The Hiltons: The True Story of an American Dynasty (53 page)

Again according to Hilton/Kelly family history, one of the Hilton Corporation’s lawyers met with Frances on his own, with Conrad not present. This attorney asked Frances if she would mind at least signing a declaration that would limit the money she would receive upon Conrad’s death, and also provide for her afterward. The document was called an “antenuptial,” which was basically another term for “prenuptial.” She said, yes, of course. To the Hiltons, her agreeing to sign such a declaration spoke volumes about her intentions where Conrad was concerned.

According to informed sources, the document Frances Kelly was asked to sign called for her to receive a lump sum of $1 million upon Conrad’s death. She would also receive $50,000 a year for the rest of her life. However, one of her lawyers felt strongly that there should be some sort of cost-of-living escalation to the $50,000. What if Frances lived twenty years longer than Conrad? Fifty thousand dollars would not be worth nearly as much in that case. She wouldn’t hear of it, though. She didn’t want to appear to be negotiating a “deal” and was perfectly fine with the terms as they had been outlined for her by the Hilton camp. According to the agreement, in exchange for the million dollars she would receive at Conrad’s death and the $50,000 a year for life, Frances “relinquished, disclaimed, released and forever gave up any and all rights, claims or interest in” Conrad’s property, including “community property right, rights as an heir or widow, rights to family allowance, rights in case of death or rights to act as an administratrix of the estate.” It was an ironclad deal.

When Conrad was told that Frances had agreed to sign the antenuptial, he wasn’t at all surprised. He didn’t want to push it, though. He took his copy of the agreement—still not signed by either party—and tucked it safely away in his desk drawer. Then he forgot about it.

Conrad and Frances Marry

W
hen Frances agreed to marry Conrad, the only thing she asked was that it not be an extravagant, overblown ceremony and reception. She wanted a small, intimate wedding, not one that would make newspaper headlines and inevitably generate more attention and unfair speculation about her motives. Conrad agreed; all he really wanted was a church wedding, anyway, he told her. Therefore, they planned a small ceremony at St. Paul the Apostle Catholic Church in Westwood, in December 1976.

On the morning of the ceremony, the premarital agreement had still not been signed. The couple raced to the church, excited about their nuptials and not thinking twice about any legal document. “Have you signed the agreement?” one of Conrad’s attorneys asked as soon as he and Frances arrived at the church. “What agreement?” he asked. Not only had they not signed it, they didn’t even have it with them! Never fear, though; the attorney happened to have a copy folded in his breast pocket. He presented it to Conrad with a pen. “This is not the time for this,” Conrad protested. “Why, this is my wedding day!” Frances took in the moment and said, “Oh, Connie, please, let’s just sign the darn thing.” The lawyer gave them a pen, and the couple then put their signatures on the agreement.

Conrad Hilton then took his third wife, Mary Frances Kelly, during the simple ceremony they both wanted at St. Paul the Apostle Catholic Church on Ohio Avenue in Westwood. It took place on December 21, 1976, four days before his eighty-ninth birthday. No family members flew from out of state to be in attendance, except for Eric Hilton (but not his wife, Pat). Barron, Marilyn, and a few other Hilton family members who lived in Los Angeles were also present. (By this time, Frances’s mother, Christine, was deceased.) The marriage license noted that the groom’s “Present or Last Occupation” was “Chairman” and that his “Kind of Industry or Business” was “Hotel.” The bride’s was “Salesperson for airlines.” The couple was married by the Reverend John T. Carroll, associate pastor of St. Paul’s. The newlyweds were then especially delighted with the wedding gift presented to them by Barron and Marilyn: a beautiful Eastern European ceramic Madonna figure, with the infant Jesus wearing a crown.

One happy result of finally having the love of his life at his side was the softening of the hard edge Conrad had developed in later years—and the return of his sense of humor. “You want to know the real reasons I married Frannie?” he told her best friend, Helen Lamm, over dinner one night shortly after the wedding at Helen’s condominium in Brentwood. “First of all, she gets a great discount on airlines,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “And secondly, she’s got great connections! That girl can always get me a good hotel.”

