EVERYTHING ABOUT NEW YORK at the beginning seemed like an assault. The pace, the customs, the pressures of being in a wonderful hit show, the exposure to so much that was exciting and new. There were days when I was so overwhelmed that I literally found myself pausing in shop doorways to gain my breath.
The press company for The Boy Friend set up numerous radio and television interviews for me. I wore the same dress for every appointment, because funds were so short and I didn’t have anything else.
My salary was $450 a week. Almost half of that was taken out for taxes, and from the remaining money, I sent $150 home. It left me with about $75 in total per week to help pay for the Park Chambers and food. By the time Thursday came round, Dilys and I were usually completely broke, with very little to eat in our tiny kitchen.
A lady by the name of Eleanor Lambert (who is considered the founder of fashion PR, and who invented the “International Best Dressed List” in 1940) arranged for me to do a fashion layout for a magazine. I modeled several dresses, which fitted me beautifully, and afterward she gave them to me. I protested, but she said, “No, no, you used them; please take them.” I could not have been more grateful.
I was also asked to take part in a fashion show at the Waldorf-Astoria. Charlie Tucker had often talked about this great hotel, how grand and elegant it was—and he was right. I modeled a superb gown by the renowned designer Charles James. It was one of the most glamorous ball gowns I have ever worn. There was a communal dressing room backstage. A very pretty lady was putting on her makeup as I arrived to lay out my things. She said, “Hello. I think you’re from England, aren’t you? You’re in The Boy Friend?”
“Yes,” I said.
She extended her hand.
“My name’s Grace Kelly.”
THERE WAS ALWAYS someone well known coming to see the show. Truman Capote was there one evening and visited backstage. He was diminutive and dressed like Little Lord Fauntleroy, with an enormous, round, white shirt collar and a floppy bow at his neck. He spoke in an effeminate way, his voice that of a small boy, but one sensed the shining intellect behind the strange façade.
Another night we heard that Cary Grant was out front, and the company was hugely excited. We learned that he was coming backstage to see a friend in the show. Everyone dashed to the stage door to watch him pass by, but I had to remove my wig, take the wax beading off my eyelashes, and cleanse my face. By the time I was finished, he had gone.
I was just heading out of the stage door, looking rather greasy and disheveled, when Cary Grant suddenly reappeared, having left something behind. We very nearly bumped into each other. “Oh, hello,” he said. “You don’t know me but my name’s Grant.” I shook his extended hand and my knees turned to jelly. He said he loved the show, but I was so overwhelmed by his charm that I don’t remember anything else we discussed.
LOU WILSON WAS a regular visitor to the Park Chambers Hotel. If convenient, he would stop by after the show for a cup of tea and we’d just sit on the couch and talk. We chatted about his love of England, about Charlie Tucker, my parents, his divorce, his little daughter “Tuppence,” whom he didn’t see often. I think he, too, was lonely.
Lou loved to buy all the early morning newspapers as soon as they appeared on the stands, usually just after midnight. He would have read them cover to cover by dawn. He told me he didn’t sleep much, and that he did his best thinking in the middle of the night. He kept a blank pad and pencil by his bed, and would scribble down a thought without even turning on the light. In the morning, his bedside would be littered with notes torn from the pad. He was compulsive, energetic, endearing, dapper, and unbelievably kind to Dilys and me.
She and I decided he had been so decent that we would cook him supper one night. We wondered what we could produce on our little two-burner stove. We certainly couldn’t afford to take him to a restaurant. I went out and bought a can of Dinty Moore Beef Stew, and we dutifully heated it and served it up. He was very polite and ate every bite. But afterward, he tactfully inquired how much money we had, individually and together.
When we revealed our financial plight to him, he became quite concerned.
“I think perhaps I’d better become your manager in every sense,” he said.
From then on, he took over many aspects of our day-to-day living. Most importantly, he recommended we move to a sublet apartment and not spend our precious money on the Park Chambers.
