Kate Remembered (40 page)

We were whisked through JFK and taken to the Carlyle Hotel, where I was shown to an enormous suite—a big bedroom, two baths, and a huge living room—easily costing $1,000 a night. It was only nine o'clock California time when Warren rang and asked me to accompany him to P. J. Clarke's for a bite.

The restaurant was quiet at that hour, except for a rowdy group of young Italians sitting a few tables away. They periodically pointed to my dinner companion and chanted, “Deek Tracy! Deek Tracy!” Our chatty waitress kept lingering at our table; and when she brought our salads, she seized the moment to ask Beatty if he remembered her. She said they had “dated” some ten years prior. He said he did remember her, which put a big smile on her face; and when she left, he told me that even though she had put on some weight, he did recognize her. As we were leaving the restaurant, one of the Italian men asked “Deek Tracy” for his autograph, which Beatty happily provided. “Where does Hepburn go out to eat?” Warren asked as we headed out.

“She doesn't,” I said.

“No—I mean, when she goes out, what restaurants does she go to?” I explained that she hardly went to restaurants at all, maybe three in the last twenty years, and only once in the last decade that I was aware of. “Why?” he asked in disbelief. “First of all, she knows she'll get better food at home. And she also knows that people will be watching her every time she lifts the fork. And then there's those guys,” I added, pointing back to the jovial Italians. Warren laughed, put his arm on my shoulder, and said, “That's the reason I
do
go out to restaurants.”

It was after one when we returned to the hotel, but it was still early on Warren's wristwatch. Although it was already evident that alcohol was not part of his diet, he asked if I'd join him for a drink in the hotel bar. “What do you drink?” he asked; and I told him a single-malt Scotch or Famous Grouse. “What does Miss Hepburn drink?” he asked. The same, I said. He ordered two Famous Grouses. “How do we like it?” he asked me. Neat, I said. “Neat!” he called out to the bartender, delighting in making his request. For the next hour we sat at the bar—“Another!” he called out with glee—and he was warm, funny, self-deprecating, inquisitive, and positively reverent every time he spoke of Hepburn, to whom he hoisted the second glass.

The next afternoon I went to Turtle Bay with my overnight bag, parked it downstairs in case the plan backfired, and went to the living room where I found Kate examining the script of
Love Affair.
“I have no idea what this scene is supposed to be about,” she kept saying. “Let's ask him when he gets here,” I said, “and see if it can be rewritten.”

Beatty was all charm at dinner, attentive to his hostess and even a little nervous. He spoke of the house he had found for her in California—not far from the studio and even closer to his house, at the top of Benedict Canyon. The Warners' private jet, he said, would be available at noon to fly us to Burbank. Norah was in a swivet, barely able to keep her eyes off him as she ran trays up and down the stairs. I asked if there was still time to tinker with the script; and the producer and cowriter assured Kate that she would not have to film a word of it until she was satisfied. Hepburn came around. She said she would fly to California and appear in the picture. A little after eight, she was ready to retire and asked where I'd be spending the night. I said that Warren had a suite at the Carlyle for me but that I would prefer to stay on the fourth floor. “Good idea,” she said. “Save the forty-five bucks!”

“Forty-five bucks?” I laughed. Realizing she was way off, Kate tried again. “Sixty-five?”

Kate said her “good nights” and went upstairs, followed by Norah, who had already packed most of Hepburn's clothes for the journey. I went downstairs to get my bag and to show Warren out. He felt good about the way the evening went. “But listen,” I said. “It's not over. She's going to wake up tomorrow and refuse to go.” I suggested he put Erik Hanson on alert, and I told Warren to be ready to return to the house himself at nine for the final round of persuasion. Winter weather had arrived in New York, and Norah beamed at the thought of three weeks in Los Angeles—with Warren Beatty no less.