PART TWELVE

House of Hilton

Life at the Mansion

L
ife for Mr. and Mrs. Conrad Hilton unfolded easily and effortlessly. The couple had a natural camaraderie that surprised even their closest friends. They started their marriage with a trip to Manhattan—one that was comically ill-timed. They stayed, of course, at the Waldorf-Astoria. Connie had been bragging that it was “the greatest hotel in the world,” which, of course, he’d been doing for decades. On their weekend there, however, the electricity went out in the building, rendering the Waldorf completely dark. The kitchens were, obviously, useless—no room service!—and no elevators either! Eventually, Frances had to descend ten flights of stairs to get the couple some food, and then go back up the stairs to their room. “The greatest hotel in the world?” she asked when she finally returned, out of breath. “Maybe you should pay the electric bill around here,” she suggested as she flopped onto the bed, exhausted. It was a story they both loved to tell.

As Conrad and Frances continued their lives together, of course they learned more about each other, deepening their understanding of one another from the complex to the mundane. For instance, the Hiltons had their thrifty natures in common. Both had grown up in the Depression era and, like many people of that time, they valued the American dollar. At one point early in the marriage, a friend of Conrad’s suggested that he buy her a Mercedes. She had come into the marriage with a relatively new beige Pontiac. However, she usually drove the Cadillac Fleetwood owned by Connie. “So how much is a Mercedes?” Conrad asked. He was told it would cost about $20,000. “Are you crazy? Forget it,” Conrad said. “Frannie is fine with the Pontiac.” To put this story in perspective, $20,000 in 1977 would be worth about $75,000 today.

Frances would have frowned at the idea of a Mercedes anyway. She was wearing a diamond engagement and wedding ring that, according to her family, couldn’t have been more than two carats. “She was thrifty,” said her sister-in-law, Stella, with a laugh. “She didn’t waste food, for instance. You couldn’t throw away a tomato with a rotten spot on it, because she would say, ‘That’s so wasteful! Don’t do that!’ Frannie wouldn’t throw anything away. I’d say to Bill, ‘You have to tell her to get rid of that old coat,’ or ‘Tell her that skirt is out of fashion.’ Otherwise, she’d keep it forever. Of course, her mother was the same way. It’s Scottish to not be wasteful.”

For his part, Conrad accepted Frances’s little idiosyncrasies, such as the fact that she had never cooked a meal in her life—at least not a good one. “There are three things that may lead to our divorce,” he told her one day.

“Which are?” she asked.

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” he answered.

Of course, it was a joke. In truth, Conrad certainly had enough servants working at Casa Encantada to prepare all manner of meals for them.

Among those now working at the mansion was a woman Conrad hired to be Frances’s personal assistant, Phyllis Davis Bradley. In 1976, Bradley was fifty-eight years of age. She had just moved to Los Angeles from London, where she was born and raised. Bradley actually started her career as a live-in personal secretary to Zsa Zsa Gabor, but, as she put it, “That didn’t last long. One day we had a huge disagreement about something ridiculous and, much to my horror and astonishment, she hurled a plate of food at me. I was outraged and told her I would not tolerate that kind of behavior from her. Later that day, after my errands, I drove up to the mansion and found all of my belongings packed in boxes and stacked neatly at the front gate. Bewildered, I rang the intercom buzzer. Miss Gabor came on and demanded to know, ‘Who is out there?’ I said, ‘It’s me. It’s Phyllis.’ And she said, ‘I don’t know anyone by that name. Now, go away!’ At that point,” she concluded with a laugh, “I could only assume I had been fired.”

She continued, “I had met Mr. Hilton through Miss Gabor. When I had no place to live, I called his office to ask for help. He offered to allow me to live in a guesthouse at Casa Encantada for two weeks until I found a new place, which was so kind of him.

