Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

A Coke and a Kiss

N
ot long after
Father Goose
wrapped, Cary took me to Las Vegas for a weekend getaway, then to New York for some theater, then back to San Francisco for long walks and fresh cracked crab. I caught a cold along the way, and the night after we were back in Los Angeles, I was flat on my back with it. Cary was busy that night with an industry banquet, so I was happy enough to do what I always did when I got sick: lie back, read, and guzzle Coca-Cola all day. It was the only thing that appealed to me whenever I didn't feel well.

I was glad I didn't have to go anywhere. My eyes looked like two poached eggs, my nose was as big and red as if I'd been on the Johnnie Walker diet for fifteen years, and I was sneezing with enough force to power a small town. I was ready to settle in for a solitary night of reading and pajamas when the phone rang.

“Hello,” I answered. My head felt like it was filled with cement.

“Dear girl, you sound terrible. Mind if I come over and bring a hug?”

“Aren't you going to Frank's house?” Frank Sinatra was having a pre-event cocktail party, and a gang of them would leave together from there.

“I'd like to see you first. I'm on my way.”

I lugged myself to the bathroom mirror and splashed my face. Trying to pretty myself up was pointless. I looked like hell on a snack cracker. I rubbed some lotion on my hands and slogged back to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Coke, and went to pop it with an opener. But my hands were slick from the lotion, and the bottle slipped from my fingers and broke on the ceramic tile floor, splashing Coke everywhere. What a mess!

I'd just finished picking up the broken glass when the house phone rang. It was the doorman, announcing Cary. It felt as if I had taken only a couple of steps toward the kitchen to finish cleaning up when Cary knocked.
Well, the spill will have to wait,
I thought as I did an about-face and let him in. He was wearing a jet-black tuxedo, and he was just plain shimmering with elegance.

“Hello, dear girl. My goodness. You feel awful, don't you?”

“Yes.”
Kerchoo
.

“Here.” He gave me a bottle of champagne.

“How sweet. I don't think I should drink with a cold, but I'll get you a glass.”

“No, no. Save it for another time.”

“Okay.” I walked to the fridge and put it in. “Do you want a Coke?”

“Sure,” he said, taking off his jacket and sitting back on the couch.

I filled two large glasses, sidestepped the spill, and was steps away from Cary when . . .

Klunk.

Cary had taken off his shoes and I stumbled over them, thus drenching that crisp, perfect, ever-so-white tuxedo shirt with a large glass of the Real Thing.

I simply turned to a pillar of salt. Cary reacted the way movie cowboys do when they've been shot: first startled, then touching the wetness where the bullet pierced through the heart. He was in shock and rapidly cycling through the stages of grief: anger, denial, bargaining, and then finally . . .
acceptance
.

“I—you—I . . . oh
dear God.
” Then he snapped out of his confusion and whisked off his shirt.

“I'm sorry,” I coughed, and fought off an urgent need to start bawling. “Here, I'll take care of it.” I held out my hand. He regarded me with supreme mistrust. “No, really, I can fix it.”

What would Mom do?
That is what I asked myself. First she would remain calm. And she would make everyone else remain calm. So I told Cary, “Please remain calm.” And I said it in a very official voice.

“I'm calm!” he yapped in a high pitch that sounded like a coyote.

Cold-water-cold-water-cold-water. Cold water always fixes everything.
I ran the shirt under cold water. Most of the color of the cola seemed to come out. Iron.
Now we iron.
I heaved the ironing board out of the closet and plugged in the iron. I wrung the shirt out in the sink, then laid it out on the ironing board. So far so good. I exhaled and set the iron down on the shirt. I tried to slide it forward but it wouldn't move. It gurgled and hissed. Oh, I'd forgotten to put water in it. I lifted the iron and the shirt stuck fast to it. I peeled the shirt off and screamed. The iron had secreted a gooey brown muck onto the shirt in the shape of the iron.

This seemed like a perfectly good time to regress into childhood. I ran into the living room and barricaded myself between the wall and the television console.

“Dyan, what on earth—”

“Your shirt is dead. I killed it.”

“Dyan!”

“Go look for yourself!”

The next thing I heard was his Cockney Popeye voice, unleashing a torrent of unintelligible profanity.

“Dyan . . . I'm stuck to the floor!”

Oh, I'd forgotten to warn him about the spilled Coke.

I peered over the top of the TV. “Cary, I forgot to tell you. Don't walk in the kitchen. I spilled a Coke.”

“&^%#!”

“Where can I get you another one?”

“Another Coke? No thanks!”

“No!” I cried. “Another shirt!”

