Emma and I traveled back to Gstaad via Paris, where I met with the great Hubert de Givenchy, who had agreed to design the costumes for my act at the Palladium. He was a lovely man—tall, elegant, beautiful to look at, and beautiful in spirit. It was, however, incredibly hot in his studio and I was dripping with perspiration, standing in my bra and panties between fittings, feeling lumpy and embarrassed with staff members coming in and out—but no one seemed to mind. At the end of the afternoon, Givenchy presented me with a folder with chosen designs and fabrics in it, to take home to study.
In May, I began rehearsals in London with the choreographer Paddy Stone, whom I’d known for years. It was great having Paddy and Ian on board, and I was struck by how sensational Ian’s contribution was going to be—wonderful ideas for the arrangements, beautiful structure and chords. I missed my kids terribly, but it would only be a few weeks, and they came in for occasional weekend visits.
The days flew by, and suddenly we were loading in to the Palladium. Our orchestra call was held in the sweltering upstairs bar, as the stage was needed for hanging lights and rigging. I put on my first theatrical makeup in about fifteen years and tried on all the gowns. My favorite was made of chiffon, in shades of ombré peach. It needed some earrings and possibly a necklace, but we had yet to find something suitable.
A package arrived from Blake. To my astonishment, it contained a necklace and earrings that we had admired together at Asprey’s a few months before. They were made of the palest angel coral, and they matched the dress perfectly. I was simply gobsmacked.
We did a dress rehearsal before an invited audience mostly comprised of Pink Panther company and crew members and their spouses. It was a mess. The quick changes barely worked, and the playback to which I occasionally lip-synced during the more strenuous choreography broke down completely. I ad-libbed, and did one number with a handheld mic while dancing my head off. It was unbearably hot, and I worried about perspiration stains on my gowns.
On opening night, June 9, I wrote:
Woke hoarse and weary from the dress rehearsal. It was the hottest day of the year. I headed to the theater and was devastated by how tired my voice sounded—like bringing something back from the deep. Worked out a little, tried to eat an egg. Nerves really giving me hell. Practiced gently, sprayed my throat.
At curtain time, I was in a semi-hypnotic, semi-terrorized daze as I walked onto the stage. Suddenly, the audience was on its feet, clapping, yelling, a standing ovation/welcome home. I was deeply touched, and felt the challenge to rise to the occasion and give them a performance worthy of their generosity.
The voice warmed up, mercifully, but sweat ran off my nose, and in my eyes. The wonderful audience helped and encouraged. Tons of flowers in the dressing room, and a long hand-drawn mural of the alps from Em and the children, which I displayed on my dressing room wall. Em and Blackie were the last two people I thought of before I walked on stage.
The London press were kind, but I knew that my act needed more polishing for Vegas. I did fourteen performances, sometimes two a day, and really felt how much effort it took to pull it off. Michael Kidd flew in to watch the last two performances, and I was grateful when he agreed to help me further improve the act.
The day after we opened, Blake took me aside and delivered the astounding news that Avril and Tony Adams had secretly been married six months prior, and were expecting a baby in January. I couldn’t understand why they’d felt the need to hide it from us. It seemed like such a breach of trust. Avril brought Emma and the babies to London for the last couple of performances and things were strained between us. But life seesawed on, and eventually, she began to help us search for a replacement nanny.
Blake finally finished shooting his film, and we began the marathon pack-up to return to Los Angeles. There was much to deal with—Jennifer had given birth to a baby daughter, Kayti. Geoff would be moving in with us again at a new rental house while we were waiting for construction at our property on the bluff to be completed. A school had to be found for Emma. Avril’s friend Charley, who had subbed for her in the past, had agreed to replace her, and the babies now had a new nanny to adjust to. I started rehearsals with Michael Kidd for the Vegas version of my act.
Michael and I began to address some of the problems with the show. I knew that Vegas demanded more razzle-dazzle than most venues, and I was aware that my act was currently a little too white-bread. It needed a serious goosing.
