He was everything I wasn’t. A New Yorker from a wealthy family, a film producer who moved easily among famous people, called them by their first names and went to Nobu with them for dinners that cost almost as much as the monthly rent for my rent-controlled apartment.
His home in Pacific Palisades included a pool and guesthouse. His full-time maid adored him. He ordered breakfast in from Café Vida as routinely as I might put a letter out for the mailman. He kept horses in Burbank, where he rode the hills of Griffith Park. Trips to New York were frequent. At John F. Kennedy International Airport, a driver met him with a sign bearing his name. In the city, his hometown, he could have navigated the streets and avenues with his eyes closed.
I thought I wanted a piece of all that; not so much the affluence, but the ease with which he moved through the world with money and social strata no deterrence.
Meanwhile I, a minister’s daughter from small-town Mississippi, was one of the few people I knew who had moved farther west than Memphis or Dallas. I dreamed of becoming a successful writer but didn’t know quite how to get there. When meeting celebrities, I felt timid and awkward. To me, New York was the epitome of sophistication, but I had rarely been there.
Our first meeting, at Starbucks, went smoothly. He drove up in a late-model Lexus SUV, wearing a sport coat and jeans with a T-shirt and clogs and carrying a large shoulder bag. He was short and balding, with beady brown eyes, a friendly face and gracious manner.
He pulled a couple of easy chairs into a corner so we could talk. The first thing I noticed was how completely comfortable he seemed in his own skin. I admired that. On most of these arranged first meetings, guys seemed to work hard to impress me rather than just being themselves. He was a good listener and asked thoughtful questions.
He didn’t want to know if I played pickleball or liked to cook, but rather if my father had been devastated when my mother died. He seemed intrigued by stories of my simple Southern upbringing, finding them valuable rather than quaint, as many do. His remarkably sweet smile popped up often.
He said his house was full of musical instruments that he and his sons played, and he wanted to send me a playlist he thought I’d like. One of the songs was “Southern Nights,” which I found a thoughtful choice for me.
We started dating. We’d go to dinner in the Palisades or Venice. Our conversations were deep and covered many topics. I felt free to talk to him about anything and was rewarded with thoughtful answers. It was clear he had a brilliant, creative mind, a kind spirit, and an unfailing belief in himself and his projects. He was confident but not boastful. He seemed world-wise and encouraged my aspirations as a writer, admonishing me to always “write my truth.”
After dinner we’d go to his house where he’d play his grand piano and various guitars. We sang Paul Simon, Joni Mitchell and John Denver songs. I felt bonded to him because we had lived at the same time but had very different lives. The ’60s music was a welcome meeting point, a shared love, where our differences briefly vanished.
I went along on one of his trips to New York. We stayed in a fancy hotel and, while he worked, I explored the city. Before we flew home, I met his mother who lived in an apartment on the Upper East Side, filled with family mementos, giving me a glimpse into his childhood. She was gracious and, even at 75, up-to-the-minute on all that was going on in New York, fully engaged in the world around her.
Back in L.A., we attended a magic show at Geffen Playhouse and concerts at Walt Disney Concert Hall, where we joined private pre-concert dinners in a special room and went back at intermission for dessert. We went horseback riding. He bought me a helmet and paid for my private lessons. On the way home, we stopped for ice cream. I thought we were completely comfortable together.
Occasionally, though, I wouldn’t hear from him for two or three weeks. Then he’d invite me to lunch at an expensive restaurant on the Westside. One time, before we parted, he handed me his platinum American Express card. “Go to Saks,” he said. “Buy yourself something nice.”
That was a red flag to me. Why such a gesture out of the blue? For my birthday, maybe, but that was months away. I had a good job and could buy what I wanted within reason. His offer felt patronizing. Was he trying to assuage his guilt for some transgression?
In the car, as he took me home, he seemed jittery and distracted. His phone rang. I could see that the caller had a woman’s name. He didn’t answer it.
Soon the picture began emerging. I wasn’t the only girlfriend. He was usually juggling a few. I saw that his extravagant gifts were an attempt to compensate for his disloyalty. When I confronted him, he said, “Oh, I always leave myself some wiggle room.”
The pattern continued. He didn’t want to lose me, he said, but he wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t, change. The more I pulled away, the more lavish the gifts became, ending with extremely expensive jewelry from Tiffany & Co. and Cartier.
Through this experience I learned a basic truth I should have known all along: the dash of New York, pricey dinners on the beach and expensive presents are not where love is. It was a heartbreaking error to assume they were. In the end, much of what I had observed as a high life that might someday include me was simply smoke and mirrors artfully and deceitfully played.
I stopped seeing him and haven’t looked back. But I have missed the rich conversations, his abundance of creative ideas and his belief in unlimited possibility. The gifts, not so much. However, my principles have not convinced me to let go of the Tiffany diamond necklace. I’m not that virtuous.
The author is a journalist and essayist. She lives in Culver City.
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This story originally appeared on LA Times
