Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant (12 page)

I fretted over breaking the news to Cary, but the fact that he hadn't called bolstered my determination to put one foot in front of the other. He finally rang me the day before I was leaving, and I told him. His response was tepid, but he insisted on driving me to the airport.

At the airport, people were probably going to wonder what kind of refugee I was with four huge cardboard boxes tied up with twine and a battered suitcase I'd had since college. The only nice suitcase I had was the one beautiful piece he'd bought me for our trip to London.

“Do you really need all of this just for an audition?” Cary asked, giving Bangs a pat on the head.

I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to tell him that I'd pulled up stakes—that I'd sublet my sublease from Corky—and that I was hoping to make a fresh start in New York. “I just want to be prepared,” I said.

“Dyan . . . ,” he said when we were in the car.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

It was the first time we didn't know what to say to each other.

We drove to the airport in silence. I wanted to tell him that I loved him, that I didn't want to leave him, but I wouldn't let myself show weakness. It was a relief when boarding time arrived. I smiled, gave him a kiss good-bye, and got on the plane. As I settled into my seat, I told myself,
This is good, Dyan. You're not going to New York to get away from Cary; you're going to pursue your dreams
.

I'm not sure I believed it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Coming Up Short

T
he next afternoon, the concierge handed me a special-delivery letter. I opened it upstairs. Inside, I found a hand-drawn map of the TWA terminal at the Los Angeles airport, with a big red X in the middle, and a note from Cary. He addressed me as “Diane,” not “Dyan.” We never talked about it, but something in Cary rebelled against altering the spelling of my name. Following that logic, I could have insisted on calling him “Archie,” but I never brought it up. I was so happy whenever I got anything written on paper from him that I wasn't about to quibble. I thought of it as one of his adorable eccentricities.

Diane—

I have studied each of these extending gangways and THERE—where there's a crayoned red cross—is where you stood: where you stood in your pretty black hat looking pretty; with your attractive legs attracting. It's a memory that saddens me and therefore—naturally—it will often cross my mind. How dare you have seemed so forlorn? It was TWilight to [sic]—and I was almost tempted to TW Alight and go back to New York. Don't DO THAT again, I beg you.

—Cary

Don't do
what
again? Get on with my life?

Two days later, rehearsals were under way, and I worked hard. I worked especially hard at
not
thinking about Cary. The fact that I was busy all day made it almost bearable. It also helped that I was working with great people. Along with Jane, with whom I connected immediately, there was Gene Wilder, Brad Dillman, and Ben Piazza. Mel Brooks was brought in to punch up the script. They were all wonderfully helpful and supportive of my first Broadway effort. We were all convinced we were going to take New York City by storm. We took the show on the road to hone it before we opened in the city, performing up and down the East Coast to appreciative audiences. We were all sure we had a winner on our hands.

When we returned to New York to do final preparations, Cary started calling again. It was like picking up an old habit: comfortable and familiar, though not necessarily good for you. After a week, he made plans to visit the following week.

It seemed like a month before he got there, but I kept plenty busy. When the day came, he called me at the theater. “I'm here,” he said, sounding strangely offhanded. “I hope you're free for dinner tonight. I'm meeting some old friends. I'm sure you'll like them.”

I'd been counting the hours, and he talked like he was making an appointment with his accountant. He was just off the plane so maybe he was tired. In a few hours, we'd be together and everything would be back to normal, I assured myself. We were going to the Copa and he would pick me up at eight thirty.

I got home from rehearsals in the late afternoon, exhausted, and took a long hot bath. I knew exactly what I was going to wear that night: a black gabardine pantsuit. It had a double-breasted jacket and short pants that fell midway down the thigh. Chic, sophisticated, sexy, and they looked great with my high-heeled sandals. I loved it. I thought Cary would too.

“Hello, stranger,” I said when I met him downstairs.

He looked me up and down. “What is that you're wearing?”

I tried to ignore the cold, hard stare and I kissed him. “You don't like it? Let me run upstairs and change.”

“No,” he said coldly. “There's no time. We'll be late.” He then took me by the elbow, less than tenderly, and led me toward the exit.

It hadn't even been a minute, and I'd already blown it.

“A
re you
really
Cary Grant?” asked a middle-aged woman with flaming red hair as the waiter poured our champagne. We were at the Copa.

“That's what I've been told,” Cary replied. Then her eyes took me in, and she said in just about the most fatuous tone imaginable, “And
this
must be your lovely
daughter
.”

“No,” Cary said, without even a hairline crack in his composure. “I don't have children.” I could tell, though, that the remark added a measure of vinegar to his already astringent mood.

Aristotle Onassis, the Greek shipping magnate and one of the wealthiest men in the world, gave the intruder a look that somehow combined the not entirely compatible sentiments of “We understand your excitement” and “Get the hell out of here
now
.” Ari's date was Maria Callas, perhaps the most renowned opera singer of the twentieth century. She was one of the most beautiful and elegant women I'd ever seen. She had
exactly
the look that Cary liked. Ari's meaningful glance had quickly restored our privacy, and now he raised his glass: “To new friends, and to old,” he said.

I raised my glass and looked around. The room was crowded with happy, festive people, and the band was in full swing. Everything about the place—from the elegant waiters to the glittery, well-heeled crowd—made me feel as if I'd stepped into a distant, more opulent past. “Dance?” I asked Cary. He shrugged me off. His manner hung on the lip of overt rudeness. But Ari sprang to his feet. “I'd
love
to dance,” he said, and led me off.

Ari was not conventionally handsome, but he had beautiful eyes, grace, and above all, presence. He was magnetic and I found him very attractive. He was light on his feet, too.

“Something's troubling you,” he said.