He found a fairly nice place for us on the top floor of a four-story brownstone on East 55th Street. Again, it had a single bedroom, a living room, a slightly bigger kitchen—and even a small balcony. Coming home the first night and turning on the lights, we were horrified to witness cockroaches scattering in all directions. We tried to get rid of them, without much success.
One day, Dilys came home with a puppy.
My heart sank. “Dilys! What have you done?”
“I couldn’t resist, Julie, I just couldn’t. I mean, look at her!” she said.
She’d seen this baby dachshund in the window of a pet shop. Perhaps by way of mollifying me, Dilys let me name it. My mother had always said that if ever she had another girl she would call her Melody, which I thought a ridiculous name. I was not too fond of the dog, so that’s the name I gave her. Of course, somehow I ended up being the one who did all the feeding, the cleaning, the taking it out for walks. We called her Melly for short, and Melly came to the theater, and Melly pooped in the dressing room, and on the shag carpet in our living room, in the bedroom, in the kitchen, everywhere.
Since we were on the top floor of this walk-up, it soon became a real burden to take this puppy up and down the stairs all the time. I had a good idea. Knowing that manure is supposed to be very good for flowers, I folded some of it into the soil of the window boxes. The geraniums flourished, but the smell on the balcony was appalling!
When Neil was in Canada, we would have nightly phone conversations, and they grew longer and longer as time went by. Lou would admonish, “Julie, you’ve simply got to cut down on your long distance bill.” But, as lovers do, we talked for an hour or more, and the minutes would just add up.
To my surprise, Neil became anxious and controlling, asking me to account for places I’d been and everything I was doing. Sometimes he didn’t believe my answers and we would have heated discussions over the phone. I would say, “Neil, why do you doubt what I’m saying?” but still he would pump me. It was odd and eventually irritating. Sometimes I tried to make our conversations shorter, but that only served to make him more suspicious. I began to feel claustrophobic in the relationship.
One night on the phone, he asked me to marry him.
“Oh gosh,” I stammered. “I’ve not actually gone so far as to think about marriage. Let me write home and see what my parents say.”
Wimp that I was, I couldn’t say, “I have the feeling this isn’t going to work between us.” I wrote to my mum, and she wrote back a very sensible letter, saying, “I would prefer that you at least wait until your year is over and let’s talk about it when you get back. Marriage now, while you’re in the throes of something so new, doesn’t seem a very smart idea, and you’ll be home soon enough.”
I was relieved, and showed the letter to Neil, saying, “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait.” He was not happy about it, and our relationship continued to deteriorate.
JOHN HEWER INVITED me and Dilys to stay for a summer weekend at the tiny house he’d rented on Fire Island. The Sunday was overcast, but very warm. We decided to go down to the beach, and I lay out on a towel without putting on any sunscreen. I fell asleep and woke up two hours later. The sun was blazing and I was already lobster red. I managed to do the show that night, but for the next two weeks, my skin literally hummed with fiery color.
I remember both Dilys and Millie Martin recommending, “Cold tea! You’ve got to lie in cold tea. The tannin helps.” It was too painful for me to even bathe, so Dilys gently sponged my back and arms for me. I slathered chamomile lotion on myself
, and for the show, I dabbed pancake makeup over that, but a purple glow still shone through. I’m surprised my skin wasn’t permanently damaged.
Other silly moments occurred. There is a scene in the show where Tony and Polly are just about to kiss, but Hortense, the maid, interrupts them. One night, the actress playing Hortense missed her cue. Leaning in for the kiss, John Hewer and I paused and looked at each other. Not knowing what else to do, we leaned further, pecked discreetly, then pulled apart. Still no sign of Hortense. After a long moment, I said brightly, “Well, I have to go now!” and left poor John just standing there. He teased me about it for months afterward. As I walked away, I heard the thunderous sound of the actress’s footsteps racing toward the stage.
LONDON’S SADLER’S WELLS ballet (later to become England’s Royal Ballet) came to New York, and Dilys and I went to see a Sunday matinee of Coppélia. A young and extremely attractive dancer called David Blair was the male lead. His exhilarating leaps and spins and bravura performance took our breath away, and filled us with national pride.