“Just call Hong Kong and ask for Jimmy! He makes all my dress shirts.” Then he let out a laugh. “You'd better come out from behind there now, silly child.”

I crept out from behind the TV and looked into the kitchen. Cary stood there shirtless over the ironing board holding his destroyed shirt, one foot bare, one sock stuck to the floor, and a look of bemusement on his face.

I couldn't believe it, but he was smiling.

“I don't suppose you have something that would fit me?” He arched a brow.

“I'm sorry, Cary. So, so sorry, Cary.”

“No worries,” he said, buttoning up his desecrated shirt with regal aplomb. He stepped into his patent leather shoes, and pulled on his tuxedo jacket, and straightened his bow tie in the hall mirror. He looked at his watch. “I'll be right on time,” he said.

“You're going like
that
?”

“Yes! I'm going to start a fashion trend.”

“Huh?”

“I'm going to show up for Sinatra's party just like this, with a full-sized iron burn on my tuxedo shirt. And I'm going to pretend like it's
completely
normal. I'll bet you that in no time,
everyone
will want an iron burn on their tuxedo shirt.”

“Oh, Cary.”

“Come here, silly child. I haven't given you your hug.”

But he didn't give me a hug. He gave me a kiss. Full on the lips.

“I'd better go home and change,” he said. “And you'd better be well by tomorrow because I'm going to want to take you out for a Coke.”

I
t was easier to imagine Alfred Hitchcock throwing a Halloween party than a Christmas party, but for Alfred, every day was Halloween. And that included Christmas. As we rolled into the holidays—our second round of holidays together—Cary was buried in a flurry of invitations, most of which he politely declined. But Cary and Alfred had a special relationship. They'd done four films together, at least three of them classics. Hitch, who was vocal in his disdain of movie stars, had been quoted more than once as saying, “[Cary was] the only actor I'd ever loved in my whole life.” Cary loved Hitch, too, and in addition to everything else, I think he always particularly enjoyed being around a fellow Englishman. “He's English to the core,” Cary said appreciatively, adding, “if you overlook the fact that he's really from another planet.”

As we pulled into the driveway of the Hitchcocks' Bel Air home, Cary looked at me and grinned. “All I'm going to say,” he said, “is be prepared for
anything.
He's not called ‘the master of the unexpected' for nothing.” With that in mind, we walked to the front door, where Alfred greeted us with a tray of Windex-blue martinis. Cary introduced us and Hitch gave a small bow.

“I hope you'll forgive me, Cary, but we're fresh out of LSD,” Hitch said, deadpan as always. “I hope a martini will suffice. I made them so you could have a drink and see colors at the same time.” We each took a glass off the tray and raised it to Alfred, who looked at me and said, “You know, Dyan, I think I've figured out why Cary likes LSD so much. The reason is, the letters stand for pounds, shillings, and dollars . . . This way, please.”

We followed Hitch to the living room, where about a dozen other guests were mingling. Impossible to miss was Jimmy Stewart, who, as I walked in, was just sitting down on the large, overstuffed sofa. As soon as he alighted, there erupted a seven-second burst of flatulence. Jimmy sprang from the couch like he'd been stuck with a hat pin and everyone laughed—including Jimmy, who broke out into his familiar mirthful croak.

“Oh dear, he's at it again,” Alma Hitchcock said serenely. “Alfred bought his first whoopee cushion in 1927, and he's never fallen out of love with them.” She smiled at Alfred. “Have you, dear?”

“They're a more powerful social icebreaker than alcohol,” Hitch mused. “You see, next to fear, flatulence is the most fundamental aspect of the human condition.”

“Alfred!” Alma chided gently.

Hitch went on. “I'm utterly sincere. Since no one will
voluntarily
break wind in polite company, it must be induced. However, I haven't been able to dislodge Alma from her skepticism on the matter, have I, dear?”

“No, dear,” Alma replied. “I disapproved in 1927 and I disapprove now, but I have ceded that territory to you, haven't I?”

“And quite graciously,” Mr. Hitchcock said.

“Indeed,” Alma said.

I wanted to hug them both. Cary wandered off to mingle, and I found myself talking to the legendary director, one-on-one. “You know, Mr. Hitchcock, there's something I want to share with you. Cary has two wonderful cousins named Maggie and Eric, who live in Bristol. You and Mrs. Hitchcock remind me so much of them. They make everyone feel at home the way you do.”

“Well, my dear, if you ever run away from home, you know you're welcome here.”

“That's very sweet.”

“You've got a very nice presence.”

“Thank you.”

“May I ask you an impertinent sort of question?”

“That would be fine,” I said.

