The Legs Are the Last to Go

by Diahann Carroll

  Photographic Insert

  Dad, me, Mom, Sylvie, and the O’Gilvie family in 1945, at Lake Drew resort in upstate New York.

  Definitely counting on the legs, as I did not yet have access to couture. London, 1957. HULTON/DEUTSCH COLLECTION/CORBIS

  With friends at a fund-raiser at the Audubon Ballroom in New York—looking rather at ease even though I was half undressed. My father did not care for the costume.

  With my parents and my first husband at an anniversary party at my parents’ home.

  Absolutely nothing exceeded the experience of working with the “Chairman of the Board,” Frank Sinatra. Through his caring interaction with my four-year-old daughter, I was privileged to see the private side of him. BETTMAN/CORBIS

  My daughter, Suzanne, trying to protect our privacy on Fire Island in a 1967 photo shoot for a magazine. The fur was just a bit over the top. © ADGER COWAN

  Husband number four, Vic Damone, and I enjoyed attending red carpet events together—both of us peacocks. TIME/LIFE PICTURES/GETTY.

  Husband number two, Freddie Glusman, at our Hotel Bel-Air wedding in 1974. We basically walked down the aisle and in opposite directions.

  My friend Bob Goulet and me at the 22nd Tony Awards afterparty at Sardi’s. © RON GALELLA/WIRE IMAGE.

  The genius behind Motown, Berry Gordy, at a Shirley Chisholm presidential fund-raiser at my Beverly Hills home.

  With Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong in Paris during the shooting of the film Paris Blues. Duke treated me beautifully and decided to educate me in the finesse of dining on caviar. © HERMAN LEONARD PHOTOGRAPHY LLC/CTSIMAGES.COM

  Paul Newman, me, Adele Ritt, and Kirk Douglas on the set of Paris Blues © DELTA/PIX INC./TIME LIFE PICTURES/GETTY IMAGES

  The cast of Hurry Sundown. Faye Dunaway, John Phillip Law, me, Robert Hooks, Jane Fonda, and Michael Caine. We were all thrilled to be on holiday in New Orleans.

  Being made up on the set of The Split, in 1968. Gene Hackman, Donald Sutherland, and Jim Brown were costars. The plot left no public impression. I hope the legs did.

  Circa 1960s—my favorite backstage postshow attire in the Persian Room at the Plaza Hotel. Harper’s Bazaar chose to use this look in a fashion spread.

  Sugar Ray Robinson and Diana Sands guest star on Julia. © BETTMAN/CORBIS

  Me and my television son, Marc Copage, from the groundbreaking show Julia. Tumultuous times for both of us, and he was only five years old. © JOHN ENGSTEAD

  With the charming Maurice Chevalier in the 1967 French-American television collaboration “C’est la Vie.” © AMERICAN BROADCASTING COMPANIES, INC.

  Bob Hope visits the set of Julia. I was always receptive to his counsel.

  Presenting Zero Mostel with the Cue Magazine Entertainer of the Year Award in 1963 for his performance in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. I won the very first award the previous year for No Strings. © BETTMAN/CORBIS.

  Me and JFK. If I only knew then what I know about him now.

  David Frost and me watching ourselves on different talk shows, a precursor to the new millennium of “TMI”—information overload. BILL RAY/TIME LIFE PICTURES/GETTY IMAGES

  My second starring role on Broadway, created by Richard Rodgers, with my costar Richard Kiley. © RODGERS AND HAMMERSTEIN ORGANIZATION.

  Working with the brilliant Geraldine Page in the Broadway production of Agnes of God, the first time a black actress had ever replaced a white actress.

  Starring as Norma Desmond in the Toronto production of Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Sunset Boulevard. © CATHERINE ASHMORE.

  Ingrid Bergman, Natalie Wood, Jane Fonda, me, and Rosalind Russell rehearsing for the 1969 Academy Awards—the director has our complete attention. © RON GALELLA FOR WIRE IMAGES.

  Work hard, play hard—on my rental yacht: my musical director and great pal Lee Norris; the one and only Louise Adamo, who literally ran my life for over thirty years; and my personal manager and spark plug Roy Gerber, such a joy to be with—our working relationship lasted more than twenty-five years.

  Deep sea fishing, which I adore—this time off the coast of Hawaii.

  As one of the Delany sisters at around a hundred years old. Not my best look. To get it, I spent three hours in makeup every day. A long time, even for me.

  On the set of Dynasty. Big shoulders, hair, and boobs were on parade while gracious John Forsythe proposed a toast, reminding everyone that I had once been nominated for an Academy Award as best actress. © CBS STUDIOS

  Introducing my jewelry line, before the days of eBay.

  The American Syndication TV Press Tour in 1994; finally learning the versatility of denim jeans. TAMMIE ARROYO/GETTY IMAGES

  Brian, Jeffrey, and me celebrating my new eyewear line for B. Robinson.

  Television’s first black bitch, Dominique Deveraux, on the TV series Dynasty. I loved every minute of it!

