I can’t remember who else was there, but as soon as I sat down, this Greg Smith character started to have a go at me. Not in a horrible way, just a lot of teasing. He was very cocky and thought he knew it all. I was also a Miss Know It All at this point, as I considered myself well on the way to fame and fortune – not like this young upstart who was still struggling to put a film together. Right from the start we were bandying words about and challenging each other.
Finally, I made my excuses and went to bed to let Flic get on with it. Greg was exactly who I would have expected my flatmate to fancy: he was flash and cocky and obviously had an eye for the ladies. Which didn’t bode well for a long relationship.
About half an hour later there was a knock on my bedroom door. It was Greg, asking me if he could see me tomorrow.
‘No, you’re here to see Flic,’ I replied indignantly.
‘Look, I’m sorry, but Flic is just a friend. Please meet me tomorrow. I’m going away the day after on holiday to Malta.’
‘I don’t know. I’ll think about it. Now go away.’ I shut the door in his face. I think I was a bit flattered that I had made such an impression on him but I decided not to say anything to Flic at that point. The next day, Greg called me.
‘Does Flic know you are ringing me?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I told her I was going to ask you out.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She was fine about it. I told you, we’re just friends, that’s all.’ I was not convinced that that was exactly what Flic had thought. Anyway.
‘Please will you have dinner with me tonight?’
‘I can’t,’ I replied. ‘I’m already seeing my friend Leo and his girlfriend.’
‘All right, I’ll take you all out.’
Well, that did it. None of us had two shillings to rub together and this was a free meal.
‘OK. Fine.’
I rang Leo (Dolan) and Sheila, full of it. I told them we were going to dinner with a film producer who fancied me, and they could have a look and tell me what they thought.
Greg took us to a very nice Indian restaurant on the Edgware Road, near where he lived. He was good company and full of stories. He had been an agent before, and now was trying to produce films. He obviously loved the industry and was very animated and upbeat.
Like a lot of men who are or become successful, Greg had an aura about him. Although he was a bit on the flash side, he was charming and bright. I really warmed to him, and Leo and Sheila gave me the thumbs-up sign when they left. I walked back to Greg’s flat and he asked me up for a brandy. I was curious to see where he lived and he had also told me about his dog, a red setter called Zackary. We talked for a long time and drank a lot of brandy. Greg told me he was separated from his wife, Cheryl. He was so sensitive about her and their relationship, I thought what a decent man he was and began to think there may be something between us. This was the usual pattern for me. I drink for Dutch courage and end up losing all my inhibitions. Once again I fell into bed without a thought.
In the morning I left very swiftly. I was disappointed with myself. I hadn’t found Greg that attractive, and I had no intention of seeing him again. So why had I behaved like a slut?
He rang me later from the airport and was very keen to meet up when he returned from his holiday. I wasn’t so sure. I told Flic about it, and apologised for nicking her potential bloke.
‘He’s much more your type anyway,’ I said.
‘Oh, he didn’t fancy me at all. And he was besotted with you! Don’t worry, Lynda. I’ll get my own back one day and pinch one of yours!’ She is a lovely woman.
Life went on and I forgot all about him. Three weeks later, I got a call. He was back. When could he see me? I was away that weekend to stay with my old pal, Nik Grace, who was at the Royal Shakespeare in Stratford upon Avon. Since we had parted company, Nik had progressed through the ranks of legitimate theatre and was earning a reputation for himself as a serious actor. Greg offered to drive me. What could I say?
We spent the weekend with Nik and had a good time. It was so good to see my dearest friend. As in the old days, I don’t think he was very impressed with Greg, but then it was always difficult with him because we were so close.
From then on, Greg pursued me with a vengeance. I can honestly say I really wasn’t that interested, but he drew me into his life. He was trying to set up a film called Confessions of a Window Cleaner – hardly intellectual stuff – from a series of books written by a man called Christopher Wood.
As time went on, I realised Greg had no money at all. Not a bean. This was the story of my life: there has not been one serious relationship – until now – with a man where I did not have to keep him.