“I'll admit it's equal parts idle curiosity and enlightened self-interest.”

“Sure.”

“Have you and Cary discussed making a movie together?”

“No,” I said. “To be honest, it's never come up.” I actually had to think about it. Cary's career was Cary's career, and my career was my own too. When we got together, we checked our careers at the door. That's not to say the idea of being Cary's leading lady in a film wasn't attractive;
of course
it was. But I was much more preoccupied with being his leading lady in real life.

“I think it would be splendid,” Hitch said. “The two of you have a very nice chemistry. If you care to pursue it, I have a little something you could slip into his drink that would make him quite compliant. Unfortunately, it would also cause a long-term loss of motor coordination, but we can adjust the role to fit that.”

“Alfred!” Alma called. “Dinner is served!”

We ambled to the table with our blue martinis and took our seats. Two butlers brought large, covered platters to the table. Hitch gave them a nod, and they removed the covers to reveal large slabs of prime rib. The beef smelled wonderful, but it looked awful.

It was blue. Bright, turquoise blue. Then along came the side dishes: blue broccoli, blue potatoes, blue rolls . . .

“Cary,” Hitch said placidly, “would you care to say grace?”

Cary folded his hands and looked heavenward. “Dear Lord, please punish our friend Alfred to the full extent of your almighty powers, but spare his dear wife, Alma, because as hard as she tried to edit the meal, he insisted on the final cut.”

“Do you think it's safe to eat?” I whispered to Cary.

“The color may be off-putting, but I'm sure it's perfectly fine,” Cary said sanguinely. He was wrong. By the time the night was over, the two of us had worn a groove in the carpet between the bed and the bathroom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Happy New Year

W
e spent Christmas Eve at Bob and Goldie Arthur's. Bob and I had bonded in Jamaica, and since then I'd come to be really fond of both him and his wife, Goldie. They were kind, down-to-earth people, and each year they threw a Christmas Eve party that was intended especially for children. I'd been looking forward to this. I
loved
children, children loved me, and to be honest, I hoped that the sight of me playing with the kids might stir Cary's paternal yearnings. It was a big, raucous party with probably forty kids rolling and rollicking all over the floors, the furniture, and each other. As Cary and I walked into the fray, children clustered around us like puppies, pulling at our clothes, tugging at our hands. Anyone taller than three feet was fair game!

I got down on the floor and mixed in for five or ten minutes, playing along. Some of them were very shy, of course. So I slapped my knees, squeezed my eyes shut, and cried, “There's one thing I don't like.
I don't like kisses! Don't anybody kiss me because I hate kisses!
”

Naturally, I was suddenly mobbed by giggling munchkins pecking me with kisses. “No! No! No! Kisses are terrible! Oh . . .” Then I dropped my voice to a conspiratorial whisper and pointed to Cary. “Do you know who hates kisses more than anybody in the world? That man there!” The children squealed, identified their target, and the kiss brigade went in for the attack.

After our near brush with death by kisses, we thanked Bob and Goldie and headed for Palm Springs.

“W
here's
my
horse?” Cary asked, a little perplexed that my ride had been led out a few minutes before his. We were at the stables, where I was anticipating the unveiling of the first real gift I'd ever given Cary: a custom-made saddle emblazoned with his initials. It was no easy task coming up with a meaningful gift for a man who really did have everything, but during our last visit to the ranch, I realized that as much as he loved riding, Cary still used the stable's saddles. It surprised me that nobody had ever thought to give him one. I saw my opportunity, so I enlisted the owner, who helped me get the perfect saddle for Cary.

“Here he comes,” said Gus, the owner.

“That's not my usual saddle,” Cary said, catching a glimpse of the chocolate-brown leather that was burnished to a glow.

“Oh, yes it is,” I said. “Merry Christmas and happy birthday!”

Cary approached the horse and touched the saddle, then saw his initials emblazoned onto it. He laid a hand on the leather and froze in place for a moment with his head down. Then he turned to me, his eyes soft with emotion. All he said was, “Dear girl,” and he held me in a long embrace.

I whispered into his ear, “Cary, all I want in this world is to make you happy.”

N
ew Year's Eve. The holidays were nearly behind us, and we were at Cary's house in Beverly Hills, sitting by the fire and sipping cognac.

“Almost midnight,” Cary said. “I wonder what 1965 will bring.”

“Maybe a resolution to our relationship?” I said, immediately wishing I could withdraw the remark. It had just slipped out, thoughts and words, breaking together in a single wave. Damn. I really intended to keep things light.

Cary bristled. “Dear girl,” he said. “We've already had that conversation.”

