Up Till Now (38 page)

“That’s what I do,” she said. Well, this was great. Marianne Williamson agreed to perform the ceremony, but wanted to speak with both of us together to confirm the arrangements. We set a date and time to speak about a week later.

I was making Elizabeth’s fantasy come true. This was just great. Unfortunately, the day before this appointment Elizabeth and I had a terrible argument. Just terrible. At 9 P.M. the following night we were on the phone with Williamson. “Hello . . .” Elizabeth said, and then started crying. Not just crying, bawling, loud uncontrollable bawling.

“What’s wrong?” Williamson asked.

And Elizabeth cried even louder. “You two need work,” Marianne Williamson said. “I’m sorry, I can’t marry you.”

We had been rejected by Marianne Williamson.

For the next hour we debated what was more important, being right or wrong, or spending the rest our lives together. Everything cleared up; both of us gave up our need to immediately fulfill our anger and spite and all those negative emotions in exchange for the other person’s love.

Eventually we called Marianne Williamson back and again she agreed to marry us. The ceremony was to be held at Elizabeth’s father’s farm in Indianapolis, Indiana. A few days before the wedding Marianne Williamson called—she had laryngitis and her doctor wouldn’t let her fly. So again we weren’t going to be married by Marianne Williamson. We decided to go ahead with it. It was going to be a very low-key ceremony; no publicity, no media, just family. It was going to be beautiful. We got our marriage license at the town hall in Lebanon, Indiana. Nobody recognized us. We took a nice walk around the town square and as we got back in the rented car my cell phone rang. It was my manager, Larry Thompson, calling from Los Angeles. “Congratulations!” he said. I had signed the license about ten minutes earlier— and the story was already on the news in L.A. To evade the media—in Indiana—and protect Elizabeth’s father, we secretly moved the ceremony to her sister’s home about fifty miles away.

For almost a year we believed we’d gotten married that night. Then we discovered that because we’d moved the ceremony to another county, our license wasn’t valid. So we had to get married again in Los Angeles.

I was legally married, but for the first time I had to learn how to be married. And that was not particularly easy for me. In my past, marriage had been relatively simple—I earned the money, my wife ran the house. It was very traditional. And to a point, those marriages were successful. That point came when my wife wanted more than I was capable of giving emotionally. Then the relationships changed—and I was not flexible enough to understand that or deal with it. So I had to learn that a lopsided relationship doesn’t work. The exercise of power is inevitably self-defeating. What happens is that the person without power loses their self-respect, their whole entity becomes less, and the reasons their partner fell in love with them disappear.

So Elizabeth turned out to be the culmination of all my relationships—all the people I’ve known, and all the women of my life. She gets to experience both the good and the bad, and fortunately there’s a lot more good than bad now. I hope. I like to believe I’ve raised the quality of my ability to relate to other people; it’s not that I was a terrible person but admittedly almost always I put my responsibilities ahead of the relationship. I could justify it in my mind; my career financed the relationship. But I’ve learned; oh I’ve learned.

Elizabeth is a strong, independent woman—and a very talented one. She was a wonderful trainer, and the energy that once went into that now goes into our life together and her painting. She’s discovered her creative talents. And because she brought with her into our marriage her confidence and her pride, I know that when Elizabeth sacrifices herself in an argument to come over to my side, which she does much of the time, she’s not doing it from weakness, but rather from love. And that matters.

And we do have our arguments. But there is one argument that does rise above the others. Now, there are certain invitations a man receives in his life that he just doesn’t turn down. I was invited to fly
in an F-16. How could I turn that down? I was allowed to ride along in the back of a police cruiser. There was no way I could turn that down. I was asked to dance with a killer whale. Of course I couldn’t turn
that
down.

And then I was invited by
Playboy
to photograph a naked Playmate. Now, really, was I going to turn that down? Did I dare risk being known forever as William Shatner, the only guy in history who turned down the opportunity to photograph a beautiful naked Playmate? There was really only one problem with the offer: I knew Elizabeth would ask me not to do it. If I insisted it would lead to an argument and I certainly didn’t want to have that argument. So given the circumstances and loving my wife very much and not wanting to have an argument I did the only realistic thing possible: I didn’t tell her about it.

