after another letter, or another clandestine phone call. The one day when I forgot to mail a letter, causing Mark to greet an empty mailbox, he was crushed.

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.

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!”

“I’m rescuing you from Long Island! I’m taking you out of the 516 zone!”

“Without delay.” He pulled me close again. “We’re going to live together.”

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

“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.”