Michael knew about my struggles with respect to making a stage entrance. He suggested that we “fool” the audience into believing that there was a special pre-show demonstration by members of the Queen’s Guard, brought to Vegas courtesy of Caesars Palace. The guards would march onstage, immaculately clad in their traditional military attire, including swords, belts, and bearskin hats. What no one would spot was that I was one of them, unrecognizable under my tall, fuzzy hat. The number would then begin to go awry, and after some choreographed confusion I would be knocked to the floor, my hat would fall off, and I would be revealed, laughing and already onstage, without having to make that dreaded first entrance.
I worried about making such a fool of myself, and Ian downright hated the idea. But Michael was persistent, and between that and Shirley MacLaine’s advice to act the role of confident performer, I gave it a shot—and it worked.
Michael also conceived a truly brilliant moment in the middle of the act where we needed another lift. He had me lip-sync to Johnny Cash’s recording of “One Piece at a Time,” about assembling a Cadillac from parts stolen off the assembly line. The audience loved hearing Johnny Cash’s voice emanating from my mouth. My dancers and I, piece by piece, assembled a mock Caddy, using a railroad flat and adding the “parts” referenced in the song by having the dancers assume certain positions. The number was a great success, and was just what my squeaky-clean little act needed.
Blake, Emma, and I were given the honeymoon suite at Caesars Palace: purple, pink, and red with gold-spattered mirrored ceilings. At least it was air-conditioned, and had a piano. As was her wont, Emma pitched in, sending out dry cleaning, answering phones and doorbells, ordering room service, and running errands.
For the next two days, my company and I worked out sound problems, improved dialogue, and continued to shuffle songs into a better order. Costumes and orchestrations arrived. People busied themselves all over the place. I had a hundred questions that no one had the time to answer. The hardest part was the dance rehearsals, during which I became more winded than usual and totally parched, due to the heat and dryness of the desert climate.
On the morning of our opening, I went down to the theater early and wearily put on theatrical makeup. The thought of what lay ahead of me was daunting beyond words. The previous act had concluded the night before, and my set had been installed overnight. There was much drilling and hammering. Lights were being hung and focused, and everywhere I looked I saw exhausted people, working hard. I tried all my costume changes, then began a four-hour tech run-through. I forgot lyrics and pieces of dialogue, prerecorded cues never came on, click tracks were missing or late. The stage floor covering kept curling up because it was so new.
Once we finished the run-through, I showered and put on fresh makeup. The dressing room was full of flowers, and Emma had written me an enchanting poem. The curtain wasn’t until 10:30 p.m. I tried to jump-start my tired mind into action, pacing around the dressing room and going through the entire act in my head until it was time to go onstage.
After the performance, I wrote:
Very hard to judge the audience reaction—something to do with the sound coming from front of house. The tapes and cues worked. I couldn’t see anything except the front row, but Blackie told me later that the audience was on its feet, stomping and cheering. Unlike London, which I went through in a totally hypnotic state, I was aware of every moment. I thought my legs would give out, really thought I couldn’t move them another step—but Blake said it didn’t show. I was SO hot. The usual agonizi
ng sweat, eyes stinging from cold cream and new eyelash glue.
Crush backstage afterwards. I changed and went to the restaurant here, where all guests were gathered: Diana Ross, Vikki Carr, Burt Reynolds, Hank Mancini, Joe Layton. Later, I could not sleep. I watched a sad Hepburn/Tracy movie on TV and bawled my eyes out. I’m sure I was just letting go.
For the next week, I did two shows every day, the second one starting after midnight. The act grew steadily better, but I was living like a hermit in order to conserve my voice and energy. I never set foot outside the hotel, and barely knew whether it was day or night. I slept late; did a slow, careful workout; ate a light meal; did some gentle vocalizing; and headed down to the theater. There, I’d put on makeup and begin the process of hyping myself up.
