Beside my bed was Ali’s wedding gift to me: a leather-bound book containing F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story “Winter Dreams,” each word calligraphed by Ali herself. Its postscript: “24 October 1969. Forever.”
My wedding gift to her was Daisy Buchanan.
She was a Fitzgerald freak, constantly reciting The Great Gatsby from memory. Paramount had filmed Fitzgerald’s novel twice, and had failed twice. The rights had reverted to the author’s daughter, Scottie Lanahan Smith, who said she never again wanted to see her father’s masterpiece as a movie. Sam Spiegel, Ray Stark, Sydney Pollack, and Robert Redford were among the many trying to change her mind.
There’s no motive stronger than wanting to surprise the lady you love. Her only fantasy since childhood was to play Gatsby’s femme fatale, Daisy Buchanan.
Again cutting to the chase, the impossible became the possible. I got the rights from Fitzgerald’s daughter and Daisy was Ali’s to play. When I surprised her with the news, she smothered me with kisses and whispered, “Evans, you really are Gatsby.”
Who could be more chic than Truman Capote to write the screenplay? He was desperate to do it. “I know just the way to bring all that purple prose to the screen!” he cooed.
On weekend nights, Ali and I ran a film festival for the toughest audience in town. Among the mainstays were Warren, Dustin, Jack, Roman, Mike Nichols, Cary Grant, Fred Astaire, Roman Polanski, Sue Mengers and her husband, director Jean-Claude Tramont.
Sue was the first woman superagent in town. She had signed Ali and Ryan before Love Story; her clients ranged from Streisand to Gene Hackman. Her manner was outrageous, her tongue more lethal funny than Don Rickles at his best, but her caring and loyalty unmatched. Soon Mengela became our closest friend.
Although I was fond of the two Charlies in my life, both became the bane of our marriage. Charlie, my boss, had a nightly ritual. Before going to sleep in New York, he would take a bath, climb into bed, and call me. Any other time would have been okay, but his bedtime was my dinnertime. Uncannily, he always called just as I was about to put food in my mouth. It didn’t matter whether we were having guests or a romantic tray for two in bed. I was the man who never finished dinner.
My brother, Charlie, was a different story. More my fault than his, as I never confronted it. Wherever we traveled, he was always with us—London, Paris, Monte Carlo, Acapulco, you name it. I know Ali didn’t invite him.
One day after we’d made love, she jumped into the shower. As usual, I quickly got on the horn to my brother. Toweling off, she snidely laughed, “Filling him in?”
The Hotel du Cap was the arc of our marriage. For three years, each July, we paid homage to the rock on the Riviera.
Our first summer, glorious. Ali, three months pregnant. My brother? Sure, he was with us. Was Ali pissed? Sure, she was. Days later, my brother took off for Sardinia. It was the first day Ali could lie nude in our cabana. Enjoying the sun and silence, she rolled on top of me.
“Miss him already, huh?”
The next night we went to the opening of Jimmy’s in Monte Carlo. Joining us were David Niven and his wife, Hjördis, and Dustin and Anne Hoffman. In full splendor, the Eurotrash were out in all their glory. For the first time, Ali was beginning to feel like we were really Mr. and Mrs.
Two nights later, Dino de Laurentiis threw us a bash at Le Pirate, a crazy beachfront restaurant, where naked pirates climbed the netting and the maitre d’ smashed wine bottles against the rocks.
“Evans, it’s starting to feel so good,” Ali whispered.
“The baby?”
“No . . . us.”
It was! My back was even feeling romantic. No tension, no pain.
The following summer, there we were again. What a year! The best production of our lives opened: Joshua! Demanding were the twelve months, but “good demanding.” For the three months preceding our visit, all we could think about was “Oh! To be on the rock again.”
The Hoffmans must have felt the same. They too were there. Together we strolled through the streets of Eze, Beaulieu, or Villefranche, devouring succulent cuisine at some local bistro. It’s the closest one comes to heaven. Making bets, we’d stop people on the street, humming the melody of “Mrs. Robinson” from The Graduate, finishing with Love Story’s melodic theme, and then asking which tune they recognized. Competitiveness was the core to discover which of the two was more memorable. Mighty close: both the Evanses and Hoffmans claimed victory.
Gianni Agnelli was not only the wealthiest and most influential man in Italy, but certainly the most charming and debonair, with looks even more dashing than his wealth. To say he had big eyes for Ali would be an understatement. Gianni was a longtime pal and being in his company was an aphrodisiac in itself.
One afternoon, he brought his sailboat and docked it by the rock on Cap d’Antibes. He swam in to join us at our cabana. After an hour of sun, the three of us dived into the Mediterranean and stroked it back to his sailboat where lunch was waiting. The film Indecent Proposal? Forget it. Gianni would have turned over all of Fiat to get Ali. An Italian is an Italian is an Italian is an Italian . . . tutto italiano! After a marvelous pasta lunch which Gianni personally prepared, we bid him au revoir and back to the rock we swam, laughing about Gianni’s single-focused attention.
Siesta time it was, but it wasn’t. Once back in our high-ceilinged boudoir, it took only a quick glance in the mirror to see a lump on Ali’s cheek grow into the size of a golf ball. Who gets mumps in their thirties? Ali did. As a kid, mumps are not dangerous. As an adult, it’s a different story. There are lots of chefs on the Côte d’Azur, but medical specialists on mumps are not that easy to find. Half of them didn’t even know what the mumps were.
The local French doctor, who had never even seen mumps before, said, “Mumps can be very contagious. If you have children, stay away until it’s totally gone.”
In short, till the infection cleared her system, no going back to L.A. for Mrs. Evans.
The phone rang, S.O.S.—big trouble on The Godfather, “need you back here on the double.” Decision time. Stay with my sick wife or fly back to troubled waters? Troubled waters got the nod.
In the spirit of that bravado, the house of marital bliss came tumbling down by July 1972, though back at Hotel du Cap, we were dealing from a different deck—save-the-marriage time. On to the rock flew Sidney Korshak, my consigliere, for one purpose and one purpose only—to keep our rocky marriage from falling into the sea. Each day Sidney would sit with Ali for hours, trying to persuade her to make the marriage work. Convincing? Momentarily.
The following July, the Evanses didn’t make du Cap. How could we? Mrs. Evans had a different last name.