For two days we heard the foghorns and watched them drag the harbor. Everybody felt terrible. Roz and Claudette
played backgammon. I don't remember what I did. Nobody said much. Then, to everyone's relief, Frank called it quits. "We stayed two days while they dragged the harbor," Claudette remembered. "Frank finally decided there was nothing that could be done. It served no purpose to stay there."
A few weeks later the crewman's body washed up onshore.
Back in Peyton Place, the bags of mail were multiplying, expressing approval and disapproval of my relationship with Frank. People wrote to me about all kinds of things. Younger people frequently saw me as a soul mate and they confided their most secret feelings. Eventually we had to hire a "fan mail service," as there were just too many letters, and any single one of them could upset me for the whole day.
It amazed me that girls my own age so often wrote about my hair, which in those days of "flips" and "bubbles" hung loose to my waist, solely because I was lazy and had never given much thought to it. The sudden focus on my looks and all the attention my hair was receiving was not entirely unpleasant, and that in itself made me wary. The horror of vanity instilled in convent school—the same fear of pride that had led me to bury the rosary beads I had made from acorns—compelled me to cut my hair.
I waited for a moment in the Peyton Place story line when It would fit; Allison's nervous breakdown was perfect. I didn't ask for permission because I knew I wouldn't get it: they would certainly oppose my changing any ingredient in a successfial series. So one morning before work, in the makeup room, I picked up a pair of scissors and cut my hair to less than an inch in length, laid it in a plastic Glad bag, and turned to the mirror. It looked fine to me. But the hairdresser was aghast, and the producers were upset, and
people with wigs were summoned, and there were stern lectures about responsibility, and I apologized a lot, but privately I couldn't see a problem.
There must have been nothing going on in the world that week, because my haircut got an absurd amount of press coverage. There was wild speculation as to why I'd done it: some said it was to spite Frank, and back in New York, Dali, never one to minimize, labeled it "mythical suicide." But there was no drama, no fight with Frank, he loved my hair the minute he saw it, so I kept it short for years.
That first Christmas we spent together I was hoping for a puppy, and I was sure Frank would come through—I'd been hinting broadly for weeks. When I asked him. Animal, vegetable, or mmeral? he had answered, Animal, with a twinkle.
George Jacobs, Frank's houseman, took a picture of us on Christmas Eve, kneeling by the tree in the Palm Springs living room: there are lots of presents under it, and in the picture, we are laughing. Frank is wearing a red sweater, and I am in a brocade floor-length silvery pink hostess gown, and I have just opened my present. The box I am holding contained a diamond koala bear. Secretly, I was disappointed.
On Christmas Day we both flew to L.A. While Frank visited his children, I went out to Malibu to see my brother Patrick and Susan, his wife, and newborn Justine, blond and serenely beautiful in the antique wooden cradle that was my gift. They lived on a cliff overlooking the sea. Each ornament on their tree had been homemade, and Susan had stitched the patchwork quilt on their bed, and a little one for the baby; yarns in earth colors stretched across her loom. Industrial-sized wooden spools were stacked and used as shelves for books and for Patrick's sculptures, and a wood fire warmed the room. At the time they had no con-
sistent income, and yet they had all the essential, enduring ingredients right there in that room. I didn't mention the diamond koala bear.
Once, while Susan was pregnant, they came to Las Vegas as Frank's guests. In that context, they appeared even more extraordinary—utterly unadorned, pure of face and of purpose against the glittering casino, they stood side by side at the roulette table watching Frank bet away twenty thousand dollars.
Frank loved having houseguests, lots of houseguests. When the two octagonal guest houses were insufficient, he built another two-bedroom bungalow and a huge projection room/game room, then a tennis court, and a white clapboard New England—style four-bedroom house with shutters and a big living room and kitchen. Now he could host twenty-two guests at a time. No wonder they called him the Innkeeper.
