My Week with Marilyn (3 page)

The only person who seems completely unaffected by all the hubbub is Arthur Miller, and perhaps that is why I dislike him so intensely. I must admit that he has never actually been rude to me. On the four occasions that our paths have crossed – at the airport when he and Marilyn first landed in England, on their arrival at the house I had rented for them, once at the studio and once out with the Oliviers – he has ignored me completely. And so he should. There is no one on the whole film crew more junior than I am. I am only present to make Marilyn's life, and therefore his life, run more smoothly.

And yet I don't quite think of myself as a servant. I'm an organiser, a fixer. Laurence Olivier takes me into his confidence. So does Milton Greene. But Arthur Miller takes it all for granted – his house, his servants, his driver, his wife's bodyguard, and even, so it seems
to me, his wife. That is what makes me so angry. How can you take Marilyn Monroe for granted? She looks at him as if she worships him; but then, she is an actress. Vivien Leigh often gazes at Olivier like that, and it doesn't seem to do him much good. Miller just looks so damn smug. I am sure he is a great writer, but that doesn't mean that he should be so superior. Perhaps it's a combination of his hornrimmed glasses, his high brow and his pipe. Added to all this there is a gleam in his eye which seems to say, ‘I am sleeping with Marilyn Monroe, and you are not. You midget.'

All this was whirling round in my head as I jumped into the front seat of the car that evening. I had stocked up Olivier's dressing room with whisky and cigarettes, and told David that I had to go to Marilyn's house on an urgent mission, implying that I would be spying on her for Olivier. Since David is always trying to discover Marilyn's movements so that he can plan the filming schedule a little better, this seemed to him an excellent idea.

Speeding through the English countryside in the front of Marilyn Monroe's car I felt frightfully important; but as soon as we arrived at Parkside House Marilyn simply vanished inside, and that was that. Even Paula could not keep up with her. She must know that Arthur is going to take over from here on, and she followed slowly, looking very dejected, as if she had lost her child.

Roger came out of the house to meet me, grunting and chuckling, cheeks puffed out like a beardless Father Christmas, and together we went round towards the back entrance. Then, just as I had expected, Evans drove away. He had been sitting in the car since 6.30 that morning, and I'm sure that the last thing he wanted was to be given another job or errand.

‘He was meant to wait and take me back to Pinewood!' I cried. ‘Now I'm stuck here without a car. I'll have to walk to the village and catch a bus!'

‘Don't worry,' said Roger patiently. ‘As soon as they've settled down for the night' – jerking his head at the first-floor bedroom windows – ‘I'll give you a lift. Come in and have your talk with
José and Maria, and then we can have a drink and a smoke in my sitting room until the coast is clear.' This was a charade that we both understood. It would give us a chance to have a gossip, and to laugh at the crazy behaviour of everyone in the film world. I can sometimes do that with Olivier, but then I have to be careful how far I go. With Roger I can say absolutely anything and he will just smile and puff at his pipe – although he will never say a word against Marilyn herself, and any mention of Arthur just has him rolling his eyes.

Talking to José and Maria just meant listening to their problems for half an hour. They both speak very little English, and naturally nobody speaks Portuguese, although I can remember a little of what I learned when I was there the year before. I simply say
‘Pois'
(‘Yeah, sure . . .') whenever there is pause, and it usually works. On this occasion, however, the problems seemed more serious than usual, and I was forced to fall back on my schoolboy Latin to guess what on earth was going on.

‘Meez Miller,' they said – they had been introduced to ‘Mr and Mrs Miller' when Arthur and Marilyn arrived, and since they had never been to the cinema in their lives, they appeared to have no idea who they were – ‘Meez Miller is sleeping on the floor.' They seemed to be saying, ‘Is it because we make the bed wrong? We think it is our fault. If so, we should leave.'

This seemed to me pretty egotistical reasoning even by the standards of domestic servants. I told them that I would investigate, but that I was quite sure that they were not to blame.

‘This house is
“louca”,'
they said. ‘Mad.' There was shouting in the middle of the night and silence in the middle of the day. Mr and Mrs Miller would not speak to them. Mrs Miller acted like she was in a dream.