After the performance, Dilys said, “Come on, we’re going round to the stage door. We’ll wait until he comes out and then congratulate him.”
With reluctance I let her drag me round to the back entrance. Dilys thrust her way through the crowd of fans, and as David Blair appeared, she introduced herself. After all, we were British, and so was he!
He said, “Oh, you’re the girls who are in The Boy Friend, right? Well, come on back to our hotel. We’re going to have a drink.”
Giddy with delight, we followed him and went up to a drab room where many dancers from the company were gathered. Drinks were handed out in paper cups. Sitting on the floor, midst the crush of people, was an exquisitely pretty lady doing what it seems every ballerina does—sewing her toe shoes, reinforcing them, attaching the tapes. I sat down beside her. Her name was Svetlana Beriosova. She was utterly delightful, and we chatted together for the remainder of the evening. She had been born in Lithuania, had lost her mother at an early age, and her father was ballet master for the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo. Svetlana and I became instant, lifelong friends.
OUR LEASE ON the sublet was up, and Dilys and I moved to yet another apartment, which was a good deal nicer, with two bedrooms, on 57th Street, close to the East River. One night, along with some cast members of our company, Dilys arrived with Michael Kidd, the renowned choreographer of the film Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and the Broadway productions of Finian’s Rainbow, Guys and Dolls, and Can-Can. Everyone was enthralled to meet the Michael Kidd. He just sat in our midst, chatting amiably, seemingly unaware of his eminence. He was adorable—attractive, funny, and vital.
We didn’t meet again until I went to Hollywood. Michael and I worked together several times in the years since. He was a beloved mentor—many times I turned to him for advice—and he and his lovely wife Shelah and their family became tender and understanding friends to my present husband, Blake, and me. But that is a story for another time.
DILYS’S MOTHER CAME to live with us. To my surprise, she was as gregarious as Dilys, and even competed with her daughter for the attention of Dilys’ friends. Dilys would rail at her mother one minute, yet defend her the next, and was often reduced to tears. My heart went out to Dilys, for she was, to put it mildly, one difficult lady. I began to feel miserable. The woman was in our apartment, in my life, in my face, and making things awful for all of us. I considered moving to a place of my own, but couldn’t manage it financially.
Miraculously, Dilys and her mother eventually decided to leave, and Millie Martin moved in with me instead. Dilys and I share a bond of friendship to this day, but Millie and I were easy and compatible housemates and became great chums.
THIRTY
THE BOY FRIEND was a tremendous learning curve for me. Working for a year on one role, I was able to test myself again and again, night after night. I learned how to cement the humorous moments in the show, and the value of being real when playing comedy.
Madame Stiles-Allen had taught me how to work on a problematic note in a song by strengthening the note before it. I was amazed and humbled to discover that this technique can be applied to many aspects of theater: drama, comedy, song, or dance. It seems to me that if a moment in one’s performance feels lost, it pays to take a look at the moment before it—to help set up and strengthen the troubling area. That year on Broadway was one of the best lessons in my life.
As my contract neared completion, I began to grow very excited about returning to London. Any problems that might be awaiting me at home were overshadowed by the thrill of seeing my family again after so long.
I received a phone call from a man called Dick Lamar. He told me that he represented the theatrical team of Alan Jay Lerner and Frederick Loewe, and explained that they were working on a musical version of George Bernard Shaw’s classic play Pygmalion. I knew that these two gentlemen had written lovely musicals such as Brigadoon and Paint Your Wagon and, indeed, had seen both in London.
Mr. Lamar said, “I wonder if you could tell me how long a contract you have with The Boy Friend?”
“Oh, I’ll be heading home by October 1st,” I happily replied.
There was a slight intake of breath on the other end of the phone. “My God!” Mr. Lamar exclaimed. “We assumed you had a two-year contract, like everyone else, and that you would not be available. I told Alan and Fritz that I’d make a phone call and find out for sure. It would only cost a dime.”