Frank personally stocked each medicine cabinet with cotton balls, eye pads, mouthwash, toothpaste, toothbrushes, tampons, shaving equipment, shampoo^—more stuff than hotels. Once, when guests were expected and one of the dwellings had only just been completed that afternoon, Frank had the local art gallery bring over their entire stock of paintings. A whole truckload of art arrived, and he helped the man hang paintings for three or four hours.
In the evenings guests were advised of the next morning's activities: breakfast is served from eight on, golfers leave for the course at ten. Evervone joins up for lunch at the adjoining country club at one. The afternoon was left open for swimming, tennis, and relaxation of choice—cars were waiting in the garage for anyone who wanted to go shopping. All were invited to gather for drinks at the bar from five until seven-thirty, when we would either leave in a convoy for a restaurant, Rubv's, or dinner would be served in the
dining room, after which a movie was screened. Then came the time for shooting pool and hanging out at the bar. Things were so well organized, I'd get a migraine.
Over lunch one day at the golf club, Ruth Gordon ordered a slice of onion for her hamburger. With a strange expression, Frank asked if she liked raw onions and Ruth said, Yes, sometimes a slice on a hamburger. The onions here are nothing special, he said, you gotta try Maui onions. Ruth had never heard of them. Frank said, Oh for crying out loud, and left the table.
A day or two later, during our free time, I took Ruth and Garson to see the oasis where I rode my horse. As we drove along listening to the news, the announcer suddenly said, "If you happen to like Maui onions, it's a good thmg to know Frank Sinatra. It seems one of his guests expressed the desire to have some, so Mr. Sinatra phoned Hawaii, and we've just learned that the pilot of flight number such-and-such is delivering the onions to Palm Springs." The next day at lunch, everybody had Maui onions.
It had been one of those interminable Vegas nights. Frank and I were safely in the golf cart, returning to our part of the hotel and to our waiting bed. He was wearing a shoe box on his head to keep the sunlight out of his eyes. Back at the casino, he had been angry. But things finally got smoothed over and nothing had come of it.
Suddenly, without any warning, he turned the golf cart around and pressed the gas pedal down as far as it would go; we were headed straight for the shiny plate-glass window. I couldn't see his eyes on account of the shoe box but I knew It was pomtless to say a word. By what series of decisions, I wondered, was I here, now, in Las Vegas, in this golf cart, at five in the morning, with a man wearing a shoe box driving full-speed toward death by glass?
Should I have done something differently? No, I de-
WHATFALLSAWAY lOl
cided, as we raced toward the window; there was nothing to be done differently, not then or now. All the occurrences of our common time, tender or troubled, were linked as surely as the beads on a rosary.
In the final instant, we swerved and smashed sidelong into the window. With a little leap of surprise, I realized we were both unharmed. He was already out of the cart and striding into the casino as I trotted after him, clutching my little beaded evening purse. He threw some chairs into a heap and with his golden lighter he tned to set them on fire. I watched the rising commotion as people gathered around and casino guards rushed over. When he couldn't get a fire started, he took my hand and we walked out of the building.
The details of our first breakup were absurdly insignificant, even then, but thev reflected the chasm of insecurities we had each brought to the relationship, and our startling ineptitude when It came to discussing our differences. It came without animosity, just the numbness and resignation we were neither of us stranger to.<
br />
I began to spend time with someone else, a delightful man who was not at all frightening. Like his friends he was young, brilliant, and funny, and it was surprising how little they all drank. On my Easter holiday from Peyton Place, my friend and I went to Rome and Venice.
The night I returned to L.A. I was awakened at two or three in the morning by a phone call from Frank in Las Vegas. Someone had been trying to reach him at the casino, giving my name, and he was calling me back. I had been in a deep sleep, so I'm not sure how the conversation inched into the other zone, but the next evening I was waiting for his plane at the airport and we began, for the first time, to plan a future. Difficult years had shaped us both. Our needs were enormous and not simple. We understood ourselves
and each other so little, and whatever comprehension we may have had, we could not convey. Blindly we sought completion in each other.