“You're right, we have,” I said. Nothing had changed. Nothing was changing. Nothing was going to change. Being in limbo with Cary Grant was no different than being in limbo with anybody else. Well, that wasn't exactly true. Being with Cary was exquisite—as long as I didn't think about where it was going. Why couldn't I just not think about where it was going? Because I just couldn't. I knew what I wanted. Commitment. A husband. A family. Years could go by like this. If Cary wasn't going to budge, all I was doing was licking honey off a razor blade. There was nothing more that I could do. If he couldn't commit to living his life with me, I'd have to move on.

On the other hand, part of me really wondered if anything was wrong in continuing the relationship on Cary's terms. We loved being together. He'd certainly given marriage a chance. Three times. Maybe he was right. Maybe marriage was overrated. Maybe this was the future. That possibility held less sway with me, but . . .

The clock struck midnight. Cary popped a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses.

“Cheers!” he said, and kissed me.

“Cheers.”

Cary started singing, and I joined him:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

and never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

and days of auld lang syne

“What does ‘
auld lang syne
' mean?”

“It's Scottish,” Cary said. “It means ‘old long ago.' Basically, it's asking whether we should—or maybe even
can—
forget the past and move on.”

“It's a good question,” I said. “What do you think?”

“I think we should just leave well enough alone.”

“Does that mean
being
alone is enough?”

“You're twisting my words around, Dyan.”

“
You're
twisting my heart around, Cary.”

“I'm sorry, I can't do more than I can do.”

“I'm sorry, neither can I. Happy New Year.” I kissed him on the cheek and left.

It was five minutes after midnight.

O
ne thing was becoming clear to me: whenever I declared my independence from Cary, things happened for me professionally. And before I knew it, I was on
The Danny Kaye Show
. I did two skits with Vincent Price and one with Danny, and then I had a solo. I sang, “Have I Stayed Too Long at the Fair?” There was an unmistakable pulse in the applause that let me know I'd nailed it. I bowed and curtsied and hurried off the stage, walking on air. Addie and Hal were waiting for me in the wings and they looked very, very pleased.

“Did I do all right?” I asked.

“Dyan, there's no other way of saying it: you've
arrived.
”

And suddenly there was Cary, holding a bottle of champagne.

“I had no idea you could sing like that,” Cary said.

“Neither did I,” I said.

“We could have been singing duets all this time!”

“Fancy that!” I said.

It was the first time I'd seen him since New Year's Eve. We'd spoken once or twice on the phone in the past month, and I held my ground. I needed some time. I needed some space . . . away from him. It wasn't a tiff. It wasn't me being angry. It was just me being very clear about what I needed.

I was delighted to see his smiling face, though. Just a little unsure of how far to let him in.

“I have a little surprise set up for you,” Cary said. “Everything else aside, this is your night, and I am your biggest fan.”

Cary no doubt sensed my hesitation, but he also sensed that it could be easily overcome.
Oh, why not,
I thought. This
was
a big night for me, and there was no one else with whom I'd rather celebrate it.

I followed him through the empty parking lot, past a white van, to a candlelit table set with white linen and silver cutlery. There were even a pair of flaming tiki torches. It was the beach in Jamaica, re-created in the studio parking lot. Cary didn't play fair.

He popped the champagne cork and raised a toast. “To talent! And you've got it by the busload!”

My mind was bubbling over with feelings, but I kept them to myself. I was elated that the show had gone well, overjoyed to see Cary, and wistful that nothing had changed. He could line the road to eternity with tiki torches and pave it with champagne bottles, and it would still be the same open-ended, noncommitted thing. It would be easy enough to go merrily along for the ride. But I had too clear a sense of what I wanted my life to look like, and it was a family portrait, not a portrait of a happily unmarried couple. If I put ten years of my life into this relationship and Cary suddenly decided to move on with someone else, where would I be then?

The dinner was exquisite, naturally. Steak Diane. That was a sweet touch. It was prepared tableside, with creamed spinach and broiled mushrooms, followed by strawberry shortcake. We chatted and laughed but kept it light. When it was over, Cary took my hand.

“You're a sight for sore eyes,” he said.
So are you,
I thought,
but all I ever wind up with is a sore heart.

“Thank you for celebrating with me,” I said. “It was the perfect ending to a perfect day.”

“Dear girl . . . I liked it the way it was with us.”

“We'll always have the memories, Cary.”

“Won't you come by the house for just a while now?”

I was torn, but not quite in two. I
ached
to go home with him, but I wasn't going to go on spinning my wheels. I kissed him on the cheek, walked back to my car, and drove back to my apartment.