The next morning I went downstairs at seven-thirty to get my breakfast tray, which I brought up to Kate's room. She was propped up in bed, pouring another cup of coffee and poring over the script. “It's really terrible,” she said. “I read it and read it, and it makes absolutely no sense. Here,” she said, throwing her copy across the bed, “you play it.” I acted out the scene, which included some drivel likening the promiscuous Beatty character to a duck. Kate rolled her eyes. “It'll be fine once you get out there,” I said reassuringly.

“Out where?” she asked blankly.

“L.A.”

“L.A.? I'm not going to L.A.” I said I was under the impression she was, that she had told Warren Beatty that she was, and the Warners' jet was scheduled to take off at noon. “Well,” she insisted, “I will not be on it.”

The next few hours were bedlam. I called Warren a little after nine, and when the operator patched me through to his room, it sounded as though I had awakened him. I said he had better come over right away, that Hepburn was back at square one. He said he would be there in an hour. I suggested he get Erik Hanson over to the house as well. Norah efficiently finished Hepburn's packing and put the house in order. I continued to tell Kate that she should make the trip and that she could “get sick” and return home if she wanted, but that it might just be some fun.

She would not budge, clearly waiting to be wooed one more time by Beatty. He arrived a little after ten, and restated how important it was to him and the movie that she appear. But it really wasn't until Erik Hanson, the financial adviser, arrived that she was moved into action. In a sharp tone, he argued that there was no good reason for her to stay home, that she had nothing to do there but sit around and look at the same four walls. Here was an opportunity, he said, for her to travel in great comfort and work under ideal circumstances. A little before noon, Norah, Warren, Kate, and I were packed in a limousine on our way to the airport—in dead silence.

Kate looked miserable, sad and tired, like some exotic animal that had been bagged. “Now Warren,” I asked, for Hepburn to hear, “if at any time, Kate wants to come home, she can come home, right?” Right, he said; he'd arrange for the jet to take her back. “And there's still plenty of time to work on the script, right?” Right. “And there's plenty of time to get the costumes fitted, right?” Right.

The stewardess greeted us as we entered the Warners' jet; and as soon as we had settled into the comfortable seats, we took off. A buffet of salads and meats was set up; and it was one of the few times I saw Kate eat food that hadn't been prepared in her own house. After lunch, she looked exhausted and said she wanted to lie down. Norah covered her with a blanket on a daybed in the front of the cabin, and she fell asleep. During the flight I spoke to Beatty about the script. He asked a few questions about Hepburn's career, which made me think he might be rewriting some of her dialogue. He brought up Elia Kazan's name, not realizing that Kate had worked with him. Kazan had, of course, unleashed Beatty onto the public in
Splendor in the Grass,
a galvanic film debut. “Kate was in his other ‘grass' movie,” I said,
The Sea of Grass.
After a two-hour nap, Hepburn awoke—her face looking somewhat the worse for having slept on it, irritating some of its small lesions. A look of shock came over Beatty.

He spent the balance of the flight making conversation with Hepburn, trying to get her to warm up to him. As I sank into a nap myself, I heard only his icebreaker: “I was just thinking,” he said, “you and I both did Elia Kazan's ‘grass' movies.”

Later in the flight, while I was sitting with them, he brought up the name of Shirley MacLaine. “Bad girl,” Kate said, presumably remembering something she had heard, because I didn't think they had ever met. Warren dropped the subject. A few minutes later, when he changed seats, I told Kate that MacLaine was Beatty's sister. “Oh dear,” she said, then laughed for the first time that day.

Upon our arrival we were ferried off in limousines—our luggage in a separate car—to a secluded, spacious house at the top of Benedict Canyon. It seemed to meet all of Hepburn's criteria. It sat behind a gate and had a beautiful tree in the courtyard; the rooms were large and bright, with comfortable furniture in neutral colors; the large master bedroom was within shouting distance of what would be Norah's bedroom, and it opened onto a large patio with a pool; the living room had a big fireplace. Norah was giddy, having left slushy New York behind her; and when Warren told her a team of assistants stood at the ready to run any errands, I could practically see her praying for the filming to go over schedule. After walking through the house, Kate said, “It's awful. Let's go home.”

