Read Online The Secret Letters of Marilyn Monroe and Jacqueline Kennedy by Wendy Leigh - Free Book Online Page A

worry about me, so tonight I will, although I shouldn’t. Years ago, I slept with a few men whom I didn’t love. I would be telling a lie if I said I didn’t, and although I did love Joe, no one has ever touched my heart the way one very special man has. I can’t tell you where and when I met him — it doesn’t matter and it was a long time ago, and I can’t even tell you his real name either, because I made a sacred promise that I would never tell another living soul. I call him Mr. G, but he can’t be a replacement for Joe, you see, because — please don’t be shocked — he is married. He is tall, dark, and handsome, has brown eyes and reminds me of Clark gable so much. But no matter how much I love him, and I do, we have no future together, only the present. He lives in Paris and comes to America a lot (to see me), but his wife (she is very small and blonde and French) is sick, and no matter how much he loves me, he can’t divorce her. I mustn’t say any more and I probably shouldn’t even have said this much, except you were kind and asked.
    I never knew Jack dated Grace. If I were you and married to him, I would kill myself before I let her within a million miles of his hospital room, but then you aren’t me. You have nothing to worry about because you are married to him and she isn’t and never will be, and no Hollywood blonde will ever get him away from you, I know that.
    You said you didn’t believe in religion but I thought you were Catholic, was I wrong? An orderley [ sic ] has just walked in—I’ll give him this to mail right away and will stop writing because I am sure you have better things to read than me.
    Love,
    Marilyn
    __________________________
     
    Jackie wrote in her diary, “Marilyn has made the sweetest confession—albeit when under the influence of… … … She is engaged in an illicit liaison with a mysterious tall dark stranger whom she has dubbed ‘Mr. G.’ She is obviously not talking about old Joe K, and he is clearly out of the picture, and has been for some time. So who could her mysterious illicit beau be? Could it be Sam Goldwyn? Nubar Gulbenkian? Paul Getty? Gary Cooper? She is achingly earnest about it, as in ‘I made a blood oath never to reveal a word about him, not even under torture’ sort of thing. She has such a vivid, Hollywood-style imagination. Still, I suppose I shouldn’t lake all this lightly, because, in reality, there is a wife and God knows how many children. None of whom stand a soupçon of a chance should Miss Marilyn gaze mistily and bustily in their daddy’s direction.… Little does Mrs. G, whoever she may be, know how insecure and fragile Marilyn really is.”

8336 DeLongpre Avenue
     
    Hollywood, California
    Josephine Kendall
    1095 North Ocean Boulevard
    Palm Bach, florida
    November 9, 1954
     
    Dear Josephine,
    I am praying that you are out of town and haven’t read my last letter, or that it didn’t get to you yet * But when it does, please don’t ever read it. I just wasn’t myself when I wrote it — my brain had gone because of the painkillers—so I don’t really know what I wrote and didn’t mean any of it anyway.
    Last night is fuzzy, but I remember writing for hours to you, and then begging the orderley [ sic ] to mail it at once. I wish to God he hadn’t. But he was trying to please me and didn’t know.
    Anyway, please, please, please don’t read it. Just tear it up and, when I am not so sick, I’ll write a real letter to you instead.
    Love,
    Martha
    __________________________
     
    * The following morning, when she awoke from her drug-induced sleep and remembered what she had written to Jackie, Marilyn made a hysterical call to Patty Renoir, who recalled “I could hardly understand a single word. She was crying and crying. ‘I’ve ruined everything, everything. Now she’ll know. And he’ll kill me. He’ll never see me again, and she’ll never forgive me. I wish I were dead. I should be dead. Deserve it, want it,