Over the years, wherever Paul was, no matter how busy, if he didn’t have time for a letter he never failed to write notes to me like this one from Tulsa.
April 27, 1947
Darling Teddy Boo,
Your lovely hydrangea is still flourishing. I’ve taken good care of it. I miss you and Timmy—but you most. I’m working seven days a week from 6am to midnight, but results of it are evident. I wired you that Mr. Opperman of Aircraft Products, Santa Monica, will drive my Cad. to Spartan. He’s going to bring a smaller trailer to exhibit to us. I wish I was home. Expect to be home next month.
Love & kisses,
Paul
And this one:
May 8, 1947
Darling,
You’re a pig. You didn’t
tell me we had a coyote
living in the wolf run. Please see
it is well fed and watered. Has
Hildy seen it?
Love,
Paul
May 24, 1947
Darling,
Re Hereford Water. I’m signing $1,426 of checks for Hereford Water but this is positively the last time and if it leads to a break between us, so be it.
I’m sure Hereford Water as a business proposition stinks. Personally, we both believe in it and like it and I wish we had stuck to having Sank Ramey send us filled bottles. I recommend you write a polite note to the customers explaining the situation of delivery costs and set a minimum delivery of 3 bottles. Anyone that won’t help that much is not very interested so why pay them to drink Hereford Water. If the business won’t break even on the 3 bottles minimum, then send another note asking them if loyal believers in the water (if customers are taking more then 3 bottles more thank them in the note) to order the water direct from T. Lynch Hereford in 15 gal containers. Mountain Valley does this in many places including L.A. You could then get rid of the white elephant charges in L.A. and anybody that really was loyal to Hereford Water could still get it and you could make some profit instead of using me as a milk cow to feed a white elephant. I’m so tired of being milked to feed the white elephant.
Darling—I won’t forget Timmy’s birthday. I miss him but I miss you more.
I love you,
Paul
And whenever I sent him a newspaper clipping of a review regarding a professional appearance I had made, he would reply at once to compliment me, and always a note from him if I telephoned him.
I’m so glad you phoned me and told me you loved me!
I feel better now.
I love you.
Paul
Over the next years, during the rebuilding of the ranch, when Paul and I would drive up to see the progress we would take Timmy and Miss Lindy with us, and it was always such fun. Timmy would hide in the bushes, come out and surprise his father, who would immediately turn from a silent and deeply concentrating individual concerned with his huge investments into a playful father—delighted to romp with his young son. Then, Mother and my sisters, who were living in the guesthouse, would invite us in for tea or sometimes for a picnic supper. Timmy looked forward to these times and as he grew up, enjoyed taking walks, picking flowers, reading, and playing checkers, Parcheesi, or cards with my mother, who he called “Lulu.”
I knew little about Paul’s business day except when he would do some of his work at home. He’d be on the phone for hours talking to people all over the world. And building Spartan trailers now occupied as much of Paul’s time as did the oil business. When he was in California, he tried to find time to be with Timmy and me. One day, before leaving for his office, he stepped into the nursery, where Timmy had built a fort with a huge pile of Lincoln Logs. Indians, soldiers, and cowboys were spread all over the nursery floor. Tim and I were waiting for the battle to begin.
Paul stood at the door for a moment, smiling. Then said, “Hi, everybody, who’s fighting who?”
Looking up, Timmy cried, “Come on in, Daddy, you’re just in time. I’m the Indians, Mom’s the cowboys, and you can be the soldiers and we’ll fight you!”
Paul looked wistfully at us and said, “I’ve got work to do, Timmy, and I’m late now. Maybe later. Thanks for inviting me, son.”
Blowing kisses at us, he started down the stairs, then stopped, came back, and said, “Teddy, dear, you know in addition to our line of Royal Mansions and Royal Manors, we’re building a smaller trailer. Here’s a picture, but it’s not named yet. You’re usually good at things like this. Have you any ideas?”