Greg finally got the money together to begin casting on his film. I suggested my friend, Marilyn Johnson, to cast it. So far, she had not done any films so it was a useful notch on her belt, although I’m not sure it would have been her first choice of film, but there you go. The most vital role in the film was the window cleaner. Because there was a good deal of sexual activity in the script, it had to be someone who had oodles of charm and could take the edge off the sexual content and make it fun.
Previously to this, the only slightly risqué films were the Carry On series starring Sid James, Barbara Windsor and the gang. What Greg hoped to do with the Confessions films was make them sexier, and grab a more adult audience. Not overtly pornographic or anything, just naughtier. These were still early days as far as censorship was concerned and were the days of ‘X’-rated as the top of the range for the over-eighteens. None of this 12-or 15-certificate stuff. The films look so tame compared to what is on offer nowadays, but at the time, when the first Confessions film came out, it caused quite a stir because of the nudity and sexual content.
I had recently seen an advert for Kit Kat on the TV, starring a bloke as a window cleaner. I recognised him as an actor who had been in quite a lot of TV and films. His name was Robin Askwith; I suggested him to Greg, and a star was born.
Dear Robin was a one-off. Completely mad. He still is. He had a mop of blond hair, a cheeky grin and a wicked sense of humour. He was perfect for the part. He was also very professional and very good at his job, something I don’t think he got enough credit for, as the focus, as far as the critics of the film were concerned, was always on the girls and the nudity. Of course, the script was incredibly sexist and very un-PC. But this was 1974!
My relationship with Greg, meanwhile, had developed into a full-blown affair. Well, of sorts. We didn’t live together and I was still very much into doing my own thing and getting on with my master plan to become a star. There was also a problem in the physical side of our relationship. During the first six months all was reasonably OK, but I have to say that our sex life wasn’t the best, and not very frequent.
I can’t remember exactly when I suddenly realised we had not made love for weeks, but I talked to my mother about it and she suggested it was simply pressure of work. Maybe. I mentioned it to Greg and he agreed he was working very hard and he did find it difficult to turn his attention to me sometimes.
But Greg was always on the phone to me, two or three times a day, and we were always out and about with Robin, and then later Linda Hayden, who was cast to play his girlfriend in the film. She was young and gorgeous, and she and Robin soon became an item. Greg was outnumbered by the actors, but he loved holding court, as a producer, and putting us in our place. Or so he thought.
I loved the camaraderie. We were all very excited about the film: Greg’s oldest friend, Norman Cohen, was going to direct it, so it was very much a case of the gang makes good.
It was around this time that I began to notice some of the photos that were being sent to Greg. These were photos and CVs of ‘supposed’ actresses who were looking for work. Lots of them were nude! I even read one letter that stated: ‘All producer’s requirements would be met.’ Oh, really, and what were they?! I quizzed Greg about this, and he just laughed and said some of the a
pplicants were, indeed, old slappers and, of course, he just threw their stuff in the bin. When I told my parents about this, my mum said she thought I should consider the possibility that Greg had another woman. I laughed. Not because I was particularly confident about myself and our relationship, but because he was never off the phone to me. He always wanted to know what I was up to when he was not around. If he was so concerned about me, how could he be unfaithful elsewhere?
How naive can you be? How stupid was I? It all came to a head one evening when I was having a drink with my old mates Gareth Hunt and Leo Dolan. Gareth let slip he had been seeing an actress called Olivia, and she had suddenly given him the elbow because she was going to marry a film producer called Greg Smith.
My stomach lurched to my mouth and then plummeted to my toes. Married? I was in shock. Both the guys realised that something was wrong, and once I had explained, Gareth kept apologising and saying he was sure he had made a mistake. But I knew, the way you just do. Everything fell into place. How could I not have suspected? Even my mother had connected with the possibility that he was straying.
