Chapter 15
Jill, Natasha, and R.J. on Natasha’s wedding day, 2003.
It was June 1998 and I was in Chicago, on the set of the new Stephen Frears film High Fidelity, based on the novel of the same name by Nick Hornby. Even though my character, Caroline, would appear in only two scenes, this was one of my biggest, most high-profile projects to date. I was almost twenty-nine. My relationship with Josh was already two years in the past. Over time, we had become more like brother and sister than boyfriend and girlfriend and decided to separate. After our breakup, I dated here and there, but mostly I focused on my career, eventually landing this small but sought-after role in the film, which starred John Cusack as Rob, a music lover with a phobia about romantic commitment.
My first day on set in Chicago, I was filled with nervous excitement. To steady myself, I was watching a scene unfold on a monitor when a man with wavy brown hair and large dark eyes approached me.
“Hi, I’m D.V.,” he said. “I’m one of the writers.… I am so glad you’re here.”
I said hi and shook his hand, then we turned our attention back to the scene. We were watching an up-and-coming actor I’d known slightly at high school when he was a grade above me. “That’s Jack,” D.V. said, “the Scene Thief.” Jack Black had been playing supporting roles in movies for a few years, but High Fidelity would be his big comedy breakthrough. It was obvious that he was running away with every scene. Stephen was directing his actors in a posh English accent that reminded me of my dad: “Wonderful. Again, just faster and better.” When John Cusack walked over and introduced himself, I was struck by his height (six foot two, a giant next to me at five foot two).
That night the cast, director, and writers had dinner at an old Italian restaurant. D.V. sat across from me at the table. Every time I looked up, he was staring at me with his great big eyes, eyes that seemed to be trying to tell me something. When it was time to leave, D.V. and John, who were childhood friends, got into a playful tug-of-war over who would drive me home. D.V. insisted, and so there we were, alone together for the first time in his car. He asked me if I wanted to go have a drink, but it was getting late, so we postponed for another night and he dropped me off at my hotel.
My scenes with John went smoothly. The butterflies in my stomach worked well for the character, who was excited to meet John’s character. Between takes, I wandered the “record store,” checking out the real albums and the carefully placed set decoration. A variety of flyers and posters covered the walls. The one that drew my attention advertised an upcoming party on July 20. “How funny,” I said, thinking aloud. “July twentieth is my mom’s birthday.” Suddenly, there was D.V. again. “That’s my birthday too,” he said.
I had two days left shooting in Chicago when we went for dinner, just the two of us. That night, without warning, D.V. leaned in for a kiss. I felt dizzy, elated. I wrapped my scenes on Tuesday and spent the night at D.V.’s apartment. He dropped me at my hotel seconds before the van left to take me to the airport. He lived in Los Angeles and we promised we would see one another again soon.
On the flight home, I struck up a conversation with a nice older man in the seat next to mine. He told me that he was a retired police officer whose name was—believe it or not—Krupke. By mere chance, I was seated beside Officer Krupke, just like the character the Jets sing about in my mother’s film West Side Story. I had just been swept off my feet by a man who was born on the same day as her, and now this. Although I had long ago stopped trying to summon her spirit by holding séances in the closet, the air seemed to be alive with connections to my mother. Was she out there somewhere, pulling some mystical strings? My mom had been famous for her big brown eyes, so much like D.V.’s. His dark, wavy hair and small frame reminded me of her. When I looked at him, I could see her in his eyes. Though our time together had been brief, somehow I could envision this man I hardly knew as my soul mate. If D.V. and I married and had a little girl, I thought, she would look just like my mom.
After I returned to LA, I was scheduled to start rehearsals for a movie about Hugh Hefner’s life, in which I would play Hefner’s assistant Bobbie Arnstein, who had taken her own life in 1975. Aided by a 1960s and 1970s wardrobe and hairstyle, I stepped into the skin of Bobbie, a woman who fell into a deep depression after she was arrested on drug charges and sentenced to prison. Everything ended for her in a downtown motel, where she fatally overdosed. I had to re-create her lonely death, just as my mom had created suicide scenes in The Cracker Factory and Splendor in the Grass. I also had to lie in an open casket as Bobbie’s corpse for the funeral scene.
