Ava Gardner: The Secret Conversations

Bappie blamed it on me for taking his generosity for granted. He treated me like a princess… jewels, furs, suites at the best hotels. Limos and planes at my disposal. When Mama died and Bappie and I couldn’t get a flight back to Raleigh for the funeral, Howard bumped a couple of four-star generals off the plane and gave us their seats. He said they were only flying desks in Washington anyway. Even so, in the war, bumping four-star generals off a flight was still something.

There were plenty of advantages in being wooed by the man who owned TWA—and, according to Johnny Meyer, had half of Washington, D.C., in his pocket. And Johnny should have known: his main business in those days was to make sure that the government didn’t forget Howard’s aircraft plants when they were handing out defense contracts. “I don’t know where all the bodies are buried,” Johnny liked to say. “But I do know where most of them are sleeping—and that’s even better!”

Maybe I never appreciated all the things Howard did for me. Bappie said I was an ungrateful bitch the way I treated him. She had a soft spot for Howard. She always took his side when we argued. She thought I was insane not to want to marry him. But she said the same thing about Mick when I first stepped out with him. She was always a little starstruck.

She never saw Howard’s faults—for example his jealousy. He was an insanely possessive man. He had a private detective watching me around the clock, 24/7, as they say now. His jealousy was petty and hilarious. He hated the Lincoln Continental Mickey had given me as part of our divorce settlement. I loved that car but Howard made me get rid of it. He bought me a Cadillac instead. When the Caddie needed its first service, he told me to take it to his aircraft workshop in Burbank. He said his mechanics would do a better job on it than the dealers. I thought that was nice because we’d just had a tremendous fight over something or other—I had actually blacked his eye. I wasn’t expecting any favors from him until at least the swelling had gone down.

But when I picked up the Caddie, I’d only driven it a couple of miles when the engine fell out in the middle of Coldwater Canyon! That was Howard’s idea of a practical joke. It was his money, so what the fuck.

He had a weird sense of humor, I must say, although I’m sure there was an element of revenge in it, too. It took me years to see the funny side of that prank.

I don’t know why Howard stayed around so long. He stayed around a long time after it was clear that I was never going to marry him. I just couldn’t shake him off. It was a strange relationship. I don’t think he ever put his arms around me out of affection, or to comfort me. He’d only take me in his arms if he wanted sex—or to stop me from hitting him.

When I told him that Artie had asked me to marry him, he said: “Go ahead, kid, if that’s what you want, but you’ll regret it. It won’t last five minutes. He doesn’t love you—he just loves the idea of screwing you. Lana Turner didn’t last five minutes, and neither will you, honey.”

He was right about that. He had Artie pegged from the word go. Maybe he’d had him followed, I don’t know. Anyway, in less than a year, Artie had tired of me and was sniffing around Kathleen Winsor.

If I had paid more attention to those Freudian manuals he was always laying on me, I might have smelled a rat. But I had no idea at all. A couple of months after our divorce, I fell apart when he married her. But it taught me a lesson. It taught me that hypocrisy isn’t just the province of movie producers.

Anyway, let me finish the story about Howard Hughes. Bappie still thought I was mad for turning Howard down. She adored him. “Think of all that money, honey,” she’d say wistfully.

She was now stepping out with Charlie Guest. Charlie started out as one of Howard’s tennis cronies and ended up running his Beverly Hills property portfolio—which meant taking care of the houses in which Howard stashed his women, including Lana, of course, Ginger Rogers, me, Jane Russell, a whole bunch of us down the years. Charlie drank too much but he was a gold mine of information and gossip about Howard’s girls.

Anyway, our relationship was volatile, let’s put it that way. It was never as violent as my affair with GCS, that’s for sure. But once Howard took a swipe at me and dislocated my jaw—that was the night I felled him with the fucking ashtray. I thought I’d killed the poor bastard. There was blood on the walls, on the furniture, real blood in the bloody Marys. I panicked. I think I phoned Mickey first. When I couldn’t reach him, I called the studio. It was late, I don’t know who the hell I talked to but I must have been hysterical and whoever it was they quickly got the message.

Someone contacted Ida Koverman. She was always the studio’s first port of call in an emergency when they didn’t want to disturb L.B.

Anyway, L.B. was disturbed. He sent his boys round to clean up the mess. They got me out of there so fucking fast my feet didn’t touch the Orientals. I’m sure Mayer thought it was going to become a murder scene! I don’t think he gave a damn about me, but he didn’t want any scandal attached to his studio.

Fortunately, probably miraculously, Howard recovered—and again asked me to marry him.

But the mix was too volatile. Our chemistry was the stuff that causes hydrogen bombs to explode. Till death us do part would have been a whole lot sooner than later if we had tied the knot.

Howard was a control freak, and I was too independent to take his crap. He was out of his mind most of the time even then, and he got crazier through the years. He died in 1976, twelve years ago. But in a funny sort of way, I still miss him. I still think of him.