This was one of the most difficult decisions I’d been forced to make in many years. Truthfully, it
didn’t
seem like a good idea at the time. I admit it—I don’t know what I was thinking. This photograph was going to appear in
Playboy,
a magazine with one of the largest circulations in the world. They were going to promote the fact that I took the shots. I didn’t believe for a moment that Liz wouldn’t find out about it. Instead I figured, well, I’ll just mention it to her when it’s about to come out.
After
I’d photographed the beautiful naked Playmate.

Every married man understands this. And agrees with me. Would I have objected to Liz photographing a naked Playmate? Of course not, I’d probably even want to go with her to the shoot to be supportive. Actually I was completely innocent. My concept was that rather than simply photographing a beautiful, completely naked Playmate alone, I would use a wide-angle lens and include in the picture all the technical people required to make this completely naked Playmate look as sexy as possible. I’d include lighting people, assistants, makeup people, costume peo... well, there wouldn’t be any costume people in this particular shot, as the beautiful Playmate would be naked. But I would show the viewer all the people required to make this hot work. Shot work, make this
shot
work. Liz couldn’t
really object, I was never going to be alone with the naked Playmate. It was very technical, just work. So I did it and I didn’t tell her.

As months went by I expected to be notified by
Playboy
when my photographs were going to be published. But I didn’t hear a word. That was actually fine with me; I’d already taken the photographs. If they weren’t published and I never had to just sort of casually mention it to Elizabeth, I could live with that. But one morning I was in New York and I appeared on Barbara Walters’s wonderful program (that I hope she has me on again to promote this book),
The View
. Liz was waiting for me in the guest room, the green room. And so I was very surprised when Joy Behar asked me, “So what does your wife think about you doing a
Playboy
bunny shoot?”

Apparently my photographs were being shown on
Playboy’s
Web site. I hadn’t known anything about it. But thinking quickly, proving my ability to respond to a crisis, I said smartly, “Oh, she didn’t worry about that. She’s far more beautiful than any of the
Playboy
bunnies.” Which is true, by the way, but when I said it there was an element of self-protection in it.

Elizabeth wasn’t buying that particular bridge. “You lied to me,” she said.

Technically, I pointed out, I didn’t lie. I just didn’t say anything. Technically, smecknically, she was furious. That precipitated an argument about exactly what is a lie. Let me hazard a guess that we were not the first married couple to debate that question. The best way to describe the outcome of that argument is I got my lawn trimmed. I got my shingles nailed down. I got my car waxed. I was wrong and, maybe not right away, but I admitted it.

I have learned that the definition of exactly what is a lie is quite different to men and women. Let me give you another example. When Elizabeth and I were dating we went to a several-days-long horse show. She was riding in the competition, which meant she brought five or six different riding outfits with her. As is common, she left those expensive outfits hanging in the tack room. Usually what happened was that after each performance I would take the wardrobe that she’d worn off the rack and put it in the trunk of the
car, so we would have the minimal number of costumes to carry home at the end of the competition.

But after the first day she noticed that one of her suits was missing. “I think somebody took it,” she said. “I know I brought it with me.” After her second ride another suit was missing. “Somebody is definitely taking them,” she said. “We have to lock this place up.”

Three expensive riding suits were missing. I said to her, “Look, it has to be someone who’s tall and slim, like you. Probably an adolescent girl. There just aren’t too many people who can fit into your outfits. I’ll look for that person. I’ll find her.”

When the competition ended I was standing by the car with several of Liz’s friends, packing the final suit into the trunk—and that’s when I realized what I had done. Rather than simply taking the outfit she’d worn each day, I’d carried off two of them. Nothing had been stolen. And as I realized this I saw Liz walking toward me. “Liz!” I shouted at her. “Great news. I got your garments back. I saw that girl and I followed her and I found them. I wrestled her to the ground, I got her in a headlock, and I took the wardrobe off her. Everything is here. I’m your hero!”

Unfortunately, she believed me. She started crying. “I’ve never had a hero in my life,” she said. “I love you so much.”

