Producer (28 page)

READ PEOPLE LIKE YOU’D READ A ROADMAP

You can cover up for people and sugarcoat things they say and do, or you can look past the outer trappings to see someone’s
true character. I suggest you keep your antenna up so you won’t end up missing the signs that you are facing someone with
no integrity.

If you’re the type of person who likes to see others through rose-colored glasses, ask yourself these questions about a potential
friend, business partner, or romantic partner:

•   Does he talk about himself all the time?

•   Is she concerned about you?

•   Is he loud and intrusive?

•   
Did you catch her in a lie?

•   Is he controlling?

•   Does she have a temper?

•   Is he a liar?

•   Does she say one thing and do another?

The answers to these questions should clue you in about someone’s character. Don’t make up excuses for another person, such
as, “Oh, she’s having a bad day.” Most likely, she was like this yesterday and the day before. It’s all out there to be seen.
All you have to do is open your eyes, follow the roadmap, and learn the truth about someone’s character. The signs are always
there. In hindsight, ask Amber Frey, Scott Peterson’s lover, who was duped by him. I bet she can come up with a ton of signs
she overlooked when she was smitten with a bad guy.

This is where you have to really hone your intuition. It’s all about how someone else makes you feel. Their attitude can affect
your mood and your decisions. So if you see signs of poor character in someone, move on. Who wants someone with bad character
and negative energy hanging around? Just look for the signs. They are always there.

I
t was 1990, and I was in Prague in the wee hours of a dark morning. I had just finished a long day of work and was standing
at the front desk to get my key (it was one of those big old keys that didn’t fit into my purse), when someone caught my attention.
It was summit time, and I was so exhausted, I could barely keep my eyes open. I glanced over at a circular seat in the middle
of the lobby of one of those dark Eastern European hotels to see ballet dancer Rudolf Nureyev sitting there. He was slumped
over, he had his hands in the pockets of his long trench coat, and he looked ill. But it was Nureyev. There was no doubt about
it.

When I was twelve, our one local movie theater in Dubuque was showing a documentary on a Saturday afternoon about the life
and ballet roles of Rudolf Nureyev, the Russian star who had famously defected from the Soviet Union. My sister Mary and I
were ballet buffs, so we went to see the documentary together. There, we ate popcorn and marveled as this gazelle masquerading
as a human being leapt up in the air
and seemed to hover a moment before he came back down to earth again.

Now, here he was, a few steps from me. I wanted to run over to him and tell him how much I loved his dancing over the years,
but he looked like he was not in the mood to be bothered. I was surprised by how ill he looked. I didn’t know he would die
of AIDS a few years later, at fifty-seven, but then, no one knew because he kept it a secret. I just watched him from afar
and marveled at the miracles and surprises that my job brought me.

My life has continually been filled with rewards beyond anything I could imagine. And they usually happened when I least expected
it. Take Jerry Lewis, for example. I was in Washington DC, on the set of
Larry King Live
. We had booked Jerry Lewis, circa 1994, on the show and I was excited since I had grown up laughing at his jokes and antics.
I think the reason I get so excited when I meet comedians is that my dream job would be getting hired as a cast member on
Saturday Night Live
. But for some reason, Lorne Michaels and Marci Klein haven’t called.

When I stepped onto the set, a little weak in the knees, Larry and Jerry were already standing there together, talking. I
caught my breath and instructed myself to stay cool, when Larry told Jerry, “Hey, I’d like you to meet Wendy, my producer.”

I stuck out my hand to shake his, and said quite loudly, “Hi, I’m Jerry Lewis.”

He looked at me and said, “You are, darling?”

I turned bright pink and walked away. After all, this was not a president or someone who has just won the Nobel Peace Prize.
It was the Nutty Professor. And I was acting like a schoolgirl. And then years later, it happened all over again, this
time with another comedian. It started with an unusual call from Larry. “Wendy,” he said in a grave voice, “I’m really upset
about our director. There are some issues here that I don’t want to discuss on the phone. I need to see you tomorrow, on the
set.”

