Authors: Belinda Carlisle
About a year earlier, he had posed in nothing but his tight white Calvins for an ad that became iconic in the gay community after it ran in
GQ
magazine and then whipped up a storm of controversy when it was unveiled as a billboard in Times Square. Soon after, Kathy and I were walking through Times Square. I stopped to admire his ripped body and said, “I want to go out with that guy.”
Ironically, I met him a short time later at a party in Los Angeles and he followed up with an invite to the Olympics. Having failed to make the U.S. squad (he had been on the team in 1980, the year America
boycotted the Moscow games), he used the fact that he was born in Brazil to sign on with their national team. We had a good time together and I liked hanging around the athletes. We played three shows at the Greek Theatre, and each night the front was filled with Olympians from different countries.
After the shows, I went carousing at the Olympic Village on the USC campus and had fun in a way that reminded me of high school. The village was the place to be. Some five thousand cute, athletic boys from around the world were staying there, and I saw or met most of them, including a yummy rower who competed with Tom for my attention as if I were one of the Olympic events. Having never been that girl in high school, I didn’t mind.
We left Los Angeles days before the closing ceremonies. I celebrated my twenty-sixth birthday at Red Rocks Amphitheatre just west of Denver, though I felt like the partying had begun a few days earlier in Las Vegas. It seemed to continue over the next few weeks until I confronted the reality that these were the last shows the Go-Go’s would play with Jane.
It was hard to imagine. From our very first two-and-a-half-song gig at the Masque, I had performed every Go-Go’s show with Jane standing to my left. They amounted to hundreds of shows and many times that number of rehearsals. I couldn’t begin to recount all the times she had laughed, frowned, and cursed at me. She had always been there. I went through the same roller coaster of conflicted emotions as the other girls, from anger and sadness to bewilderment and hopefulness that things would work out for all of us.
We met individually and in groups, with Jane and without her, with managers and lawyers and without them, and when all the tears were dried and the hard feelings sorted through and mended, we accomplished two things that I thought were absolutely crucial: We parted on good terms, wishing Jane good luck on the solo album she planned to release the following year. And Charlotte, Kathy, Gina, and I decided that the Go-Go’s would continue.
We played our last show together in San Antonio. A story headlined “Go-Go’s to Go On” appeared the next day in the
Los Angeles Times
. Jane followed with a letter to fans that asked for “understanding about [her] departure.” She called her years with the band the best in her life, adding, “The other girls have been great about it and I wish them all the future success and happiness in the world. I hope that we will all look at this as a positive step towards more good music for everyone.”
I hoped so, too. But after we returned to Los Angeles and began talking with our management about replacing Jane and preparing for our next gig, a spot in January’s massive, multiday Rock in Rio festival, I didn’t know if it would be possible to carry on. I didn’t know whether we could sell the new Go-Go’s to the fans—or if we could sell it to ourselves.
I set that uncertainty aside temporarily by focusing on my social life. I went on a few dates and for some odd reason received a flurry of calls from political types, guys with Washington, DC, connections. One guy was the son of a senator. Another was a lawyer who remarked that he had been part of a congressional hearing that was covered on the news and asked if I had seen him. Uh, no, I hadn’t.
I didn’t know how my name got on those politicos’ list—who knows, maybe it was date-a-rock-star month in DC—but I thought it was funny.
Then, in early December, with 1984 coming to a close, my DJ friend Rodney Bingenheimer called out of the blue and said a guy with whom he was peripherally acquainted had contacted him about being set up with me. His name was Morgan Mason, and as Rodney explained, he came with an impressive pedigree and résumé. He was the oldest of two children of actor James Mason and his socialite wife, Pamela. As a child, he had appeared in several movies, including
The Sandpiper
with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. He had worked in Ronald Reagan’s White House as deputy chief of protocol and special assistant to the president for political affairs. In 1982, he had left the White House and signed on as a vice president of the international PR firm Rogers & Cowan. He had also dated Joan Collins.
Being the son of famous parents didn’t impress me. In Hollywood,
“children of” were a dime a dozen and often the last people I would have wanted to date. His White House connection didn’t impress me either, as I barely knew who Ronald Reagan was. I found the last bit about him having dated Joan Collins funny.