My God indeed! If I had agreed to that two-year contract originally offered me for The Boy Friend—if I had not remained adamant about doing it for just one year…Was it chance? Luck? Karma? So many times in my life, I seem to have been blessed with inexplicable good fortune.
It was arranged that I would meet with the author and lyricist, Alan Jay Lerner, and read for him. I do not remember where the reading took place or which scenes from the play I worked on. But I remember that Mr. Lerner was extremely charismatic and that his manners were exquisite.
I thought my reading was appalling. I was surprised when Mr. Lerner asked for a second meeting, and I believe I read some scenes from other plays with his assistant, Bud Widney. I remember becoming emotionally undone by some particularly moving passage and dissolving into tears as usual.
A few days later, I was invited to meet Frederick (Fritz) Loewe, the composer. Whereas Mr. Lerner seemed a complicated man and difficult to fathom, Mr. Loewe was the complete opposite. He was the older of the two and was all Viennese charm. He greeted me with a welcoming smile and gallantly kissed my hand.
He and Lerner sang and played for me some of the songs they had already composed for the show, including “Just You Wait” and “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly.” I was captivated by what I heard.
Because I have a good ear, I was able to instantly sing one song for them then and there, which seemed to please them.
Shortly afterward, I was also asked to do an audition for the legendary Richard Rodgers, who was casting for his and Oscar Hammerstein’s new show, Pipe Dream. I went to a theater with Lou Wilson and handed the pianist my audition piece, “The Waltz Song” from Tom Jones. I had been asked to sing something other than a song from The Boy Friend…something more vocally challenging.
I was the sole person auditioning that day. The theater was dark, with only the work lights for illumination; it felt cavernous and unfriendly. I stood on the stage, trying to see where Mr. Rodgers was sitting in the auditorium. I belted out the opening cadenza of my song as strongly and loudly as I could.
Mr. Rodgers came up onto the stage afterward and introduced himself. “That was absolutely…adequate,” he said. Then he smiled. “I’m teasing. Thank you so much for coming and singing for us.”
We chatted for a few minutes, then he said, “Have you been auditioning for anyone else?”
“Well, yes,” I replied. “As a matter of fact I’ve been speaking to two gentlemen, Mr. Lerner and Mr. Loewe, who I believe are putting together a musical bas
ed on Shaw’s Pygmalion.”
Mr. Rodgers looked at me for a long moment, then he said, “You know, if they ask you to do it, I think you should accept. If they don’t, I wish you would let us know because we would be happy to use you.”
I will never forget that moment. What amazingly generous advice from one of the most eminent men in the world of musical theater.
I was more nervous singing for Mr. Rodgers than I was meeting Messrs. Lerner and Loewe. It was heady stuff and it may seem, as I tell it now, that I was a little blasé about it all. I was aware how incredibly fortunate I was to be considered for these roles, but I was only just becoming familiar with the mores of Broadway and how high-powered it all was. I was young and green—an innocent abroad with blinkers on; a young girl from Walton-on-Thames who was, more often than not, preoccupied with matters of family. How could I recognize the enormity of the opportunities that were coming my way?
I could not know at that moment that I was about to undertake one of the most difficult, most glorious, most complex adventures of my life, or that I would be guided through the daunting forest of self-discovery by several of the kindest, most brilliant giants one could ever hope to meet. But I am running ahead of myself.
AMAZINGLY, THE OFFER to appear in My Fair Lady came through. Despite the fact that this time I would have to accept the two-year contract—and perhaps because Richard Rodgers had already bestowed a blessing upon the project—I agreed to it. Besides, I think Charlie Tucker and Lou Wilson would have strangled me if I quibbled in any way. But the forthcoming production seemed to tower over me, and it was probably just as well that I was blind to the enormity of what lay ahead.
The thought that I would be coming back to the United States within three months made my return home doubly precious. The pack-up was exhausting: there were trunks to fill with clothes, memorabilia, and gifts for the family. Other boxes had to be put in storage for my return, and there were good-byes to be said to the company. Strangely, I remember nothing about my last performance in the show.
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