Before going on, I was never certain I would get through both performances. Between shows, I experienced an odd depression. I was tearful and had no idea why. One evening, in an attempt to understand it, I wrote the following:
OK—write it down. Pin it, like a fly on the wall. That small dot, tiny and black at my core, threatens to grow and explode inside me.
Depression.
Where does it come from? I feel it lingering, lurking, never far from the surface, and oh, it is black. I keep thinking that it’s chemical, menopausal perhaps, but it’s been waiting around for years, I think; a stalking shadow from my vaudeville days? I want to catch it, look at it, wipe it clean. It is to do with the deepest me.
When the week was finally over, I knew without a doubt that I couldn’t do Vegas again. Looking back on it now, I realize that the heat, the carnival atmosphere, the incredible effort to be a “showstopping phenomenon” twice nightly, was, for me, soul-killing. It wasn’t where I wanted to be at this stage in my working life. I didn’t feel authentic—I just felt alone, and more exposed than I had ever been before. There was none of the creative collaboration of a film or stage musical, and no real satisfaction in the work itself. I was never more happy to return to the soft, moist beach air of Malibu.
15
IT WAS NOW early September of 1976. We were still in the rented house, but would soon be moving to our new home on the bluff, which was nearing completion. I had a little time for reflection, and it occurred to me that it had been ages since all the family had been in one place for any length of time. We seemed to be forever flinging things together, living in a chaos of professional and financial obligations, which showed no sign of abating anytime soon, since we were still attempting to honor our residency in Gstaad while also maintaining a base in Los Angeles so the children could attend school there.
Emma began her freshman year at Brentwood School. To my delight, she settled in quickly and happily. Geoff, now nearly seventeen, moved back in with us and secured a temporary job on The Pink Panther Strikes Again in the Los Angeles editing department, which he seemed to enjoy. Amelia and Joanna, now two and a half and one and a half, adored Charley, and were continuing to blossom.
On Christmas, which we spent in Gstaad once again, I wrote:
Oh, what a lovely day. Really perfect—everyone seemingly content, peaceful, happy. And all my dear ones around me. Blackie, in a happy, cheeky frame of mind. Emma radiant, giving, discovering the pleasure in doing just that. And the little ones, enchanted by the tree and presents, and not letting so many people overstimulate them. Super lunch, lazy afternoon. Great turkey dinner. Bed. Happy.
The joys of that holiday notwithstanding, the first six months of 1977 were a time I would not care to revisit. Our two home bases, in California and in Switzerland, were aggravating our financial pressures. Geoff’s editing job had ended, and he totaled his car; my dad suffered a minor stroke, and though he didn’t seem to have any permanent damage from it, I was worried about him. Then my mother fell down her stairs in England, fracturing two ribs. Blake and I brought her to Los Angeles to recuperate, and tried to persuade her to consider staying in L.A., but she preferred to return to Walton.
Two days before we were due to move into our new home, we received an early morning call from the Malibu sheriff. Our house was on fire.
A neighbor had spotted flames and contacted the fire department. Had they arrived five seconds later, the windows would have blown out and the whole house would have burned to the ground. The kitchen was destroyed, but luckily the rest of the house was saved, although it was blackened with soot. Later, the fire chief told us that it looked like arson. We’d had a few run-ins with a disgruntled workman and suspected it might be him, but never found out for sure. It was a devastating blow.
We cleaned and repainted as best we could, and set up a makeshift kitchen in the lounge. Everything was in chaos—boxes everywhere still needed to be unpacked, air-conditioning filters needed to be cleaned, and Blake came down with the flu . . . but at least we were able to move in.
We hired a French couple to help with the new house, and headed to Gstaad for the Easter break, praying everything would hold in our absence. The onslaught of the previous weeks had taken a toll, and we all had a hard time decompressing. Then we received a disturbing call from my dad. Win, now fifty-seven, had apparently gone off for a bicycle ride the previous afternoon and had not been seen since. Dad had notified the police, and they had been searching all night without success. Blake and I headed to England on the next available flight.
