My Week with Marilyn (6 page)

‘Oh, my God, Colin, you've got to be so careful with Marilyn,' said Milton. ‘She gets upset very easily, if one is the least bit over-familiar.'
He turned to Olivier. ‘I don't know if Colin should talk to her any more, Larry. He's so young he could easily put his foot in it. She 's not too keen on Brits right now anyway.'

Olivier's eyebrows shot up.

‘Colin's very British, and he doesn't realise how important it is that Marilyn thinks we all love her.'

Milton was tripping over himself in his anxiety. He was like some feeble-minded courtier of Elizabeth I when the Spanish Armada was near. ‘Off with his head,' if I was the Queen, I thought.

But Olivier got the point. ‘Well done, Colin,' he said. ‘Keep up the good work, and keep me informed. Now get us some more whisky, won't you, there 's a good lad.' And I fled.

It was seven o'clock before I got to Parkside House. I had been seriously tempted to stop at a pub on the way, but in the end I decided that I had better not arrive smelling of whisky with an idiotic grin on my face. A good messenger needs a clear head. I parked my car round the corner of the drive and went in by the servants' entrance. Roger was sitting in the kitchen, looking rather serious.

‘Miss Monroe says for you to wait in the drawing room,' he said gruffly, and took me through. ‘Sit down, I would.'

Nothing happened for a very long time. I got up and prowled round the room, looking at it carefully for the first time. The French windows gave out onto a garden in full bloom, complementing the flowers on the wallpaper and the curtains.

Had Marilyn ever sat in it, I wondered. There was no evidence that she had. Roger said that she and Arthur spent most of their time upstairs, which I suppose meant in the bedroom. I had seen that when I inspected the house before renting it. It was part of a large suite which included a little sitting room so that they could eat up there whenever they wanted complete privacy – which was probably always, I thought. After all, they were on their honeymoon. Even though they were both quite old, this must still count for something. But I couldn't imagine what they talked about together. They seemed such different types. The attraction of opposites, I supposed. And
now Arthur had gone off to Paris on his own. That didn't seem a very good sign.

The door to the hall opened, and Paula Strasberg put her head in.

‘Oh, hi, Colin,' she said without much enthusiasm, and went away without asking what I was doing there, which seemed a little strange. A little later Hedda Rosten walked in from the garden. She is meant to be Marilyn's companion, but I have never seen them together. She is a middle-aged American lady with a nice face, but she drinks quite a lot, and she smokes, which Marilyn does not. Now she looked at me closely and opened her mouth as if to speak, but she evidently decided not to say anything, so I just smiled and she went out.

By now I was beginning to feel like a fish in a bowl. What on earth was I doing in Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller's house at eight o'clock on a Thursday evening? Marilyn had told me that she wasn't coming to the studio next day. She had tomorrow and all weekend to get a message to Olivier. Had she lost faith in Milton Greene to communicate with her director? Was I being put to some test? Why had those two ladies come in to have a look at me? Were they going to report back to Marilyn, I wondered, or were they just curious?

By this time I had been waiting for over an hour. It was just getting dark, and I was beginning to feel annoyed. I'll have that glass of whisky after all, I thought, and I went across to the tray with the bottles and the ice.

‘Have a drink, Colin.'

Marilyn had come into the room without me hearing her.

‘Oh, no. I'm sorry, Miss Monroe. I was just checking to see if you have everything you need.'

‘I think so. I've only been in this room once, on the day we arrived from New York. It 's very pretty in here, isn't it? Go ahead and have a drink if you want. Do you drink a lot, Colin? You don't look old enough to drink.'

‘I'm really quite old, Miss Monroe,' I protested.

She was standing by the window in the half-light, wearing light silk trousers and a brown silk shirt which emphasised the fabulous
Monroe bust. I had to admit that she looked absolutely stunning, but just for a minute the unworthy thought entered my head that perhaps she had delayed her entrance on purpose until the light had grown dim.

‘Are you frightened of me, Colin?'

Terrified, I thought.

‘No, I'm not.'