I looked at the photograph for a moment, then said, “I might have a name for it, Paul, but if your company uses it, they must pay me.”
He smiled. “Darling, that doesn’t sound like you to be so demanding.”
I laughed. “Well, Paul,” I said. “Were you hoping to get it for free? You were the one who told me to put a value on myself. Remember? Sherman Billingsley and the Stork Club contract?”
Paul smiled again. “Yes, I remember, but— Well, darling, okay, if we take your name we’ll pay you three hundred dollars.”
“No,” I countered. “It’s worth five hundred.”
For a moment he looked at me, then gave another smile. “Okay, Teddy, what’s the name?”
“Spartanette,” I said. “Isn’t that great? I’ve got a fabulous idea on how to drum up business. Listen. In every city where you plan to sell Spartanettes, arrange to have a beauty contest. Then, the girl who wins will be named ‘Miss Spartanette,’ and your new trailer and the lovely girl will be photographed and shown in every newspaper. Isn’t that a good idea? It’ll sell trailers . . .”
“Uh-huh,” he mused. “Yes, it’s good. Thanks, dear.” He smiled, kissed me, and went on down the stairs.
Well, the new little trailer was christened Spartanette and took to the highways of America, and I got a check for $500 from the Spartan Aircraft Company.
Paul had an unusual way of making a personal evaluation of people. At times when they least expected it, he would pay them a visit. One day, Paul decided to drop in on my brother Ware, now president of the public relations firm of Russell Birdwell and Associates, whose offices were on the fiftieth floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza. On this particular visit, Paul just dropped in and said, “Hello, Ware. How are you doing?”
“Doing fine, thanks,” Ware replied, and proceeded to show Paul the names of some of his accounts among which was Linguaphone, the language school.
“What languages do they teach?” Paul asked.
“More than fifty,” Ware replied.
“Do they teach Russian or Arabic?”
“Yes, they do.” Ware showed him the price list. “If ever you wish to order, I’m certain they’d be glad to send it to you—at list price.”
Getting up from his chair, Paul looked around the office again, admired the magnificent view of Central Park to the north, the New Jersey marshes to the south, and, walking toward the door said, “Ware, will you please order the Russian and Arabic lessons for me? Nice to have seen you again, and give my best to Peggy.” Then he walked out, closing the door behind him. Speechless for a moment, Ware mused, Master of five languages. I wonder why he wishes to study more?
One day, the billing clerk called my brother.
“Who is this guy, Getty?” he asked.
“My brother-in-law.”
“Well, his bill better be paid. I looked him up. He’s known as a slow pay.”
Ware laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr. Getty is good for it.”
ON THIS SAME visit to New York, Paul made the Walter Winchell, Eddie Sullivan, and Danton Walker columns:
“Paul Getty doing the night spots, seen in the company of this and that lovely girl.”
“The mystery man from the West—J. Paul Getty—in town to take a look at his super elegant Pierre Hotel where the maitre d’ at the hotel’s swank Café Pierre almost fainted when he discovered the man he’d just refused to seat at a ringside table was none other than the Hotel’s owner, J. Paul Getty, dining ‘a deux’ with a beautiful socialite.”
“Who was the glamorous beauty on the arm of Paul Getty last night at El Morocco?”
“At the Metropolitan Opera’s gala opening of Othello, oil magnate Paul Getty was seen skipping the second act to sip champagne with his lovely companion in the Met’s fashionable supper room.”
One evening, quite late, Paul called. “Teddy, how are you and how’s my little Timmy?” Rather coolly I answered, “We’re both very well, thank you.”
“Darling, guess who I took out to lunch the other day?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Audrey, one of our old friends. We went to Schraffts, and sat at ‘our table.’ Remember?”
“Yes, I remember. But who did you sit with at ‘our table’ at El Morocco the night before? Remember ‘our table,’ Paul?”
For a moment there was silence, then, “How did you know I went to El Morocco, Teddy?”