We drove straight from Heathrow Airport to Dad’s house in Ockley. Dad looked tearful and pale. My brother John was there, along with a few of Dad’s closest friends. Somehow, the press had gotten word of Win’s disappearance, and they were swarming about, but the local police did their best to keep them at bay as much as possible. Search parties with police dogs were organized for the afternoon and evening. I made soup and endless cups of tea for the myriad visitors. Still no sign of Win.
Blake booked a room at the Dorchester Hotel in London, and I stayed in Ockley with Dad. The following day, more search parties were organized. Divers explored the nearby lake, and a helicopter search was under way. Dad was by now truly despondent. He told me that Win had seemed “odd” before she left, almost as if she had wanted to say something to him. The doctor came by to monitor Dad’s blood pressure, and the local vicar paid a visit. Johnny had to get back to work, so he reluctantly headed home to the Midlands, and Blake brought in food for dinner. He, Dad, and I ate together quietly and somberly.
At 9 p.m., there was a knock at the door. I answered it, thinking it was another visitor, or the press. It was Win.
“Hi, Ju!” she said with acutely forced cheer. She was pale and swaying, held up by two friends, who had apparently found her sitting by the roadside about ten miles out of town.
My dad completely broke down. He flung his arms around Win, sobbing with relief. She was terribly dehydrated and couldn’t stop shivering. There was blood all over her clothes and arms, and her stockings were torn. Most of all, she seemed to be suffering from some sort of amnesia. She thought it was Tuesday, when in fact it was Friday, and couldn’t articulate where she had been or what had happened to her.
The doctor arrived and took Win upstairs for an exam and to attend to her needs. When he finally came down, he informed us that she had attempted suicide by taking an overdose of pills and slashing her wrists with a broken bottle. She had been in the woods for four days and was suffering from exposure. An ambulance was called, and Win was taken to the local hospital. Blake headed back to the hotel; I spent another night with Dad.
After everyone had gone, Dad let go again, with huge, heartrending sobs. It seemed as if he couldn’t stop, but when I held him, he pulled away, saying, “No—you mustn’t be too kind.” He seemed wracked with guilt of some sort, which I struggled to understand.
The following morning, Dad brought a cup of tea up to my bedroom. It had been a short night, and I’d been awake and watchful for most of it. Dad sat on the edge of my bed and we chatted. He began to unburden himself, revealing to me that he, too, had once considered suicide, when he felt “less than a man.” It was surpris
ing to me that the man whom I had always seen as a pillar of quiet strength had at times felt vulnerable and weak. I did my best to be a good listener, but my heart ached for him.
Blake returned, and there were some lighter moments later in the day. I considered it a monumental achievement when Dad roared with genuine laughter at some anecdote Blake shared about the children. Eventually, Dad went to visit Win at the hospital. While he was there, the vicar paid another visit to the house, and Blake and I had a long discussion with him. He was concerned that Win hadn’t been receiving enough love, kindness, and respect. I realized that in recent years, despite his generosity of spirit, Dad could occasionally be a little inconsiderate—even patronizing—toward Win, which must have stoked her feelings of inferiority.
Johnny and Shad arrived the following afternoon, with John’s daughter, Jayne, and Shad’s adorable new baby, Sonia, in tow. They immediately went off to visit Win.
I had been hoping that Blake and I could return to Gstaad, but I sensed that Dad was still deeply anxious and nearing an “explosion” of sorts. I worried about his blood pressure and his not being able to care for Win properly once she was released from the hospital, nor she for him. Blake and I agreed that it would be best to bring both of them to Los Angeles, where they could stay with us for a couple of weeks and receive top-notch medical care and emotional support.
When we proposed it to Dad, he seemed hugely relieved, but he made one stipulation—he would go, provided it was all right with Win. We then visited Win at the hospital, and she seemed just as willing and relieved as Dad was. She said that she hadn’t had a complete physical in over twenty years.
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