After I finished filming that day, I went to meet D.V. at a preview of the movie The Perfect Storm, about a fishing boat ravaged by an intense storm at sea, its crew trying valiantly to avoid drowning. In retrospect, watching two hours of people fighting for their lives in the middle of the ocean may not have been the best way to unwind after lying in a coffin all day, pretending to be dead. Although I hadn’t consciously realized it, placing myself inside a casket for hours had brought up long-buried memories of the last time I saw my mother, our final goodbye at the funeral home. And then the movie The Perfect Storm reminded me of the last moments of her life.
As soon as D.V. and I left the theater, the lights of Hollywood Boulevard started to blur. I felt woozy. Before I knew what was happening, tears were streaming down my face. I turned to this person I barely knew and told him all about the most profoundly painful wound in my life—something I did not discuss openly with most people. D.V. comforted me, his dark eyes full of empathy. That was new for me. He didn’t reach for a phone and tell me to “Call Miss Malin,” nor did he try to change the subject, as so many people would have done. He held me gently in his arms and silently allowed me to feel what I was feeling, to cry it all out until it passed.
Just like that, our romance moved to a deeper level. His compassion for my pain felt like a strong foundation for our relationship. D.V. was going to heal me—I knew it. I had been through so much therapy, so many tears, so much growing, but I was still a sad little girl who longed for her mother. Maybe D.V. was the missing piece of my scattered, Scotch-taped puzzle self.
Wanting deeply to connect, I saw signs everywhere. My mom and D.V. were born under Cancer, the zodiac sign that rules motherhood. Just like my mother had done, he had a way of making all the different parts of me welcome. If I were feeling anxious or sad or shy, it was all hunky-dory in his book. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he would say in a soothing voice. “You’re safe and I love you.” I began to believe D.V. was the mirror I had lost when my mom died. He made me feel whole and beautiful. He was also someone I respected and adored. If he thought I was fine, I must be fine.
We officially became a couple. D.V. folded me into his world—and what a compelling world it was. A former DJ, he lived in the burgeoning artistic community of Los Feliz and surrounded himself with musicians, painters, writers, and creators. I became friends with most of his friends. D.V. was the Golden Boy at that time. That was truly everyone’s nickname for him. He had made his own way and scored coveted writing jobs, one after the other. Between D.V. and his friends and family, and my friends and extended family, and our dogs—D.V.’s Percy and Manny and my Westie, Oscar—my life was starting to resemble the abundant days of my childhood on Canon Drive. Everywhere I turned, I saw friends, family, pets, laughter, and love.
Around the time I met and fell in love with D.V., my sister Courtney discovered opiates. The pills made her feel better, stronger, and braver. One night, she took too many pills and was rushed to the hospital. Things had just taken a much more serious turn. We staged an intervention right there at the hospital—my dad; Jill; Liz; Kilky; three of Courtney’s dearest friends; her boyfriend, Renn; and me. We took turns telling Courtney how much we loved her and what her addiction had done to her and to our relationship with her. I had never been so terrified of losing her as I was that day.
Courtney listened, she paused, and then she turned to the interventionist and asked him two questions.
How long had he been doing this?
And how cold was it in Minnesota, where Hazelden, the rehab hospital he was suggesting, was located?
He answered, “Ten years and very cold.”
Even though Courtney really doesn’t like cold weather, she agreed to go.
I went home that afternoon and slept for twenty-four hours.
While she was away in rehab, I wrote her long, supportive letters, hoping that my words on the pages would sustain her spirit and keep her afloat.
I even wrote a letter to my mom, asking for her spirit to help Courtney. “She needs you so desperately,” I wrote. “You and Court and I are sort of three parts of a triangle, and maybe that’s why we can’t stand up straight. You are gone. But if she goes, then all I’ll be is a dot. And I don’t want to be that alone and insignificant. Please help. I love you. If Courtney dies, Natasha will die.”
That’s what I told myself and that’s what I believed. My sister was my blood connection to my mother. I could not lose her. It would take me a long time to realize that addiction was a battle Courtney had to fight for herself.