I drove to Greg’s flat, completely numb but somehow very calm. It was as if I had been let off the hook. I knew the relationship was not right and I knew also that I didn’t really want to get too involved because of my career. But why did it have to be like this? I felt so humiliated and betrayed by his disloyalty, not least after all the support I had given him, both emotional and financial, to make the film a success.
When I confronted him, Greg embarked on a tirade of attack. Well, it is the best means of defence. He denied it all and said I was mad. The girl was a fantasist. He had cast her in the film but that was all. I was to stop worrying. For my own good I had to trust him, because there were always going to be women throwing themselves at him. It was the nature of the job. But what about our sex life? He just said again it was pressure of work. Then he took me in his arms and told me how much he loved me, and needed me, and that nothing could break us up as a team.
I should have followed my instinct and left then and there.
CHAPTER NINE
‘WE MAY GIVE WITHOUT LOVING, BUT WE CANNOT LOVE WITHOUT GIVING’
(BERNARD MELTZER)
THE NEXT TWO years were a rollercoaster ride. God knows why I stayed with Greg. Once the trust was gone it was impossible to regain and, anyway, the house of cards was falling down round my ears at every turn. Girls, like the one I had found out about, were not only ruthless in their pursuit of Greg; they were jealous of me as an actress. I was doing OK, and I did not have to send photos of myself, nude or otherwise, to producers to get work.
While they were filming at Elstree Studios, I would receive God knows how many calls from different women. Always in the same vein. The worst call I ever received went something like this:
‘Hi, how are you? Do you know where Greg is? I’m waiting for him to arrive.’ A pause, then, ‘Don’t you mind him screwing me?’
At first I tried to laugh it off with my best line: ‘Well, tell Greg his dinner is in the dog, then.’
The response to this was, ‘Tell the dog that Greg is in me.’
It was so horrible and I did not know how to handle it.
Greg just lied, barefaced, to me, that it was all my imagination.
My parents were very supportive and I could talk to them about everything. My father just couldn’t understand how Greg could not fancy me. What was the point of having the relationship? The more I tried to understand, the more I found myself being pulled back into the problem. Greg insisted I could help him through it. That it was just a phase. He did fancy me, and he did love me, but he needed help. OK.
I thought I was strong enough to give him that help.
Things, however, were going on in my life, too. I had been to a party at my agent’s office and met a beautiful man called Norman Eshley. I had been standing in the midst of a crowd of people, all talking at the top of their voices, and had looked across the room and noticed an amazing-looking man in a white suit, towering above the heads of everyone. It was like a sequence in a film: suddenly, there was silence and, as our eyes met, everything faded into the background. He had given me a dazzling smile, but then the moment had been broken by a shift in the crowd.
All night we kept catching each other’s eye. It was a game. We were introduced, and discovered we were both actors, and both Geminis. There was an instant attraction, not just physically; we both recognised something in each other. Just as I was about to leave, Norman caught my eye and mouthed, ‘I suppose a fuck is out of the question?’
My knees buckled. It was so blatant. And so exciting!
The next day I got a call from Norman and met him for a drink. He was doing something at the BBC. I learned he was married, and separated, from Millicent Martin, the very famous and wonderful singer and actress who used to appear in That Was The Week That Was, hosted by David Frost. He was hurting very badly and was obviously still in love with her. I poured out my story about Greg. We were so alike. Male and female versions of each other. We were both complete romantics underneath, but terrible slappers at the same time.
I felt I had known Norman all my life, and that he completely understood where I was coming from. We were also both drinkers who drank for courage. We fell into bed together.
Fortune smiled on us, as the next morning there was a strike, and no one could go to work. So Norman stayed. We went out for suitable groceries (wine and a bit of cheese, that sort of thing) and just laughed and talked and made love. We gave each other confidence and a shoulder to cry on.
Over the next couple of years we would meet up, in between going back to our partners, and remind ourselves that we were nice people, and we were attractive, even if the object of our desire did not desire us. I loved Norman a good deal, in my way. Of course, he was always letting me down as well. There were always other women, but I didn’t mind so much with him because I understood him. The need for the attention. The feel-good factor of the chase and being wanted. I recognised it in myself.