“Oh, I’m never going to get along with someone who went out with Joan Collins,” I said. “Forget it.”
“But he really wants to meet you,” Rodney said.
“He’s from a different world,” I said.
After more back-and-forth peppered with laughter and gossip, during which Rodney revealed that Morgan was a notorious bachelor, I agreed to meet him at a party for a new Chinese restaurant in Beverly Hills. Actually, I didn’t agree to meet him as much as I agreed to go to the party, knowing Morgan would also be there. I did so reluctantly, too, saying, “Fine, I’ll go.”
The party was on the seventeenth. That afternoon, I got a reading from a psychic that someone had given me as a gift. The appointment had been set up months earlier, while I was on tour. I enjoyed readings as a fun indulgence. The psychics I had seen in the past were usually more interesting than the readings. This particular one, a woman, fell into that category. She was a talker, with a warm manner and a gentle curiosity that had her quickly asking if I had a man in my life. When I said no, she raised her eyebrows as if she knew something I didn’t.
“You are going on a date tonight, huh?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “But I am going to a party.”
“With a man?” she asked.
“I’m supposed to meet one there,” I said.
“He’s the one you’re going to marry,” she said.
I then raised my eyebrows. “Really?” I said.
She nodded.
“Honestly, I don’t want to be with anyone now,” I said.
She shrugged. “He’s the one.”
She made me think about this guy, Morgan. He was probably a nice guy, which didn’t appeal to me at all. How could I possibly get along with anybody who had worked in Washington and dated Joan Collins?
He was clearly from the right side of the tracks, and I was from the wrong side. Nonetheless, I was curious.
It was after dark when I pulled up in front of Bao Wao with my actress friend Diane Duarte along for company (and who knew, maybe protection) and turned my car over to one of the valet parking attendants. We went inside pretending we were there for the scene, though in reality we were using our eyes like radar to scan the crowd for Morgan.
I wasn’t there long before one of the junior publicists grabbed my arm and took me to meet Morgan. He was outfitted from head to toe in Brooks Brothers. He looked very straitlaced and unlike anyone I had ever dated. When we were introduced, he was utterly, almost rudely, dismissive and totally uninterested in me. Wasn’t he the one who wanted to meet me? Yet he wasn’t nice. I didn’t get it.
I asked him for a cigarette and he nonchalantly tossed one at me. “Here,” he said, before turning his back and disappearing into the crowd. I thought, How dare he! It was like a scene from a 1940s movie. As Diane and I left the restaurant, I didn’t think I would ever see him again. Why would I?
A couple days later, Diane and I were having a girlfriends’ lunch at La Scala Boutique, the casual offshoot of the older, fancier Beverly Hills restaurant La Scala, which was famous for the Leon chopped salad, named after the restaurant’s owner, Jean Leon. I spotted Morgan at one of the back booths. I nudged Diane, who looked along with me in his direction. He turned and saw us. His glance was barely perceptible, but both of us saw it.
A few minutes later, he got up and came over to our table. He was in another beautiful suit, with his hair perfect. He was extremely dapper and self-confident. He asked, “What’s going on?” and dropped his business card on the table. I shrugged. “Nothing.” He smiled and said, “Well, if anything is going on, you have my card.”
As soon as he was gone, I turned to Diane and made a face as if I had just tasted sour milk.
“Ewwwww!” I said. “He’s just so arrogant.”
But I guess, at least in retrospect, Morgan knew what he was doing, because I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I had tickets to a Hall and Oates concert on December 21 at the Forum and wanted to invite him, but I was too nervous to call. I had Diane call him and pretend she was me. She left a message with my number. He called right back and said he would love to go.
Two nights later, Morgan picked me up in a limo. I was still living in the hideous condo left over from my Mike Marshall debacle and felt like I had to explain why I lived there when it wasn’t really me. But within seconds the long black chariot was whisking us to the Forum and the two of us were talking as if we had been friends for years. We got along ridiculously well. It was instantaneous and one of the biggest surprises of my life.