‘Good, because I like you. You don't seem to want anything from me' – ‘Umm,' I thought – ‘and I want you to help me. Will you help me?'

‘Well, I'll do anything I can, but I'm very unimportant. It 's only because I'm Sir Laurence's personal assistant that I can talk to the cameraman and people like that. I'm really just a messenger, you see, more than anything else.'

‘But you can see what's going on, can't you Colin? You can see both sides.'

Marilyn walked over to the sofa and sat down, stretching out her legs on the cushions beside her.

‘Sit down and tell me everything that's going on.' She pointed to an armchair by her feet, and reluctantly I perched on the edge.

‘Come on, Colin,' Marilyn laughed. ‘I thought you said you weren't scared. Relax and let it out. Tell you what – let's have some dinner. I'm starved. Aren't you? I'll ask them to bring a tray of food.' Suddenly she seemed to get flustered. ‘Or are you meant to be having dinner with someone else? Oh, gee, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something?' Marilyn opened her eyes very wide and parted her lips, almost causing me to faint. ‘There 's not a Mrs Colin is there, waiting for you at home?'

‘No, there's no Mrs Colin. And I am very hungry, but I'd like to make a phone call. I'm staying with the associate producer, Tony Bushell, and his wife, and they'll be expecting me for dinner.'

‘Go right ahead and call,' said Marilyn. ‘I'll go to the kitchen and see what they have.'

There was a telephone on the desk by the window. I dialled Tony's number.

‘Bushell,' he barked. It had been many years since he was in the army, but he had acted as an officer in so many films about the war that he had permanently adopted a military manner.

‘It 's me,' I said. ‘I can't come for dinner tonight.'

‘Anne will be furious. The food is practically on the table. Where are you?'

‘I'm at Parkside.' It was dangerous to tell him too much. Like David and almost everyone else at the studio, Tony was my boss. Marilyn Monroe had become ‘the enemy' to him as soon as it was clear that she, unlike him, would not slavishly obey Olivier's every command. Nevertheless, being at Parkside was the one excuse that he could not ignore.

‘At Parkside? What the hell are you doing at Parkside? Have the servants threatened to walk out? Are you going to cook Miss Monroe 's dinner?'

‘Not exactly . . .' I was stuck. I couldn't say that Marilyn was giving me messages for Olivier. Tony would have insisted that they should go via him. And he would certainly have rung Milton Greene and reported the situation immediately. I felt I was getting on really well with Marilyn, and I did not want Milton turning up to protect his investment – which he would have done at the speed of light.

‘Miss Monroe has some large packages . . .' to my horror I saw Marilyn come back into the room. I made an agonised face. ‘. . . which she wants to be sent to America . . .' Marilyn started to giggle. ‘. . . and I am waiting to collect them.'

‘Can't Roger handle it?' Tony asked, just as Milton had two days earlier. ‘Oh well, if you're stuck, you're stuck. She keeps everyone waiting. I'll explain to Anne,' and he hung up, grumbling.

‘Now, Colin,' said Marilyn, sitting down on the sofa again. ‘What is going on?'

Oh, all right then, what the hell!

‘I'll tell you what is going on,' I said, going back to my armchair: ‘We are all trying to make a film which absolutely should not be made. That is why it is such agony for everyone. Agony for you – we can all see that – and agony for Laurence Olivier too. You are a great film star who needs to prove that you can act. Olivier is a great actor who wants to be a film star. For some reason somebody has chosen a script where you play an American chorus girl, which is the sort of part you've played before and does not challenge you at all, and Olivier plays a stuffy old man, which is the opposite of what he wants to be. The whole thing is based on a play which I saw a few years ago in the theatre, with Olivier and Vivien Leigh, and it wasn't that good even then. It was a comedy of manners, and those never translate too well to the screen. I suppose somebody hoped it would be like one of those Spencer Tracy-Katharine Hepburn movies, but our script is stifled by all that old-fashioned dialogue, and all the costumes and the sets. It's such a pity, because you and Olivier both deserve roles you can get your teeth into.'

Marilyn was staring at me with surprise.