D.V’s oldest and best friend Dan owned the record label Drag City. Because of this connection, musicians and bands often stayed at D.V.’s house when they were in LA. Sometimes, D.V. would get so wrapped up in his musician friends, in the deep conversations and the long nights, that I would feel a discomfort that was almost intolerable. Was I losing him the same way I lost my mother when she went out to parties and drank too much? “I think we should break up!” I shouted at him, but I didn’t mean it. At this point in our relationship, I knew I would be unable to function without D.V. Each time I got upset, he’d sit me down and softly explain, “There is nothing for you to be upset or jealous about.” His soothing voice and his large eyes had a hypnotic quality, almost like he was twirling a shiny object in front of my eyes. But practically every time we went out to a party, my jealousy would rise up to the surface again. He would kiss a friend goodbye on the lips and I would think, Why would he kiss her on the lips? I thought they were just friends.
Once, at a party in Malibu, D.V. disappeared. The house was large and rambling, and as I wandered the grounds looking for him, I spotted some horses and went inside the stable to pet one of them. There was D.V. and a beautiful blond actress engrossed in conversation. They seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see them. We left shortly afterward and proceeded to have an argument as we twisted through Malibu Canyon.
“What the fuck were you doing in a horse stable talking to that girl for over an hour?” I asked.
“Natasha,” he said with a sigh, “where is your self-confidence? Why don’t you trust me?” D.V. prided himself on his strong moral compass. He had disdain for cheaters and liars. “He’s cheating on his girlfriend,” he would whisper to me, pointing at one of his friends at a party and shaking his head in disapproval. Now, I shrank with shame and agreed with him. Where was my self-confidence? What’s the big deal if he was holed away in a stable next to a horse, standing on hay, on a dark, cold Malibu night, talking to a beautiful girl? “Seriously, Natasha, you need to call Mrs. Malin!” I told myself.
We decided to work through our trust issues. D.V. and I started going to therapy together. We were both in individual therapy: I was still with Mrs. Malin and D.V. had a therapist I’ll call Ann. Under Ann’s guidance, I tried to put my feelings into perspective. I always had to vie for his attention, as his life was so busy. Neighbors and friends dropped by at a moment’s notice. D.V. was infectious; people were drawn to him—like they had been to my mother.
“You’re reacting to your own internal feelings,” Ann told me, “and not taking responsibility for them. So you project them onto D.V. and explode with jealousy when he talks to another woman.”
Ann recommended a couple’s therapist named Mason Sommers. D.V. and I went to the sessions together, but before long I started individual sessions with Mason too. I liked him so much I stopped seeing Mrs. Malin, who had been so wonderful—but whose guidance I felt I had grown out of. With Mason, I worked hard on myself, to be less needy, less demanding, more self-sufficient. I began to realize that the men in my life wanted a girlfriend, a lover, a woman—not a child looking to be mothered. My relationship with D.V. improved and I was proud of how far I’d come.
On the morning of my thirty-first birthday, D.V. handed me a jewelry box that appeared to hold a necklace or a bracelet. I had been hoping for a ring, but I kept my composure. When I opened the box, there was a smaller box inside, then an even smaller box—like Russian Matryoshka dolls—until the final tiny box. I opened it to find a beautiful diamond engagement ring. I screamed and burst into happy tears. D.V. got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I said, “Yes,” over and over as we hugged and kissed each other.
I took the lead planning our wedding, with D.V. only really interested in selecting the music for the party afterward. We were going to be married at my family home on Old Oak Road, surrounded by our closest friends and relatives. Both my dads were going to give me away.
I decided on a French theme, with lush velvet sofas, ornate chandeliers, oriental rugs, everything resembling turn-of-the-century Paris. My dear friend Molly Stern-Schlussel designed my wedding dress and the bridesmaid dresses. It was her first bridal gown, a fairy creation of cream silk with Chantilly lace and delicate seed pearls woven into a fitted bodice top with a separate long skirt that could be removed. After the ceremony, I was going to take the skirt off, which would transform the gown into a minidress, appropriate for hitting the dance floor.
It was a full-on family affair. My bridesmaids were Katie, Courtney, my youngest sister Poppy (Daddy Gregson and Julia’s daughter), and my friends Amanda, Jessica, and Nevena (another close friend who is originally from Bulgaria). My nephew Jake (the son of my sister Sarah—Daddy Gregson’s daughter from his first marriage) was the ring bearer and my niece Emma (the daughter of my sister Charlotte—Daddy Gregson’s other daughter from his first marriage) was my flower girl.