It’s interesting that I should call myself a slapper from this episode. As ever, it was much more difficult for a woman to live like that in society, because she was labelled a slut or promiscuous. Considering we had been through the sixties, and women had burned their bras for equality, it would appear, even those days, to have been in vain. But don’t judge me: I had many more mistakes to make before I found the true me.
Greg and I continued to stumble on. He was on his way up and did have the grace to recognise my part in it, to an extent, but I was becoming more and more unhappy when I was in his company. Dear Robin Askwith tried so hard to keep us all together as a group. We had some very happy times and the first film was a huge success. I did meet some lovely people, like Linda Agran, who went on to become one of the most successful women in television. I would take refuge in her friendship. She was working for David Niven Jr at the time. I also had another dear friend called Jennie Carr, who died tragically of a brain tumour. These women were my saviours because I felt so isolated much of the time.
The next film in the series that was set up was Confessions of a Pop Performer, in 1975. Greg was on a roll, and roll he did, with every actress who would have him.
There is a horrible thing that men like Greg do to their women, which makes them think they are really going crazy. He would always make me think I was imagining everything. The phone would ring and he would answer it, then glance at me, and I would know he was talking to a woman, but if I tried to grab the phone, he would hang up, or a couple of times he actually pulled the phone cable out of the wall. Then he ranted at me that I was impossible and neurotic and imagining things.
I was becoming more and more obsessed with trying to catch him out, and I decided to catch him ‘at it’; an evening that was to prove the nadir of my relationship with him.
As far as I knew, Greg was in his flat with a girl, and I waited outside, thinking she would be leaving at some point, because Bill Mayna
rd was staying with him, and he would be home later. I waited and waited. Hours and hours. To the point where I was desperate to go to the loo.
I didn’t want to leave my post because I had waited so long. I had a blanket on the back seat of the car so I reached back for it, folded it up, sat on it, and peed. I couldn’t believe I had reached so low a point in my self-esteem. I was at my wits’ end. I couldn’t sit there like that, so I drove home and just cried myself to sleep.
NONE OF MY successes had made me feel any better about myself, or helped me deal with my wayward man. I felt that as long as I did not have to know about all the shenanigans, I could cope. But it was impossible to ignore them when I was confronted by some of the women in public. Wherever I went with Greg, there would be a girl hovering at his elbow, trying to catch his eye. I knew there was all sorts going on and used to quiz Linda Hayden and Robin but they were very loyal to Greg. It must have been awful for them really, because who wants to get involved in stuff like that between a couple? They had to work with him.
Finally, I decided enough was enough. I told Greg it was over.
My guardian angel was on my side, because at this point I got a commercial that was filming in the Caribbean. I could fly away, out of reach.
It was a commercial for Dry Cane rum, to be shown in cinemas. Normally, these adverts for drinks were full of gorgeous girls, and when I told a couple of people about the job they looked amazed that I was going to be in one. But in this particular commercial there was a lot of comedy. I was playing a very English, rather upper-class girl in a boat with her young man, played by Royce Mills. Royce was a very funny actor who did a lot of farce with Ray Cooney.
As usual, the production company seemed to want to spend as much money as possible, so we were all going to be flown to St Lucia for two weeks. Why two weeks to film a sixty-second commercial? Because it was cheaper to book flights on a fortnightly basis. Oh, dear, what a shame!
It was one of the most wonderful jobs I have ever had. We were staying in a five-star hotel, and I will never forget when we arrived, quite late at night, the sight of the luxurious surroundings. They were overwhelming. We walked into the bar that was right at the water’s edge, the sea lapping at the legs of the bar stools. We had been on an airplane for eight hours, and then had an hour in a coach from the airport, but the management of the hotel had laid on a feast, with huge cocktails lined up for us. We had arrived in paradise. I was shown to my cabana on the beach. There was a huge bed, soft white linen, and an enormous bathroom with walk-in shower. I had never seen anything like it in my life.
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