That’s weird,
I thought.
Larry usually says what’s on his mind right away.
When I showed up midmorning the next day at the bureau, Larry grabbed my hand and said, “Let’s find a quiet place to talk.
How about the green room?”

There was no one in there so we sat down to talk. But in the next moment, the door opened and in walked Jim Carrey. Larry
and my staff had surprised me, and I was embarrassed and thrilled at the same time when Larry said, “Thanks for coming in,
Jim. This is my producer, Wendy, and she really loves you.”

My face got redder by the second as Jim Carrey flashed his white teeth and gathered me up for a hug. When I realized he was
in on the surprise, too, I was completely mortified. Here I was, the mother of two children, having a majorly cuckoo moment
with Jim Carrey. My staff and Larry had done this for me, since they knew that Jim Carrey was my dream guest and my comic
mentor. And now, they were about to tape a show. What a gift!

And then there was the state dinner under the George H. W. Bush administration to which I was invited in August of 2002. I
really liked this president but I thought I was much too low on the totem pole to be invited to a state dinner. When the invitation
arrived, I accepted, of course, and I brought an escort. When I walked into the East Room where the dinner would be held,
the only people I knew were the camera crews and the Secret Service agents. They all waved and nodded at me, I waved back,
and I went to get my table assignment. I’d
expected to be delegated to the back of the room, right next to the kitchen, but that was not the case.

This particular state dinner was being given for Poland’s president, Lech Walesa, so many famous Polish Americans were there.
I found my friend Jim Miklaszewski, a man of Polish American descent, who was at NBC. He had the seating arrangements in front
of him and he said something to me like, “Lucky you, Wendy, you’re at the president’s table.”

I stopped a moment and said, “Excuse me, but there has to be a mistake. My last name is Walker and I think they must have
mixed me up with the Walkers in the president’s family. You know, George Herbert
Walker
Bush.”

“No, you’re at the president’s table,” Mik said. “There’s no mistake. Go sit down.”

It turned out that the president liked having an eclectic mix of people around him, and we had a great time eating and bantering.
I remember chatting with TV host Pat Sajak, some famous football player wearing one of those huge Super Bowl rings, and the
president of Coca-Cola, who turned out to be a very interesting man. I’m sure he was impressed when I told him that Diet Coke
was my drink of choice.

And still, with all these unexpected and amazing rewards, nothing compares with the day I turned fifty. Joining the half-century
club is a landmark in anyone’s life, even though it’s often something we would rather ignore. I thought I might forget about
my fiftieth, but you know what they say about the best-laid plans. In fact, not only was it impossible for me to ignore crossing
over the half-century mark. It turned out that my fiftieth birthday became a story in newspapers all over the world.

The upside? There’s nothing like having your fiftieth become your fifteen minutes of fame! Just when life feels
mundane or boring, there is nothing like a surprise boost from somewhere unexpected.

The downside? I can never lie about my age.

When my fiftieth birthday rolled around, I’d have been satisfied to go out for a quiet dinner with my family and friends and
have done with it. After all, fifty is a daunting age and most women do not welcome it with open arms. But my husband told
me he wanted to throw me a party at a local restaurant, and I could invite some people who were close to me. It sounded okay,
and since my family and friends wanted to help me celebrate a landmark birthday, I went along with it.

I made out my guest list, which included my family, some local friends, people from Washington, and a few others from out
of town with whom I felt particularly close. I ended up with about a hundred people, a conservative number considering how
many people Ralph and I knew. But I wasn’t into making a big deal out of this birthday. And I didn’t know how many friends
I was going to disappoint when my birthday party became an international story and they hadn’t been invited.

My husband always did things in a big way, that was his style, so I expected he would go over the top when he told me he wanted
to hire some entertainment. Since he knew I loved soul music, I figured he would hire someone like James Brown or the Temptations.
I kept asking him who was doing the music, but he said it was a secret. Apparently, he didn’t tell anyone else, either, because
I tried to pry the information out of a friend or two, but no one knew whom he had booked.