  In the 1970s in my beaded Norman Norrell sweater dress. Zip it up and no jewelry was necessary. It now resides at the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. © MILTON H. GREENE, © RENEWED 2008 JOSHUA GREENE.

  Joan Collins gave me a bridal shower in 1986. When I walked in we both laughed at the similarity of our dresses. On Dynasty, this never would have happened.

  My favorite of the four or five of my TV Guide covers. © MARIO CASILLI.

  After the death of his second wife, I encouraged Dad to come visit Mom in Los Angeles after many years of estrangement. Her health was failing. But not her love for him.

  My mother’s funeral in 2000 with Dad and my sister, Lydia.

  With my friends Selbra Hayes and Roscoe Lee Browne just before Roscoe left to visit Laurence Fishburne during The Matrix in 2003. Roscoe had a commanding delivery that captivated everyone, including my little grandson.

  The 30th annual Vision Awards to Fight Blindness gala in 2003. FRAZER HARRISON/GETTY IMAGES.

  With Harry Belafonte at my opening at Feinstein’s at the Regency. It was my first intimate venue since my early years in the business. It was wonderful to be supported by my old friend.

  Award presenters Carlos Santana and me at the 34th NAACP Image Awards in 2003. KEVIN WINTER/GETTY IMAGE.

  With Dionne Warwick at Feinstein’s. Clearly this was not the moment I wake up before I put on my makeup. I was in high cover-up mode because my face was bloated from a cortisone shot I took for laryngitis. You do what you have to do in my business.

  With Angela Bassett. When she first moved to Hollywood we shared the same beauty salon. I watched her develop herself into a beautiful and sensual star.

  With Vernon Jordan, who is one of the most naturally elegant, charismatic men I’ve ever met.

  Backstage at the Regency with Tony Bennett, who I think is the greatest popular singer we have. He understands the discipline and the passion that is necessary to perform. We look pretty good at our age.

  Holding my grandson! Overwhelmed by the feeling of holding my child’s child.

  Well, the year before that little incident, something happened that I could never forget or forgive. It made drinking more appealing to me. And it definitely made me re-evaluate our marriage.

  Before leaving town one day, Vic told me to give his financial adviser a call. He thought I should have dinner with him and his wife while he was away. So the adviser called and suggested a very good restaurant, and I said I’d be delighted. I liked his wife very much and was looking forward to seeing them. When I arrived at the restaurant, my heart went into my throat because I saw this man was sitting alone, waiting for me. I felt strange immediately. My impulse was to flee, but I didn’t. I said hello and sat down at the table as if everything were fine.

  “And where is your wife?” I asked.

  “Oh, she’s not feeling well,” he said.

  “That’s a shame,” I said. “I wish you had told me that so we could reschedule.”

  “No, no, this is fine,” he said.

  There was something about his manner that got my ante
nna up very quickly. He was overly solicitous and made me so uncomfortable that when he went to pour some wine, I turned over my glass.

  “I don’t care for any,” I said.

  “Oh, come on, don’t be silly,” he replied. “We’re going to have a wonderful evening and it’s a wonderful wine. Try some.”

  I said, “You know, I really don’t want any wine. No, thank you.”

  He continued to be obnoxious in ways that made me even more uncomfortable. Finally I got up and said I was leaving and told him good night. I was shocked to find he was following me to the parking lot. And when I opened the door to my car, he forced his way in beside me.

  As I struggled, I screamed, “Please get out! This is exactly why I’m getting the hell out of here! I think your inviting a married woman to a dinner when your wife isn’t present is not only impolite, but it’s wrong.”

  That’s when he told me, “Listen, Vic knows all about this.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “He’s knows all about this, so you don’t have to worry.”

  It was hard to take in exactly what he was implying—I didn’t actually think it was possible that my husband knew this would be happening. I mean how could any husband understand behavior so blatantly inappropriate—that a business associate would treat his wife in such an aggressive and shameless manner. But in spite of my continuing to struggle with him, he remained in the car—trying to impose his will upon me. He even smiled and told me how he’d always liked my looks. It was so insulting and embarrassing. I told him, “Get out now,” and tried to push him out of the car, and he held on to my arm and laughed. That’s when I scratched his face. I wanted to leave a mark on it that he would have to explain to his wife.

  Vic was back from his trip, as I recall, when I got home. I walked into the house feeling dead because I was afraid to feel anything. I told Vic I had gone to dinner, and his friend had not brought his wife, and I didn’t understand why that happened.

  Vic’s response was strangely flat and devoid of emotion.

  “You should not have gone,” he said. “Why did you go?”

  “Because you told me to go.”

  “You didn’t have to go, and when you got there, why didn’t you leave?”

  “But I did leave almost immediately.”

  He just shrugged and said, “Well, the only thing I can think is that you shouldn’t have gone.”

  This wasn’t the kind of reaction I expected from Vic. I had expected a completely outraged response. He was an old-fashioned husband in so many ways. Yet he wasn’t understanding of my anger and confusion. It seemed very strange. So there was this silence. It was the kind of silence you have when ugly things are about to be said, and once they are, everything will change. So we didn’t discuss it further. I had a drink or two and we quietly went to bed.