Courtney was in an especially dark place in the time leading up to the wedding. She missed all the fittings for the bridesmaid dresses until the very last one, which she basically slept through. I called her and reminded her, admonishing her for not taking my wedding seriously.
A few days before the ceremony, Daddy Wagner took me to lunch. After we finished our food, he grew serious and thoughtful.
“You’re about to get married,” he said, “and I want you to focus on your life with D.V. You must stop allowing Courtney to take up so much of your energy. You can’t control her, you can’t save her—but you can save yourself.”
Like a steward giving emergency instructions on a plane to attach your own air mask first before helping your child attach theirs, my dad was suggesting I prioritize my own life first and help Courtney second. I realized that we shared a strong streak of self-preservation, a special kind of resilience that keeps us going in the hardest of times. The best thing I could do for Courtney was to stay centered and build a life for myself.
The morning of the wedding, I got dressed in my gown, placing a beautiful vintage Buccellati bracelet that had belonged to my mother on my wrist. I had borrowed earrings from Amanda and had a white handkerchief embroidered with my initials in blue. Everything was covered: something old, new, borrowed, and blue.
Right before I walked down the aisle, I looked out onto the backyard, where the ceremony was being held. There were flowers and candles everywhere. We had placed wooden church pews under the giant sycamore tree of my youth, its low branches now glittering with glass chandeliers. My entire patchwork quilt of a family was waiting for my entrance. My dads’ wives, Jill and Julia; my sisters; all my English siblings and their spouses and children; Katie’s mom, Marion Donen, and brothers, Josh and Peter Donen; Kilky and her family; plus the whole crew from my parents’ inner circle—Mart Crowley, Tom Mankiewicz, Delphine Mann—and even Helen, who had cooked for us back in the day. Ali MacGraw was there, smiling her beautiful smile, and John Cusack was D.V.’s best man.
My two dads were on either side of me, about to give me away. They seemed subdued, clearly taking the moment very seriously. Before I started walking, I took a wobbly breath and turned to the left, where my wedding cake was waiting for the party later. The stand of the cake was decorated with a piece of the fabric from my mother’s lavender checkered wedding dress from 1972. I had a piece of that fabric in my veil too. Even though she wasn’t there that day, I felt her everywhere.
The singer-songwriter Will Oldham, who also goes by the name Bonnie “Prince” Billy, sang me down the aisle with Judee Sill’s “The Kiss.”
At the party, Daddy Wagner, looking handsome as ever, held court behind the bar, mixing drinks and regaling an audience of young actors with his tales of Hollywood in the 1950s, ’60s, and ’70s. I discovered what an incredible dancer Daddy Gregson was when he cut into my first dance with D.V. Daddy Wagner cut in next, then both my dads danced together, arm in arm, to Frank Sinatra. We danced and drank and partied until 2 a.m., when the neighbors called the cops.
Courtney showed up at the wedding looking beautiful and clear-eyed and seemed sober. I was filled with hope, momentarily. As soon as the vodka cocktails hit her system, however, she became a different person. On the dance floor after the ceremony, she pulled a large, heart-shaped, gold-and-pink-sapphire cocktail ring she’d designed from her finger and thrust it into my hand. “Here, Natasha. I never got you a wedding gift, so take this.” At one point I saw her saunter past D.V. and grab his face seductively as if she were about to kiss him. He gently pushed her away.
Courtney’s behavior that night reminded me of when she was a little girl pulling my hair and destroying my Barbie dolls. Maybe she felt it was her only recourse, to play that role. Or maybe it was her way of coping with her demons. Whatever it was, I had never felt further from her than I did on my wedding night.
After our honeymoon in Southeast Asia, D.V. and I settled back into our life together at D.V.’s house on Mulholland Drive and Woodrow Wilson, at the edge of the winding Hollywood foothills. Ours was the party house and we were the hosts, a trait I inherited from my parents, and one that came naturally to D.V. too. We hosted Thanksgiving and Christmas, midnight summer soirees, casual dinners, pool parties. Our friends were our family, and all our friends were welcome when we were in town. I had the acting career I had strived for. I was married to my dream man. Now we began talking about starting a family. For me, having a baby would complete the picture. I was ready to take the next step in my life: motherhood.