Promptly insisting he would find her another house, Beatty asked what the problems were. The chair in the living room was in the wrong place for her to enjoy the fire, and the house looked too boring and bare. I suggested that Beatty leave her alone for a few hours, to allow her to make it her own. When he returned, I was just moving a potted tree from another room onto a low ledge by the fireplace, and Kate had showered and changed into a crisp white outfit and was holding a Scotch, sitting in a comfortable chair that had been moved to face the hearth.

The three of us ate a small dinner, after which I said I had to go home. Hepburn had assumed I was staying at the house, but I explained that I lived only ten minutes away myself, that Norah was on the premises, and that I would be back the next morning for breakfast, as though we were in New York together. I asked if the assistant on duty could drop me off at my house, but Beatty volunteered to drive me. We were hardly out the driveway, when he said, “My God, her face looks like a fruitcake. Is it always that bad? What is it, skin cancer?” I said the blotches were probably the result of many years of outdoor sports. “And what is that grease she puts on her face?” I said that it was some formula she had been using for years, really little more than petroleum jelly with lanolin. “My God,” he said, “that can't be good for her.”

As soon as we hit Mulholland Drive, he reached for the car phone and called a doctor, who immediately got on the line and to whom he described her condition. They began to discuss long-term treatment for Hepburn's condition and short-term remedies in the week they had before shooting. When he had finished his call, he told me that he had an active interest in medicine, that he tried to keep up-to-date on all the latest cures and treatments and which doctors and hospitals were best in their fields. “Are you a hypochondriac as well?” I asked. He laughed and said, “A little.”

I asked Beatty what the schedule would be like for Hepburn during this week before shooting, as the most important thing for the moment was to keep her occupied. “Her life may have slowed down in New York,” I explained, “but she has a routine there, and all her time is accounted for. So I think you should make sure there's some activity for her every day.” I explained that until she was before the cameras, I could be there to have breakfast with her every morning and dinner at night, but that he would have to see that her days were filled. He said there would be no problem—what with showing her the set, costume fittings, and the like.

He dropped me off at my house, and I said I would be at the Hepburn Command Center at eight the next morning. As I got out of the car, Warren leaned to the right and yelled through the passenger window, “I don't know how to thank you.”

“Look,” I said, “I'm doing this mostly for Kate. But think of something.”

With that, he turned off his motor, got out of the car, and rushed over to give me a bearhug. Then, without a word, he drove down the hill toward home.

I spent a few hours every morning that week at Hepburn's house. Trying to duplicate our regimen, I sat in her bedroom while she finished breakfast and we discussed the newspapers. She seemed tired and disoriented and unsteady on her feet. Thinking part of the problem was that she wasn't getting any exercise, I took a long swim every day; and a few times I was able to induce her into the pool as well. Although Beatty did come up with an activity each day, that still left the bulk of the time unfilled, with nothing for Hepburn to do but sit around and moan. She suffered from spells of vertigo.

Even so, late mornings she wanted to go out on drives. I thought they would exacerbate her dizziness, but she said inactivity was worse. The first day she wanted to look at some of the houses in which she had lived. I drove her to the cottage she shared with Tracy on the Cukor estate, which had recently been bought and remodeled into a charmless house. It bore so little resemblance to what it had been, Kate had no idea where we were until she looked at the street sign. “Do you know who lives there?” she asked. No, I told her; but I was sure they would be thrilled to let her look around if she wanted. “Let's,” she said. As I got out of the car, I saw her staring sadly at the place. As I opened her door to help her out, she said, “Let's not.”

We drove up Doheny Drive a few blocks, to my house—three stories perched on stilts, modern, and with a big view of the city from the mid-Wilshire area to the ocean. It was a beautiful clear day. She got as far as the entrance on the top floor, marveled at the vista, and said, “Where's the fireplace?” When I told her I had none, her interest in the place waned. I started to lead her down the stairs to show her the rest of the house, especially my office. Not two steps down, she changed her mind. “I'd rather not know,” she said, beginning a familiar refrain.