January 1, 1951, was to be a memorable day in the life of one Teddy Lynch Getty.
It was 5 A.M. I reached for Donald, he was gone. It was still dark outside. Was the sun late in rising? No, I had awakened early, even earlier than the birds. There wasn’t a sound, except the incessant pounding of my thoughts . . . Sad thoughts that had finally resolved themselves into this final decision: I must step out of this uncertain, obscure role as Paul’s wife and step into a role I can play.
I could no longer even imagine sharing this man, Paul, with others, and pretending I didn’t care. Because I cared terribly—so terribly that I preferred to end our relationship rather than watch it disintegrate. I would no longer enact a part foreign to my nature. I lived with myself and had to be true to that self or the very structure of my being would fall apart, and I wouldn’t have any reason for being. I had a right to be me, not a phony me.
With this decision came a feeling of peace, a feeling of security. I was my own self again! Suddenly, I felt buoyant. Joyful. Like a kid. I jumped out of bed, slipped into blue jeans and a shirt, walked barefoot down the stairs, through the house, and went outside. I stepped onto the lawn. The grass was wet and icy-cold on my feet. The air was bracingly fresh. I closed my eyes for a second and inhaled deeply. I felt so alive! I looked up just in time to see the sun coming up behind the Palisades. How wonderful! The beginning of a new year! A new day! My new life!
I was just putting the finishing touches to a bowl of cut flowers on the huge round coffee table in the lanai when Paul walked in. He came over, kissed me, and said, “Happy New Year’s, darling. I want to talk to you . . .”
I put my hand up and pushed him away. “I want to talk with you, too, Paul, but it’ll have to be later, because our guests will be arriving any minute.”
Just then the outer-gate bell rang. And our friends arrived.
After a delightful luncheon, we watched the Rose Bowl game. Unhappily, UC Berkeley lost to Michigan, and after much discussion, we left the sports world, and said good-bye to our friends. Finally, we were alone. It had been obvious all day that Paul was anxious to talk with me, and now was the moment.
“Darling,” he began. “You arranged such a lovely day.” I could tell by his voice he was upset. I didn’t answer. He went on, “That was a fabulous luncheon. Everyone enjoyed themselves, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but I want to talk with you—about us—our future, and the way I feel.” My heart was pounding. My mouth was so dry, I could hardly speak.
“Teddy, I’m sorry about last night. It—”
“Let’s forget last night and talk about tomorrow, Paul. I want a divorce.”
“Teddy, no, you don’t mean it.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You mean because of last night?”
“It was New Year’s Eve and you didn’t come home! You drank champagne with her—whoever she is—not me. It’s cruel. Don’t you think that hurt?” I looked straight at him. “This isn’t the way married or unmarried people who love each other should live. And I just can’t live this way, not anymore. It’s killing me. Either I’m the woman in your life, or I’m not. And the way it looks, I’m not.”
“Teddy, that’s not true. I don’t want you to divorce me. You’re being irrational.”
“Irrational?! Are you crazy, Paul Getty?”
“Teddy, please. I love you. I don’t love anyone else. And you . . . you love me, too, don’t you?”
“I do, but I don’t want to be unhappy anymore.” I started to cry. “Don’t you understand? I’m unhappy.”
“Darling, last night was wrong, and I’m sorry. I’ve made mistakes. But we’ve been together for so long, please forgive me. We’ll work it out.”
“What do you mean, ‘Work it out’?”
“We could have a trial separation. You’ve heard of people doing that, haven’t you?”
I sighed. “Yes . . . I mean, what do we do?”
“You talk it over with Ludwig, and then tell me what he says.”
“But, I’m not married to Ludwig Gerber, I’m married to you, Paul Getty. You tell me.”
Just then the phone rang. It was for Paul, and I ran out to the beach . . .
In May, Paul left again for Europe, and I drove him to the station. I was very sad and quiet as we drove along. Several times, especially whenever a street signal stopped us, he would reach over and hold my hand, telling me that I must “not act like a child and sulk, but be an adult and try to understand.”
“Paul, I’m not sulking. I’m just sad, and I feel lost. In fact, I’m terribly lonely, and you haven’t even gone yet.”
“Lonely? Why, Teddy? You have Timmy, your mother and sisters, and . . . Why, you have everything you need.”
“Yes, Paul, I have Timmy, my mother, my sisters, and everything I need, except a husband. And I’m the kind of woman who needs a husband.”
“But, Teddy, you do have a husband. It’s just that I can’t always be home.”
I was silent. I was trying not to cry. Not just because of this lonely moment of separating, but because I could see the long lonely months ahead without him again.
As I swung the car into the railroad station and came to a stop, Paul turned and looked at me for a moment. Then, putting his arms around me, he pulled me close to him and said, “Darling, you simply refuse to grow up. You know, you make me feel like I’m deserting you, when all I’m doing is what I must do if I’m to stay in business. Don’t you realize that there are thousands of people depending on me? Don’t you understand that it’s important during this period for me to be at the helm, when I’m needed?”
“Yes, Paul, I understand. I really do understand.”
“That’s good, Teddy. Now, what about you? Are you going on with your voice?”
“Yes, of course I am. Only just for a split second in time, I sort of wished that we might have had a few months this summer to be together as we once were, without any thought of career or business. But I see this is an impossible wish, and I shan’t ever mention it again.”
“Well, dear, if I had your talent, I’d get back to work. You’ve already spent too much time and money on your career, and you’re still far from your goal. Here you are, a beautiful woman, your singing voice is right now, your film test shows you can act . . . You can do concerts, musical films, or opera, yet here you sit, putting your personal life ahead of your work.”
“That’s not true, Paul. I only put you ahead of my work.”
We weren’t aware of it, but the train had pulled in. I could see the porters, flagmen, conductors, and the passengers hurrying to board. Paul held me, kissed me, then we both got out of the car. I stood by his side as the porters loaded his suitcases and boxes of books onto their carts and into the Pullman car. Suddenly there was the familiar shout of “Alllll Abooooooard!”
As Paul started for the train, he pressed my outstretched hand, and said, “Stay right here, darling, and I’ll wave to you from the platform of the rear car,” which I believe he did until the train pulled out of sight . . .
But I had left. I don’t know why I drove so fast from Pasadena to the beach. I don’t know why I drove directly onto the Santa Monica Pier. I don’t know why I stopped at the merry-go-round with its flying horses. I don’t know why I chose a big black horse to get on, or how I managed to get him . . . There was such a crowd clamoring for a big black horse.
But I do know that when the merry-go-round slowly started to move, and the music of the organ started to grind out the familiar “Skater’s Waltz,” and all the other people on their horses were laughing and grabbing for the brass ring, I just threw my arms around my horse’s neck and burst into tears. When the merry-go-round stopped, I got off and went home.