  But that night I was so confused I could barely sleep.

  A few weeks later, Vic and I were going to a country club for dinner and I told him I hoped we wouldn’t be seated with the financial adviser and his wife. Vic told me I was a pain in the neck, but called ahead to arrange that we be seated at another table with our guests. And when we arrived at the dinner, the host met us and took me aside. He said, “I understand you did not want to sit at that man’s table and I’m very sorry about that. But you are not the first woman in this club who has had to put up with that. And we really are going to have to do something about it.” I told him to speak to Vic if he wished, but that’s all I would have to do with it and I wouldn’t say anything to anyone about it. At the end of dinner, the financial adviser approached with his wife to say hello. I did not see the scratches I had left on his face. But I knew from the look on the face of his wife that she knew something had happened. She couldn’t look at me at all.

  I’ve since observed that what felt like an isolated, and certainly isolating, event is not so singular in the business. We all know about the “casting couch” and the situations some women find themselves in when trying to break in. But little is said about what happens on the other end of the spectrum—once a woman has made it. The hustling kind of men, and there are many who succeed in Los Angeles, cannot help but see beautiful women as prey, women as commodities. They feed off of a woman’s success. The money is easy and the lifestyle can seem fairy-tale-like; it’s certainly more fun than a nine-to-five job for a man who has not found the kind of nine-to-five career that inspires him. But most women in my field cannot bring themselves to talk about it. I know women who’ve had to go through what I went through—and it’s still happening today. In fact, despite my many marriages, it surprises me that young women still come to ask me for advice about love and marriage. My advice, these days, is pretty simple. You can love ’em but you don’t have to marry them. After all, when and if it falls apart, the men almost always walk away without any repercussions.

  It’s a perspective I’ve acquired over time, but when that incident with Vic happened I didn’t see it in such terms. I only knew that something between the two of us had unraveled. But like I keep saying, I’m really very foolish around men, and if there was some discomfort, I’d have a drink and try to forget about it.

  But in some ways, I never forgot about it—to me it was tantamount to mental abuse by my husband. We had reached the lowest depth, one from which no marriage survives intact, because all trust and moral decency had been eliminated.

  Several years later, when I was learning that Sunset Boulevard was going to take me to Toronto for a year, and that Vic really didn’t want me to go, I found myself totally ignoring his wishes. My careerist mentality, the one that didn’t make it possible for me to just say “okay, dear” started to bubble up. I was torn, but not as torn as I might have been had he been a better husband. And if my view of him had changed forever—on account of the incident with the financial adviser—Vic’s view of me changed forever when I told him I would not turn down a year’s contract to work in .

  It was too much for his macho mind to handle. What would he tell his Palm Springs friends when they asked, “Where is your wife?”

  “Diahann’s on the road, doing Sunset?”

  It was self-centered of me to assume everyone was happy for me. But it was a part I’d been wanting to play for a long time, and it was coming at a time when I never thought anything like it would come to me again. As importantly, it would be another historic first—I’d be the first black actress to play the role. Okay, I’d already played a black bitch on Dynasty, but this was a deluded bitch of the silver screen in a spectacular production. The chance to do it was an enormous gift. But to Vic, it was a problem. I remember friends telling me to be careful. He was the kind of man who did not want to hear his wife get more applause than he did, ever, and I always had to be aware of that.

  Perhaps that’s why he didn’t come to see me in Toronto very often. But one time, one of his good friends actually suggested that the billboards of me that were all over the city, on tops of buildings and sides of buses, be taken down before he showed up. That way when he arrived, he wouldn’t see pictures of me everywhere.

  It made no difference that this was not the Broadway, Los Angeles, or London production. He didn’t want to see that his wife had become the Queen of Toronto.

  What could make a man so unsupportive? Well, I’ve never been a popular Italian male singer. But I do know it’s a heavy load, a responsibility to carry on one’s shoulders because your musicality and masculinity and everything else about the way you carry yourself is involved in your work, even more than it is for a woman who wears tight dresses and high heels. I’d seen Vic’s fans when I’d been on tour with him. Their devotion meant something to him. I’ll never forget the time I was performing with him (once again, this was in Vegas) and I’d heard that one of his most devoted fans, let’s call her Gloria, was in the audience. She had sent a note or something. Now, I’d heard about Gloria since I met Vic. She was at almost every show, but he only met her once, years ago, and since t
hen she had always kept herself hidden from him a few rows back. One night the boys in the band were going on as they always did about Gloria being out there. I said, “Am I ever going to meet her? She’s like some kind of mysterious legend.” I went onstage to do my songs before Vic, and in the middle of my act, I said, “Stop the music! Ladies and gentlemen, we are honored to have a wonderful woman in the audience tonight who has been a fan of my husband’s for twenty-five years. She is so loyal and so kind, and I think we should have her stand up so we can thank her for being that kind of fan! I want you to know how much I appreciate it, Gloria, and Vic does, too. Would you please stand up?”