“Well, I can read. And the columns have been very busy reporting your nightly activities with all of the socialites in New York.”
“That’s rubbish. Anyway, it’s getting late and I have a very important meeting in the morning, so I’ll just say good night, dear. Call you from Tulsa. Bye.”
And the phone went dead. I felt numb as I hung up. I realized this was the first time Paul had said “good night” without “I love you.”
He’d been abrupt, cool, and had made no attempt even to placate me. Couldn’t he tell I was upset? But he obviously didn’t care to explain. “Being with our dear old friend Audrey” didn’t worry me . . . it was those nameless “new ones.” And, why was he going out with so many? What was he searching for? Well, after all, I thought to myself, he’s been in New York for two weeks, why should I expect him to dine alone every night? But, why didn’t he realize I was lonely and wanted so badly to be there in New York with him, as before when we were dating. Visualizing him with other girls at all the old, familiar places hurt. I started to cry. I so wanted to go out and have fun like a kid again. I hadn’t been anywhere with Paul since Timmy was born. I was simply a mother with a child . . . Not so glamorous—or was I just not glamorous to Paul anymore?
Right then, I made a decision. I’d get a job, be seen, and show him. I couldn’t let my career end like this. I’d worked so hard to be good, damn it, and I was good. I’d call Mommy Saunders for massages, work with Marjorie, start fencing with Faulkner, ride and swim again—get in shape, fight back.
With that, I jumped out of bed, ran to my dressing room, put on the light, tore off my gown, stood naked before the mirrors, and took a good long look at myself. I was definitely heavier—not really ugly, if one admires Rubens—but there was just too much of me!
A month earlier, Paul had silenced my concern with, “Darling, stop worrying. You’re beautiful, and now there’s just more of you to love.”
Well, tomorrow there’s going to be less, I thought, and with that I went to bed.
I decided that if you don’t care that your husband is out with other women, it doesn’t matter, but if you do, then don’t let him know it, be busy. So I was. I worked out every day. I swam in the pool and took long walks on the beach. I filled my life with as many concerts and guest appearances as I could, sang for the Armed Forces and Air plant workers, continued appearing at the Hollywood Canteen, and by the time Paul returned—although he didn’t say a word—I knew by the way he looked at me that I had accomplished the impossible.
But the impossible didn’t last very long.
Late one afternoon, driving home from a hair appointment, I was surprised to see Paul’s car ahead of me on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Just for fun, I started to follow him in my little Bantam car, thinking to surprise him.
The street was crowded. We had just reached the point where Santa Monica crosses Wilshire when I pulled up right next to him. We were both driving slowly. He was on the inside lane—I could see he was talking to someone and didn’t notice me as I came along side. Happily I called out “Hi, Paul” several times. Finally, he turned, looked straight out his window, saw no one, then looked down and saw me, which almost caused him to run off the road. He looked shocked. I could see then that he was talking to a girl, someone I didn’t recognize, perhaps someone he didn’t want me to know. I ran my little car across the front of his Cadillac, and he abruptly came to a stop. At that, the girl opened her door, quickly got out, and ran past the fountain, across the grassy section of the park, and disappeared behind the trees.
“Damn it, Teddy!” he yelled. “What are you doing?” He looked furious.
“I didn’t know you had a date, Paul, sorry! See you later at the beach for dinner. Bye, now.” And I drove off.
At dinner, we hardly spoke. Later, when we were alone, he explained that the girl was only someone he was befriending, letting her and her little girl live in an apartment above the garage at the Wilshire House until she found an apartment.
I asked him not to lie to me.
His answer was, “Teddy, I’m much older than you. I’ve known a lot of girls in my life, and still consider them friends. I also intend to see them when I’m in town. It might be for an occasional lunch, tea, or an early drink at the Beachcombers. Nothing more. It’s as simple as that, darling, believe me.”
With that, he picked up the keys to his car, saying, “I’ll be home early, I’m going to the office,” and he walked out the front door.