‘They told me this was a great script – and I wanted to act with Olivier, so people would take me seriously. This was the only way to get him to agree to act with me.'

‘Well, I think you were taken for a ride.'

‘Gee, Colin, you really care, don't you? What are we going to do?'

This was, of course, the question which all of us had been asking ourselves ever since filming began, and I didn't have the answer any more than anyone else. Luckily I was saved from having to reply by the entrance of Maria and José, each carrying a large silver tray. They did not seem the least bit surprised to see me sitting there, which rather reassured me. They simply set down the food on the coffee table and waited.

‘I'll have a Coke,' said Marilyn.

José looked at me.

‘
Duas Colas. Frescos se fash favor.
'

‘Ooh, do you speak the same language as them?' Marilyn was greatly impressed.

‘It 's Portuguese. I've been to Portugal a few times.'

‘Ooh.'

There was a pause.

I looked at Marilyn across the table – and for the first time I realised what was going on. Marilyn was lonely. She needed someone to chat to, someone who would make no demands, someone who didn't expect her to be great or grand or clever or sexy, but just to be whatever she felt she wanted to be. Most of the time, I suddenly realised, she was incredibly tense. It was almost impossible for her to relax. Now, because I was so much younger than her, she felt that I would not judge her, and she probably wouldn't care if I did.

Marilyn began to tuck into a large bowl of chicken mayonnaise, and it was obvious that she was extremely hungry. Those pills of hers probably suppress her appetite, I thought, as well as wake her up. Since she slept so late in the morning, this might well be her first meal of the day.

José returned with four bottles of Coca-Cola, two glasses and a bowl of ice.

‘
Obrigado,
' I said.

‘Ooh,' said Marilyn. She seemed to get more cheerful with each mouthful of food. ‘Why couldn't you tell Mr Bushell you were here on a visit? What would he say?'

‘He would explode, and kick me out of his house. He 's a wonderful man, really, but he 's totally blinded by his loyalty to Sir Laurence. If you are not 100 per cent loyal to Sir Laurence – as most of the film crew are, I must admit – you are the enemy as far as Mr Bushell is concerned.'

Marilyn chuckled. ‘So I'm the enemy, am I? Well, don't worry, I won't give you away. After all, it's not as if we were having an affair.' More chuckles. ‘But what are we going to do about the film?'

‘There is nothing that can be done at this stage. It 's too late to do
anything but try to finish it, and make it as big a success as possible. Then go on to something better, I guess.'

‘I thought I could do a great job,' said Marilyn, ‘but every time I walk into that studio I get the creeps. Paula is the only person I feel I can trust. Except for you, maybe?'

She swivelled her body round on the sofa until her face was beneath mine, and looked up at me. Her eyes were so wide that I felt I was gazing down into a beautiful swimming pool, but before I could do anything about it there was a tap at the door, and someone walked in.

‘Yeah?' said Marilyn, without moving a muscle.

‘There is a telephone call for you, ma'am,' said Roger impassively. ‘I think it is from abroad.'

Marilyn got up with a jolt.

‘Gee,' she said. That vague blurred look was back in her eyes, and her shoulders had curved in. ‘Well, goodnight, Colin. It was so nice of you to come over. I'd love it if you could come by tomorrow evening so we could continue our chat.' She shot out of the room like a frightened rabbit.

‘You'll be leaving now, I expect,' said Roger, waiting by the door.

‘Yes. Time to go,' I said, as nonchalantly as I could, and strolled out to my car without my feet touching the ground, as far as I could tell.

‘Goodnight, Roger.'

‘Humph.'

Tony and Anne were asleep by the time I got back to Runnymede House, and I left before they woke up the next morning. It was not until 9.30 a.m. that the reverberations from the previous night began in earnest.

‘Tony wants you to go to Sir Laurence's dressing room right away,' said David. ‘And by the way he 's roaring and stamping, you'd better brace yourself for a row. What were you up to last night, I wonder.'

‘Nothing, I promise you. I can't think what it 's about. I just missed dinner, that 's all.'