It was the afternoon of the party, February 22, 2003, the day before my actual birthday, when my curiosity got the better
of me. The center of town is one small block, so I went out to do a random errand and “casually” drove past the restaurant
Delicias, where the party was being held. I expected it to be
relatively quiet, but I was surprised to see several huge production trucks parked outside. I stopped my car in front of the
restaurant to stare at the activity, when a woman in a security uniform walked toward me and stood by my open window. “Who
are you,” she said, “and what are you doing here?”

I smiled and told her, “I’m Wendy. This is my party.”

“You need to go away right now,” she said. “You really have to leave.”

I did as I was told and I went home to get ready for the party. I picked out a white leather skirt and gold boots, trying
to look kind of wild and crazy, but Ralph took one look at me and said, “No, that’s not the right look for tonight.”

Without hesitation, I changed into a black leather skirt and top. “How’s this?” I asked him.

“Yeah, that’s better,” he said in a serious tone.

At about 7 p.m., when I arrived at the restaurant and went in, they had done a terrific job of turning the place into a nightclub
atmosphere with low lighting and an open bar. I went to compliment my husband and wondered why he was so revved up. But as
I proceeded to greet my friends and family who were arriving, little did I know the saga of what had been going on behind
my back.

Ralph had contacted Kevin Mabbutt, owner of Delicias, a few weeks earlier, to see if he could rent out the restaurant for
the party. We had been frequenting Kevin’s restaurant for years; it was one of our favorite spots. We knew Kevin’s family
and he was happy to help Ralph out.

“Ralph said he was booking blues singer B. B. King,” says Kevin. “He wondered if I could handle a hundred fifty to two hundred
guests. I said okay, happy he had gone with my intimate restaurant instead of a much larger one, but when I found out who
he ended up booking, I was stunned. It was the next
day when he called to tell me that he had passed on B. B. King because he had landed a much more famous and charismatic performer—Paul
McCartney himself.”

Ralph and I had met Paul and his girlfriend Heather Mills (they weren’t married yet) when they appeared on Larry’s show to
talk about her foundation for the eradication of land mines. I was thrilled beyond belief to meet them and so was Ralph whom
I brought with me.

When the interview was over, Paul and Heather were leaving the set when Paul said to Ralph, “I’m really glad we got to promote
our land mine foundation. But if you’re serious about putting your money where your mouth is, why don’t you buy a table at
our land mine dinner?”

Paul had mistaken Ralph for a CNN executive, but Ralph didn’t miss a beat. “How much is a table?” he asked.

“Fifty thousand,” said Paul as Ralph whipped out his checkbook and wrote out a check, right then and there, for $50,000. When
Paul and Heather realized later that Ralph was my husband, not a CNN executive, they apologized for soliciting us for a donation.
But we were happy to donate and we ended up chairing the dinner the very next year, of which we were very proud. Our name—the
Whitworths—was next to the Annenbergs, both of us having given $50,000. That was funny.

Now it was about a year later and my fiftieth birthday had nearly arrived when Ralph got Paul’s number from my staff. He called
him directly and said, “I have a proposition for you. It’s Wendy’s birthday in a few weeks. If you come to our town and play
for her private party, I’ll write you a million-dollar check for your foundation.”

Heather was thrilled, she was all for it, and according to her, it took Paul a moment to agree. He shied away from doing private
concerts because of the security nightmare they inevitably
caused. Besides, he didn’t have to do private parties, but he eventually said, “Okay, Ralph, I’ll do this for you and Wendy.
We’re about to go on tour and my band and I need some practice.” The last time Paul had agreed to do a private party was back
in the sixties, but now, he was determined to help Heather raise money for her charity so he considered it a trade.

“Paul’s security people arrived a few days later,” says Kevin, “to look over my restaurant and ask questions. When they were
about to leave, they told me that if even one person found out about this beforehand, they would have to call the whole thing
off. They would have no choice because they would never be able to handle the throngs that would arrive if they knew what
was going on. This only escalated the immense pressure we were under. Now we had to do all of our planning, from the look
of the interior, to the hors d’oeuvres, the food and beverages, and the sound system, without letting anyone know who was
performing—not my wife or my staff.”