It was not a surprise when, one Palm Springs morning, Frank led me outside, and with my two hands in his, asked if I would marry him. In the closing space between us, I placed all the hope of my lifetime.
High above the clouds in his Learjet on the way to New York, Frank was as usual coaxing me to eat. "Try some dessert," he said, but hidden under the cake was a little box. In it was an engagement ring with the biggest pear-shaped diamond I ever saw. He told me which finger to put it on. I thought. This is a ring I'd better not swallow.
Our engagement was announced, and Frank went on to London to shoot The Naked Runner. My apartment in L.A. was suddenly covered in photographers. I remember waiting until dark to crawl around the floor beneath the windows, opening the refrigerator from the bottom and pulling down a cold pizza. I phoned Frank from the floor and told him things were getting crazy again, I didn't know what to do. He said, Let's get married right away, we'll meet up in Las Vegas.
I had a white suit, so the next day I put it on, and the Goetzes picked me up and we flew to Las Vegas in Frank's plane. It occurred to me how hurt my mother was going to be, but Frank said I couldn't tell anyone; even Nancy and Tina didn't know. So I wondered how all the press found out. When I walked into the suite at the Sands, Frank was already there, wearing a dark suit, and smiling. He looked handsome. We laughed at all the excess feeling, and then we couldn't look at each other.
The ceremony was brief. There was a cake that nobody touched. The Goetzes were there, and Jack Entratter, and Red Skelton, who had just shot his wife. Champagne was
uncorked, and we both had a sip for luck. Frank decided we had better step out and let the press take some pictures, so we did. The photos show a dazed but happy-looking couple. Once we got to Palm Springs, we phoned our families. We didn't turn on the television, of course. Photographers were outside the house all night.
The Goetzes threw a big wedding party for us, and my brother Patrick and his wife came, and Prudence, Maria, and Lenny Gershe, and my godfather, George Cukor, brought Katharine Hepburn; Spencer Tracy arrived separately. Edward G. Robinson was there, and Dean Martin, Ruth and Garson Kanin, Richard Attenborough, and the Billy Wilders. There was a huge wedding cake.
We were not quite back on earth as we headed to London two days later. Frank had an apartment in Grosvenor Square that was decorated in shiny green silks with lots of tassels, little glass-top tables, and jade ashtrays. While he was shooting, the wives of his London friends tried to look out for me. They'd just show up—there was no stopping them. Once they took me shopping, and I fainted at Har-rods from boredom. Usually, when they dropped by, I'd hide in the bedroom while Barbara, my secretary and friend, would make excuses.
The press was still a problem. Of course one mature way to handle it might have been to walk out the front door and smile, and hope that eventually they'd lose interest and go away. But Frank was too outraged at their predatory behavior, and incensed at their continual invasions of his private life. So he spent much time and energy to avoid giving them a picture. When one evening we went out to dinner, he spent hours making elaborate plans to foil the paparazzi. Three cars were used, and he left the apartment with pockets full of cherry bombs. We hid with the garbage, and sneaked around corners, but we made it to the restaurant.
When we got back to California, Frank took me house hunting. We looked at Beverly Hills mansions worth millions of dollars. I couldn't picture myself in any of them and the more we saw, the more I felt like crying. Frank was running out of patience, and I couldn't articulate what was wrong. In time we were shown an English Tudor—style house that wasn't too big or swanky; we both liked it, so Frank bought it. Edie Goetz chose a decorator, and while the house was being renovated, I went to London to make A Dandy in Aspic with Laurence Harvey, who assured me that I'd only have to be in London for ten days, and three days in Berlin. It sounded like fun, and Frank didn't seem to mind, although he wouldn't come back to London with me.
The first ten days went according to schedule, and then we went to Berlin. The director, Tony Mann, was a kind and thoughtful man in his mid-sixties. Larry Harvey, Tom Courtenay, Lionel Stander, Peter Cook, and I were all staying at the Kempinski Hotel in Berlin, and shooting around the city. I don't know why the film fell behind schedule, and the promised three days exceeded a week, but Frank, on the phone, was fed up.