I realised that it was time to be firm. ‘That is no concern of yours,' I said sternly. ‘Mrs Miller has a difficult job. She needs to conserve her energy very carefully. And she doesn't speak Portuguese, so she couldn't speak to you even if she wanted to. You must take no notice of her and Mr Miller. The company pays you good wages to look
after Mr and Mrs Miller. We think you are the best – otherwise we could no longer ask you to stay.'

This policy worked. They both nodded nervously, and left the room as quickly as they could. I went in search of Roger.

‘What's this, Roger old bean?' I asked when I had found him. ‘Maria tells me that Marilyn is sleeping on the floor these days.'

Roger put a gnarled forefinger beside his nose and gave his usual chuckle. I'm never sure what this means. Sometimes he will follow it by saying, ‘A nod's as good as a wink to a blind man,' which is equally confusing, if not more so.

‘Trouble between Mr and Mrs M already?' I asked. ‘They've only been married a few weeks.'

‘I've not heard either of them complain.' Roger gave a watery leer. ‘But I have heard them playing trains at all hours of the night. No doubt about that.'

‘Playing trains' was Roger's euphemism for making love in all its different forms.

‘Doesn't sound a very amusing way of playing trains to me – sleeping on the floor.'

‘Who said anything about sleeping?' said Roger.

‘Well, Maria . . .' I said.

‘Maria can get it wrong. Just because there are bedclothes out there . . . What does Maria know? Marilyn's on her honeymoon. She can do what she likes. It isn't any business of ours. And now I'm going out to check the gardens for reporters in the bushes. You stay here until I get back, and then we'll go upstairs for a drink. But don't go exploring.' He had correctly read my mind. ‘Arthur and Marilyn could still be downstairs, and Paula and Hedda' – Hedda Rosten, a New Yorker and former secretary of Arthur Miller, who was acting as Marilyn's ‘companion' – ‘are hanging around waiting for their supper, greedy things. Who would want them with them on their honeymoon, I don't know. Poor Marilyn. She's never allowed a moment's peace. No wonder she spends so much time in the bedroom.'

Another sly grin and he was gone.

‘Yes, but it's her third honeymoon,' I said to his retreating back. ‘She should know what to expect by now.'

When Roger got back from his rounds, it was clear that he didn't want to discuss the Millers any longer. He feels that it is disrespectful to do so, disloyal even. I'm sure that when he was in the police force loyalty to his colleagues was the most important thing in his life. Now all that loyalty goes to Marilyn. He has fallen under her spell, just like everyone else; but as a father, not a lover. One mustn't forget that somewhere there is a Mrs Roger, clucking over her knitting. I do hope she is as cosy as Roger is. When I hired him he told me that he had been married for over thirty years, and that he had a son my age. ‘He's in the force now,' he said with pride.

We went upstairs to Roger's room, and he produced a bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses. ‘Here's to Marilyn Monroe Productions,' he said. Marilyn Monroe Productions paid him, but not me.

‘Laurence Olivier Productions, more likely,' I replied, sitting down and lighting a cigarette.

‘Roger,' I said, ‘you know my job is to find out anything that might influence the progress of the film and pass it on to Olivier. So tell me, what's up?'

‘Get stuffed, Colin,' said Roger amiably. ‘My only job is to protect Marilyn, as you yourself told me when you hired me, and that is what I do. Why, only yesterday I caught one of those bloody reporters up a drainpipe outside Marilyn's bathroom. He'd managed to get over the fence and across the lawn, and he'd climbed the first set of pipes he saw. Another few minutes and he'd have been in Marilyn's toilet, and then she would have got a surprise!' He gave another chuckle, then started on his favourite topic: the press. What he couldn't stand was that they were so cheeky. He had spent his life catching criminals – people who broke the law. Now he is confronted by a lot of men who have no respect for decent behaviour and are prepared to go to any lengths to get what they want, but who behave more like mischievous schoolboys than members of a criminal class.

