When we woke up on our first morning as a married couple, nothing seemed to have changed. He was shuffling his feet across the floor to the bathroom, and all I could think was, “Pick up your fucking feet, loser.”

Perhaps if he had leaned over and kissed me and said, “Oh my God, you’re my wife,” I would have felt differently. But instead, he just asked, “Do you want anything from room service?” in his meek little voice. I wanted to smack him and say, “Speak up!” Bitterness was taking hold of me.

The night we arrived in Hawaii, a major storm hit. It rained every day. And all Rod wanted to do was take photographs of me, because he could sell them and make money. I couldn’t stand being cooped up in the hotel with him, so I suggested going snorkeling in the rain. But the water was so murky it was like looking into a cement mixer. Then I got scared a shark would attack me and I wouldn’t see it coming, so the whole outing lasted less than half an hour.

“So should we see a movie then?” I asked when we got back.

“I can’t,” he said. “I really need to write this script.”

When the rain let up one day, I agreed to a photo shoot. We hiked along the beach and set up in a mosquito-infested alcove. By the end, I was covered head to foot in bug bites.

It was a miserable honeymoon. I spent most of the time on the phone with Joy. When New Year’s Eve rolled around, Rod and I dressed up and went downstairs to celebrate with the other hotel guests. Everyone was sixty or older. We had nobody to talk to, and God knows we had nothing to say to each other. So we went upstairs at 10 P.M. and were both fast asleep by midnight.

By the end of the trip, I knew it was over. The only words I said to him on the way home were, “Fine. Go ahead and write another mother-fucking script. I couldn’t care less. They’re bad anyway.”

Naturally, I only acted this way with him in private. But it was only a matter of time before it leaked into our professional life. We began to argue over every little thing on the set, which made the entire crew uncomfortable. One of us would tell the other what to do, and the other would bristle and snap back. Of course, I only had a problem when he was ordering me around, not when anyone else did.

We tried to make each other’s jobs as hard as possible. He knew how to get me, because the most important thing to me was the way I looked on camera. And I knew how to get him, because it was so important to him for the production to run on time, especially because he’d cram an entire big-budget movie into six twenty-hour days. It soon became The War of the Roses between us.

He would berate me in front of the crew; he would compliment the other girls but ignore me; he’d pretend not to hear me when I asked him something; he’d tell me I wasn’t smart enough to learn two lines of dialogue; and he’d chastise me for expecting to be treated like a star when I acted like a little kid.

In return, I would spend longer in the makeup chair than I needed to. And if he dared to poke his head into the room and ask how much longer, I’d tell the makeup artist that I needed more eyelashes or tell the hairstylist that we needed to re-wet my hair and start over.

Making movies became a miserable experience, because my dysfunctional relationship was staring at me in the face on the other side of the camera. And sometimes, on my side of the camera. He was a great director, but he wasn’t a great performer. And since it takes two to make a good sex scene, I felt that he was fucking my career up. When your sex life is bad off camera, you can’t expect chemistry to magically come into existence on camera.

The other problem was that he had trouble getting a hard-on. So I would do something for him I wouldn’t do for any other performer: I’d clear the set and give him a blow job until he was ready, which sometimes took so long I practically had lockjaw. In the business, we call it a slinky when someone can’t get hard while you’re giving them a blow job.

For one film, we had arranged a three-way, with Rod, Mickey G., and myself. But Rod couldn’t get his dick firm to save his life and Mickey was like a rock, so Rod had to be dropped from the scene. It wasn’t anything personal: it was just about getting the film done. But it was a major ego blow to Rod. I took him aside and said that we could just scrap the scene.

“I insist that you do it,” he said. “If you don’t, I’m going to be mad.”

“Well,” I told him. “You’re going to be mad either way.”

I did the scene. It was the first one I had done with another man since we were married. But Rod got his revenge.