We had a blast at the show, which was great, and then flashed our VIP passes to get into the after-party at Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant Spago. After five minutes, Morgan suggested grabbing dinner on our own and he spirited me away to a cozy corner booth at Trader Vic’s, a landmark Beverly Hills hideaway, where we ordered giant Scorpion drinks and pretty much decided we wanted to get married and spend the rest of our lives with each other.
I MOVED IN with Morgan the next day. Everyone thought it was crazy. They thought we were crazy. Morgan and I said they didn’t understand. We thought it was the most natural thing in the world. We were in love.
Of course, he didn’t have any idea that he had gotten himself involved with a cocaine addict. He looked at me through a haze of affection. It blinded him to reality, a reality that I strove to conceal. I showed him the very best of me, the person I wished I was, the person I might have been if not for the whole secret life I had going on as a drug addict.
I was able to hide my coke addiction, but it took major effort and tons of lies. I was slow in moving my stuff from the Marina on purpose. I used my condo as a hideout, a secret den where I could go and get high in safety. At night, after Morgan fell asleep, I snuck out and went to my old place and got high. I always left little notes on the bed for Morgan, saying that I went out to get Pepto-Bismol.
If he hadn’t been a sound sleeper, and if both of us hadn’t been extremely busy, I wouldn’t have gotten away with that charade. It was the end of December, though, and he was wrapped up in Hollywood’s holiday season and I was rehearsing daily for the Go-Go’s first show since Jane had left the band. We were debuting the refurbished version of the band at the Rock in Rio festival, a nine-day blowout in Rio de Janeiro that would draw 1.5 million people over a ten-day span.
A month and a half earlier, as we dealt with Jane’s departure, Kathy, Gina, Charlotte, and I decided that Kathy would switch from bass to guitar, her original instrument, and we would look for a new bassist.
Word went out, and more than two hundred hopefuls applied for the job, including high school girls and moms. They sent in demo tapes, photos, letters, and videos telling us why they would make a perfect Go-Go.
We had a blast going through the material and watching the tapes. Some of the demos were downright awful, and others were hysterically funny; thinking back, they remind me of
American Idol’s
early audition rounds. After rehearsing with the ten best, we brought back three or four finalists. One girl was patently wrong; with big, puffy lips and long legs, we joked she looked too much like a supermodel. Then there was Paula Jean Brown, who not only played well enough, she matched in every other way.
“She looks like she could be one of us,” I said.
“She doesn’t act like it,” Kathy said, meaning Paula seemed like a straight arrow.
“Give her a couple months,” Gina added.
“Yeah, we’ll corrupt her,” Kathy said.
By the end of December, we hadn’t corrupted her as much as worked her to death. After celebrating her induction into the band with a lavish dinner at Spago, we had rehearsed almost daily in preparation for our performance in Rio. We were literally getting our act together—or trying to. We were acutely aware that the band wasn’t the same without Jane.
At one point, I would not have focused on anything except the band. But there was now more to life than the Go-Go’s. My feelings for Morgan were deeper, stronger, and more mysterious and fulfilling than any I had ever felt in my life. He was unlike anybody I had ever met. He was attractive, elegant, smart and sophisticated, and very funny. I couldn’t understand why he had been so aloof when we met. He was totally opposite from that arrogant guy.
Morgan said it was because he was shy and didn’t know what to say. I believed him, of course, but have since wondered if he didn’t have a special talent for reading into people that he applied to me.
Morgan drove a Ferrari. Although I had always thought guys who
drove those sleek sports cars were creepy, Morgan looked appropriate in his car, just like he did in his finely tailored suits. It fit without pretension or attitude. He enjoyed himself and lived with a sense of fun, panache, and style.
And why not? He was Hollywood royalty, which I thought was funny but also something far beyond my sense of self-worth. When I told my mother about Morgan, she nearly gasped and made his world seem even more fantastic and out of my league by recalling how years earlier she and her mother had stood outside movie premieres and gaped at Morgan’s parents as they walked the red carpet. She had read about the birth of Morgan and his sister, Portland, in celebrity gossip magazines.