One particularly frigid and windswept day we were shooting on a race track outside the city. It was so cold the actors chewed ice before they rolled the cameras, to reduce the vapor coming out of our mouths. Although we were freezing, Tony, the director, was in a good mood because his young wife was flying in from London that day.
Back at the hotel in the evening I had a long hot bath to thaw out before joining the rest of the cast in a restaurant at nine. Tony said he'd be there with his wife but he was late. In the middle of dinner we got a phone call. Come quickly, said Mrs. Mann, something's happened to Tony.
We all rushed out of the restaurant. When there weren't any cabs, we ran through the streets back to the Kempinski,
and upstairs, and we burst into the room where Tony was lying on the bed, completely dead.
Larry Harvey was trying to help Mrs. Mann, and calling the concierge or somebody. I went up close to Tony. I had never seen a dead person before. I sort of hugged him and Tom Courtenay yanked me to my feet and said, Don't be morbid.
Then a woman doctor arrived and after one second she said, He's dead, which we already knew. Larry and Mrs. Mann were talking about how the movie would get finished, and I'm thinking. Who cares about the stupid movie? Then a waiter walked in with a silver tray: instead of an undertaker, the concierge had sent room service. Nobody spoke any German, so we just pointed at Tony, and the man ran out of the room. Poor Mrs. Mann talked and searched through papers and opened closets. As hours passed, I began to feel quite comfortable, as if I'd been sitting all my life in that hotel room, with those people talking and Tony on the bed, dead. It was no stranger than anything else.
Larry Harvey directed the rest of the movie.
Ghapt er Six
What with one thing and another, A Dandy in Aspic had resulted in absences from my new husband that were long and stressful for both of us. Now that it was over, we were lookmg forward to a period of free time at home. In a few months we planned to work together in The Detective, back at Fox. Already I was wondering what it would be like to be in scenes with Frank, and worrymg that I would disappoint him. Lee Remick, an actress I admired very much, was also cast.
It was at this moment that Paramount offered me Rosemary's Baby, a film to be based on the then-current bestseller by Ira Levin. Roman Polanski, thirty-three years old and internationally respected, was set to direct. It would be my first opportunity to star in a feature film, but more important, to prove myself as an actress. If the project succeeded it might place me in a position where I could choose good projects and roles. My goal was to make just one worthwhile
picture a year. Then I would have plenty of time to be a wife and maybe even someday a mother.
But the timing of this offer was terrible, and I was in
a quandary. Frank and I discussed the pros and cons at length. Rosemary was scheduled for a twelve-week shoot, and I asked if he could weather a few more months of my being at work. It seemed like the chance of a lifetime. At least, I reasoned, I would be right here in L.A., home every night. There was just one week in New York at the outset, and three days at the end of the shoot.
Frank tried hard to be understanding but continued to have reservations about the project. Finally, one air-conditioned Palm Springs night, lying on his side of our bed, he read the script. When he finished, his only comment was that he couldn't picture me in the part. I could see his point. Suddenly I couldn't picture myself in it either. I half-hoped he would take the matter out of my hands and just tell me not to do it, but in fact he was reserved and sympathetic, and tried to be supportive.
Riddled with ambivalance, self-doubt, and anxiety, I accepted the role. On an empty soundstage at Paramount Studios, in a confounding maze of tape marks (intended to represent walls and furniture but that I never could make sense of), we began the two weeks of rehearsal, while the actual set was being assembled on another stage. Then, in the sumimer heat of New York City, in front of the Dakota apartment building—now known, tragically, as the place where John Lennon was shot—we began filming. Our family's apartment, conveniently, was right next door, on Central Park West and Seventy-third Street.
Off the set Roman was shy with me, but when we were working he communicated clearly. He had an mfectious enthusiasm that few could resist, and a real knowledge of what would work professionally. When Roman wanted me to eat raw liver, I ate it, take after take, even though, at the time, I was a committed vegetarian. While we were shoot-
What falls away : a memoir Page 10