I was just about to tell her I was joking and we would have a big laugh at my stupidity—but how could I tell her? I was her hero! I thought, I’ll tell her tomorrow.

The next day I was just about to tell her that I’d made up the whole story when I heard her tell one of my daughters, “Do you realize your father is a hero? He found the person who stole my clothing. I so admire him.”

How could I tell her I was joking? Or, as she would have put it, lying. I decided to tell her . . . the following week, assuming she would have forgotten about it by then. It would be our little joke. Hey honey, remember that time...Next week, yeah, or maybe the week after. But as time passed she continued to tell the story to every single person that we meet. She told old friends, new friends, people
she was on line with at the market, even in an interview we did together. “My husband is a hero!”

And there was nothing I could say. Months later we were at another horse show and one of the women who had been standing by the car when this all began asked me when I was going to finally tell Liz the truth.

“You mean that I was joking?” I asked. “Maybe I don’t have to. You know, a lot of time has passed...”

Her friend responded just like a woman. Actually, she was a woman. “You have to tell her. If you don’t, I will.”

The next day I sat down with Liz. “Darling,” I began. “I have a funny story to tell you.”

“You lied to me.” “It wasn’t a lie. I just got stuck in a story. Hey, it’s really pretty funny when you think about it. I took these outfits by mistake and we thought...”

“You lied to me.” “I was desperate. I’m not a liar, but you were telling everybody I was a hero. What was I going to do? I’m not a hero...”

To this page, as you read this, whenever you are reading this, you can be certain about one thing: Liz has never seen the humor in it.

I don’t think I’ll ever successfully answer all the questions I have about Nerine. But with Elizabeth I have learned that the healing power of a human being is amazing. Both of us grieve for the people we loved—but we found each other and a wonderful, strong new love. As she has taught me every day for all the years we’ve been together, life is for the living.

I’m an extraordinarily lucky man. To have met someone like Elizabeth at that point in my life is probably about as unlikely as suddenly being cast into a brand-new hit television show and creating a character as popular as Jim Kirk. Or collaborating with major musical talents to make a hit record. Those kinds of things just don’t happen in real life. Except that they did. I’m an extraordinarily lucky man.

By late 2003 I was again beginning to wonder if my career was
ending. I was still receiving offers, but basically they were all a variation of the same theme: William Shatner poking fun at himself. I missed the excitement of creating something new, something different. I was actually sort of resigned to working less often, and the prospect of being free to travel the world with Elizabeth was exciting to me. I thought my career was washed up. I thought, I’ve had my run. Nothing’s going to happen.

And in some odd way, that was okay with me.

What I did not know was that producer-writer David E. Kelley’s legendary legal show
The Practice
was in its last season and he was looking for a way to use the final few episodes to create a new show.
The Practice
was a gritty and serious drama, but according to producer-director Bill D’Elia, Kelley wanted to do a show that was “bigger, bolder, and funnier.” This would be a show about a major law firm that generally worked huge cases for a lot of money. Unlike most legal shows, in which noble defense attorneys fight in sometimes unorthodox ways for truth and justice, the lawyers in this firm wanted to make a lot of money. Another reality show. At the center of it all was a character named Denny Crane. Kelley told D’Elia that he wanted Denny Crane to be “a legendary attorney, an extremely vain man who makes no bones about his vanity. A man who believes he’s the greatest attorney who ever lived. A man who believes he is kind of above the law, even above traditional morality.” He had to be pompous and sometimes brilliant. He needed someone who could carry all of that—and do it with a sense of humor.

Get me Shatner.

I’ve been told that David E. Kelley had seen me doing my Priceline.com commercials and had begun thinking about me for this role he was creating. Eventually David and I and my Hollywood agent Harry Gold had breakfast together. And there David E. Kelley began describing a character he had written for me. A pompous, eccentric, unpredictable, outrageous attorney. Denny Crane. Now, why would he think of me for that role? His plan was to introduce the character in the final few episodes of
The Practice
to see if there was any chemistry
with the existing characters. If it worked he wanted an option for me to do the new series.