“Cary's mad at me. He hates what I'm wearing.”

Ari stepped back to inspect me. “Nonsense,” he said. “You're absolutely fetching. You turned every head in the room when you walked in. Maybe that's what's bugging him,” he said. The song ended. I smiled and turned, but Ari pulled me back for one more. When that song ended, he did the same thing and said, “My dear, let him sweat a little. It's beneficial for his health.”

When we got back to our table, the atmosphere was still arctic. Ari steered me to the seat next to Maria and he sat down by Cary. Maria's hair was swept up in a tight bun, and her black cocktail dress was a sheath of elegant severity that only served to make the woman more radiant. But it was her skin that transfixed me. It seemed to glow from within. All I could think was,
I'm sitting next to one of the most majestic women in the world and I'm dressed like last year's Roller Derby Queen.
It was an Armani roller derby, but Cary had me feeling seriously down-market.

When I looked across the table, I found Cary and Aristotle talking intently, and I overheard Elsie's name. Then I heard Ari say, “If Willie Mays were in center field and dropped the ball with the bases loaded,
you'd
blame his mother.”

Cary glanced at me just then, still hostile, then excused himself and went to the men's room.

Ari turned to me and said, “Dyan, my dear, it is a sad fact of life that men who have difficult relationships with their mothers carry it over to the other women they love.”

Suddenly, Maria spoke, softly but pointedly. “Yes. My mother said the same thing: if you want to know how a man's going to treat his wife, look at how he treats his mother.”

He smiled at Maria and said, “Thank God I had a wonderful relationship with my mother. But things are never so simple. Cary still torments himself over his mother's unhappiness.”

“Have you met Elsie?” I asked.

“No, and I don't need to. Life has been very cruel to her, I know. But Cary is trying to reverse a tragedy that was not of his own making. She is not going to change, and nothing he will do can appease her anger, let alone make her happy.”

“Ari, you've had more experience in life than I have, but I believe people can change.”

“Be patient. He loves you and he's worth it.”

Just then Cary returned to the table. “Am I missing something important?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ari said. “Dancing. I think you should ask Dyan to dance.” It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. Cary held out his hand to me and we went to the dance floor.

Ari, that born diplomat, had saved the evening. From there, things improved enormously. Cary's spirits lifted, and we drank and danced, and had a memorable night.

We joined Ari and Maria the next night, too (this time I wore a conventional cocktail dress). On our way out, when the hatcheck girl retrieved my simple, waist-length wool jacket, Ari feigned horror. “Cary, this is outrageous! Do you want this poor girl to freeze to death like some poor street urchin? She needs a proper winter coat!”

After my rehearsal a couple of nights later, Cary and I were about to leave for dinner when he got hung up by a long-distance script conference for
Charade
with Stanley Donen. It was going to take a while, so I offered to run over to Reuben's Restaurant, on Fifty-eighth Street, and bring back dinner. As I left the hotel and made my way down the street, I paused at the corner and looked up, hoping to see Cary at his window. Sure enough, there he was, still on the phone, watching for me. He waved and blew me a kiss. I blew one back. The sight of him standing there in the window watching over me made my heart melt. I felt completely safe, cared for, and protected.

“Would you just look in the bedroom and see if my reading glasses are there?” Cary asked when I came back with our food. There, lying on the bed, was a full-length sable coat, the most beautiful coat I'd ever seen, on-screen or off. I was bowled over.

“I just want you to be warm,” he said. “In New York
and
in Bristol.”

“That should do the trick,” I said. “But what about my heart? Will it keep that warm, too?”

“You know a coat can't do that, silly girl. But I can.”

The coat was lovely, but his mention of Bristol meant more. It meant he saw us going back there in the future. It meant he saw me in his life. But for how long?

T
he day before
The Fun Couple
opened on Broadway, I was a nervous wreck. I paced. I sat down. I stood up. I paced some more. Cary was expected in Paris the next morning for meetings on
Charade
. He suggested he could defer his trip for a day, but I encouraged him to go. My parents were coming, and introducing them to Cary on opening night was more pressure than I could handle. “Dear girl, you're carrying on like you've got bees in your britches,” Cary said. “Let's go for a walk.”

Cary led the way, which was good, because I was a walking zombie. Pretty soon, we found ourselves at the Empire State Building. “This way,” Cary said, and we took the elevator to the observation deck. Cary draped his arm around me and held me close.

“Dyan,” he said, “take a good look around.”

“Okay.”

“Now, show me where the theater is,” he said.

I looked in the general direction of West Forty-fifth Street, but from that height I really couldn't make it out. “There?” I said uncertainly.

“Here's the thing,” Cary said. “Look at the size of this magnificent city. Look at how much is going on. But what do we do? We focus on
one small thing
. And we worry it
to death
. Why don't you just get out there tomorrow night and enjoy yourself? No matter what happens, it's neither the beginning of creation nor the end of time.”

Then he kissed me, right there in full view of everyone on the observation deck. The city below melted away, and looking into his big brown eyes, I felt like I could conquer the world.

T
he next morning, we had an early breakfast before Cary left for the airport to fly to Paris to meet with Stanley Donen and Audrey Hepburn. A few things about
Charade
hadn't sat well with him, though most had been resolved. What continued to bug him was the age difference between Audrey Hepburn and him. “I still don't like the idea of chasing Audrey around like some dirty old man,” he said, “but I think we've come up with a solution.” Audrey was ten years older than me, and Cary's continuing obsession about the age difference made me want to bark like Bangs. He went on. “We're thinking about making Audrey the aggressor. My character knows he's too old for her, but she pursues him, and she eventually wears him down.”

“No danger of life imitating art, is there?” I said. He seemed to not hear me. At least he pretended not to.