‘What can I do, Colin? I can't arrest them. I'm not allowed to thump them. All I can do is throw them out and wait for them to try again.' What Roger really wants is someone to make an assassination attempt on his beloved Marilyn, then he can save her in a heroic fashion. In the meantime the photographer from the
News of the World
is the enemy, and Roger has to deal with him.

When we had finished our whiskies, Roger went downstairs and reappeared with a plate of Maria's sandwiches and some bottles of beer. By 10.30 we were thoroughly relaxed, but it was getting dark outside and I still had to solve the problem of where I was going to spend the night. Roger was happy to drive me home, but I was not quite sure if he was up to it. His eyes had got very watery indeed, and his nose was alarmingly red.

‘There's a spare room at the end of the corridor,' I said hopefully.

‘I don't expect the bed is made up,' said Roger. ‘Maria would have a fit if she found out you'd slept in it. And what would Marilyn think when you climbed into the car with me tomorrow morning?'

‘I'm afraid she wouldn't even notice me. But you're right, I'd better call a taxi.' I opened the door of Roger's room and peered out. The whole house was as silent as a tomb.

‘Paula and Hedda go to bed at ten,' said Roger, ‘and José and Maria will be in the servants' quarters by now, so you're perfectly safe. Do you know your way down?'

‘Of course I do,' I said pompously. ‘I've been to this house many times before. Don't forget that the owners are great friends of my parents.' (In fact I had been there only twice before, and upstairs only once.) ‘I can use the phone in the kitchen. I saw the telephone number of the local taxi company on the wall. You go to bed, I'll be fine.' I slipped out of the door and shut it firmly behind me.

It is at these rather tense moments that Mother Nature so often pays a call. The question ‘Should I turn left or right?' was soon supplanted by the absolute knowledge that I had about thirty seconds in which to find a lavatory. Actually, toilets in strange houses are not that hard to locate. At the tops of stairs, in little
cul de sacs,
they often
give away their presence by a gentle but insistent hiss. It did not take me long, in my desperate condition, to locate an open door with a light switch conveniently placed on the wall just inside. But when I emerged, greatly relieved, a few moments later, a new problem presented itself. The lavatory light had been extremely – absurdly, I thought – bright. The rest of the house was now in absolute pitch darkness, and I was lost. I could just make out a thin line of light under one of the doors. That might indicate that it was Roger's room, but then again it might not. If I walked in on Paula or Hedda they would certainly think the worst. They might even welcome me, and then I'd really be in trouble. My heart beating wildly, I felt my way slowly along the corridor, sliding my feet along the carpet in case I reached a step. Eventually I got to a corner, and I stopped and peered round. Still I could see nothing. ‘I must wait for my eyes to get accustomed to the dark,' I decided. ‘I'll stand here for a full minute with my eyes tightly shut.'

It should have been a peaceful enough solution, but after a few seconds I became aware of a very strange thing. I was not alone. I could hear breathing, and it did not seem to be mine. It sounded more like a succession of little sighs. What was going on? Had I walked into somebody's bedroom? I held my breath, but the sighing went on.

Suddenly, a door at the far end of the corridor was flung open and a shaft of brilliant light flooded the scene. There, only a few feet in front of me, was Marilyn, sitting on the carpet with her back against the wall. If I had gone on for another few feet I would have fallen right over her. Now she simply sat there, wrapped in a pink bedcover, her head turned towards me, staring straight into my eyes. She did not give the slightest sign that she could see me. Were the shadows around me too deep? Had she been sleepwalking? Or was she drugged? There were many rumours floating around the studio of the number of sleeping pills she took.

She looked strangely fragile for the first time, and my heart went out to her with a rush. This ravishingly beautiful and vulnerable
woman was literally at my feet. What could I do? I held my breath. I did not move a muscle.

‘Marilyn.' Arthur Miller's voice seemed to come from another world. It made me jump backwards as though I had been shot. I must have made a noise, but at least I was now safely round the corner and out of sight.

‘Marilyn. Come back to bed.' His tone was insistent but strangely flat, as if it were the middle of the day.

There was a pause. Marilyn didn't answer. Her breathing never varied. Long, slow intakes and then little sighs.