“About a month after I finally relocated into a new apartment, I got a call from Mr. Hilton asking if I would be interested in working for his new wife as a personal secretary. When I met the new Mrs. Hilton, I was bowled over by her good grace and easy temperament. Compared to the six months I spent with Miss Gabor, I knew I would be happy. Mrs. Hilton and I were about the same age, peers. Despite the difference in our stations, I considered her a good friend. I know she felt the same about me.”

Phyllis Bradley recalled, “Mrs. Hilton and I made quite a few changes to the décor shortly after she moved into Casa Encantada. We had been told that a woman had never been in residence there. Mr. Hilton had purchased the estate after his divorce from Miss Gabor and always lived alone. Therefore, after more than twenty-five years, it was definitely in need of a woman’s touch.

“Because some of the rooms were so dark, the first thing we did was change out the curtains and carpeting, switching to lighter and softer fabrics. Most of the furniture was customized replicas of French Empire furniture, which the original owner [Hilda Weber], had commissioned back in 1938. But some of the pieces were just outdated American furnishings. Mrs. Hilton replaced a lot of it with much finer pieces, many of them original French antiques. We worked with an expensive Beverly Hills interior decorator on many such upgrades, which was always a point of contention for Mr. Hilton. Oh, how he used to fuss about that decorator! He would ask me, ‘Phyl, what does he do, exactly?’ And I would say, ‘Well, sir, we pore through magazines and he gives us ideas.’ And Mr. Hilton would say, ‘But, my dear, I can give you ideas for
free
; why do we have to pay
him
for ideas!’ But in the end, Mr. Hilton was happy with the changes we made to his home. It was Mrs. Hilton’s intention to continue with the redecorating efforts, one room at a time.

“It was such a good life, I will never forget a second of it,” continued Phyllis Bradley. “The parties Mr. and Mrs. Hilton hosted at that mansion were marvelous. The money that was spent… the best of everything—the best foods, the best clothes… the best, the best, the
best
… all so expensive. Or, as Mrs. Hilton used to say, ‘Everything is just so
dear
.’ That was apparently a Midwest phrase for expensive.

“ ‘I don’t need all of this,’ Mrs. Hilton often told me. ‘This is Connie’s life, not really mine. I just have to play the role of well-to-do socialite as best I can.’ She also told me that she’d never been happier. ‘These are such big moments in my life,’ she told me, ‘and I don’t want to miss them. I want to be present for each and every one.’ Mr. Hilton seemed to be having the time of his life as well. ‘No matter how long we are married,’ he used to tell me about Mrs. Hilton, ‘she will always be my bride. It is such a privilege to wake up in the morning and see her face.’ I will never forget the twinkle in his eye when he would say that to me: ‘It is
such
a privilege.’ Mrs. Hilton told me they never went to bed without him first telling her that he loved her. ‘He never misses a night,’ she told me. I thought that was so lovely.”

“Spoiled Fruit”

T
he invitation for the party celebrating the first anniversary of Conrad and Frances’s wedding was quaint, with a warm and welcoming, homemade feel to it. It had Frances Hilton’s personal touch all over it, there was little doubt about it. By this time, Frances felt comfortable enough in her role as Conrad’s wife to inject some of her personality into their life at the mansion.

The front of the invitation featured a drawing of a man sitting in a chair, with a cut-out photograph of Conrad’s head attached to it. The text next to the illustration said, in cursive handwriting:

“I think,” said he, “I’ll marry her (with joy and great elation) for then I’ll have United’s free and friendly transportation.”

Below Conrad’s image was an illustration of a woman crocheting, with a photo of Frances’s head attached to it. The text next to it read:

“I think,” said she, “I’ll marry him (with equal jubilation) for I am tired of—and quite abhor—this old-maid situation!”

On the next page was illustrated a contented couple sitting next to each other on a couch in front of a fireplace with Christmas stockings hanging from it. The text beneath it read:

And so they wed, and it will be

One year they’ve flown “united,”

And both of them indeed agree

That they are quite delighted

They want their friends and family