My Week with Marilyn (18 page)

She went to lunch at 12.30 with her handbag and gloves. Gilman arrived at 12.45. Then we went to the pub, and got back with Mr P's lunch at 1.15. I wonder if this is a regular situation. Maybe I can make something out of it. Mr P grumbles at the delay but Gilman is irrepressible.

Vivien had told me why she had hired Gilman. He was a relief driver, sent along when their old chauffeur was ill. On the first day, as he drove her and Larry down Bond Street, he suddenly slammed on the brakes. ‘Cor. Look, what a lovely waistcoat!' he cried, pointing to a very exclusive man's-shop window. Vivien adores that sort of unspoilt character and hired him on the spot. Needless to say he now worships both of them, and is fanatically loyal. He is a Barnardo boy and very tough, so Larry probably thinks he is a good bodyguard for Vivien too. He certainly is a good pal to me and saves my life when he appears.

I get a bit nervous in my role as the invisible man. But I was more relaxed there today, and so was the secretary.

Now I've got to use my head.

Yes. There is a pattern, and it should be possible to exploit it.

I am completely ignored all morning, but as there is no door between the waiting room and the secretary's office, I hear quite a lot. Also, she often leaves Mr P's door open when she is in there with him.

Today I didn't go to the pub with Gillers. I just gave him a wink which he picked up immediately. This meant Mr P was alone for 45 minutes. During this time, he keeps on working and the phones keep ringing.

He has three lines. I just ignored them, but after five minutes he opened his door and glared at the empty secretary's desk. Then he slammed his door shut again. Two minutes of phone ringing later, he opened it again and glared some more, this time at me.

‘You still here? Well you might as well answer the phone. Don't think you've got a job, though. There's no chance of that at all.'

He slammed out.

Phone rings. Mr P answers. Next phone rings.

‘Hello. Is that Laurence Olivier Productions?'

‘Yes. Can I help you.'

‘Is Sir Laurence there?'

‘No, I'm afraid he's in America until the end of the week.'

‘Oh. Thank you. I'll ring next week.'

‘Any message?'

‘No thank you.'

Click. Mr P's door opens.

‘How did you know that Sir Laurence is in America until the end of the week?'

‘I heard him tell my mother.'

‘Hmph. Why didn't you put the call through to me?' (There is a buzzer on each phone.)

‘There didn't seem to be a need to bother you. But if you want every single call . . .'

‘Hmph.'

Door slams again. Phone rings.

‘Laurence Olivier Productions.' I'm chirpy now!

‘Is Mr Perceval there?'

‘Certainly. Whom shall I say is calling?'

‘The
Daily Mirror
.'

‘Hold on please.' Click. Bzzz. ‘Yes?'

‘The
Daily Mirror
for you.'

‘Hmph.'

I put through about eight calls, and I was beginning to enjoy it when the secretary (Vanessa) came back at 1.30. She didn't look very
happy at first, but I had left her a note of all calls and messages, so she began to smile again.

Finally Gillers returned with Mr P's rolls and Guinness. He was 20 minutes late and he gave me another terrific wink, which I was frightened that Mr P saw, but he gave no sign.

I had hoped to go back to the pub for my lunch with Gillers, but Mr P sent him straight down to Notley.
⁶
So I had to go alone. I had a large pink gin with my sandwich, and sure enough no one addressed a word to me all afternoon.

But it doesn't matter. At least I have a role to play from 12.30 to 1.30. I must make the most of it.

By now Mr P takes it for granted that I am on duty at lunchtime. Only one week here and already I am part of the furniture.

Being efficient is the easy part. Suppressing one's ego completely for hours at a time is really hard. Gilman phoned in to say he was staying with Vivien all day, and what Vivien wants, Vivien gets; no question of that.

I went round to the pub and got two cheese rolls and a Guinness
before
Vanessa left at 12.30. Then at 12.45 I walked silently into Mr P's office and put it on his desk. Mr P was on the phone – a long-distance call to America (he must have got someone out of bed). He puffed at his pipe and gave me a mournful stare over the top of his hornrim glasses. I think he realises I'm going to win in the end! I crept out and shut the door without a word from either of us.

When Vanessa came back, I left. ‘See you Monday,' I said. ‘8.30 sharp.' She just laughed, but in a friendly way. I'll bet she reports every word I say to Mr P. At the same time, her private life is obviously more important to her than her job – unlike Mr P, or me for that matter. So she is really a non-combatant.

After lunch I got in the car and came down here to Saltwood for a break.

‘How is the new job?' asked Mama.

‘Very good.'

‘Settling in nicely? It was kind of Larry to give it to you.'

But she is too shrewd to be convinced. Actually I don't think she believes either of her sons can get a good job or ever will.

I told Celly
⁷
the minimum. She is incredibly sympathetic as usual, but she leads such a busy life that I didn't think I could quite explain my ‘wait eight weeks' policy. It does sound a bit hopeless when looked at from down here, but I am committed to it.

I was surprised to find myself glad to be back at 146 Piccadilly at 8.30 this morning.

Vanessa turned up at 8.55 with another girl. Are there to be two secretaries from now on? Mr P has moved faster than I thought, hence the mournful stare. My heart went to my boots, but incredibly, at 12.30 they both went out together for lunch. By this time I had already rushed out to the pub and got Mr P's two cheese rolls and Guinness. If Gilman had turned up I would have explained, but luckily he didn't, so I was alone as usual. Vanessa and her companion regard me with complete indifference and don't seem to be bothered by Mr P either. They chattered away all morning as if he hardly mattered, except for phone calls and typing. I think he is scared of them. When I took his lunch in at 12.45 he didn't even look up. ‘War of nerves'. However, by 1 p.m. he needed help.

‘I need to find the telephone number of someone called Noël Coward.'

He pronounced the name very carefully as if I was an idiot.

‘It won't be in the telephone book. You will have to call X, and
he will know the number of Y, and Y should know Mr Coward's number. He will give it to you if you say you are calling for me.'

‘Yes, Mr Perceval.'

I rang Saltwood.

‘Oh Col, how lovely to hear you.' (I had only been gone 14 hours.)

‘Mama, this is urgent. I need Noël Coward's phone number in England, right away.'

‘How exciting.' I could hear Mama looking at her voluminous card index. ‘Here it is.'

Straight into Mr P's office with the number on a piece of paper. No time to check it. I put it on his desk: NOËL COWARD and the number.

‘Hmph.' Dark look. ‘That was very quick.' Grudgingly: ‘Good.'

Ah, these tiny triumphs! And it must have been the right number or he would certainly have complained.

I stayed late to savour my success and try to glean something from the girls' gossip. Absolutely nothing.

But Mr P said ‘Goodnight Colin' as he went out.

At 11 o'clock, a boring morning was interrupted by much kerfuffle outside.

Then in strode Larry. He was taken aback to see me (probably couldn't recognise me at first) but managed ‘Hello, dear boy' before disappearing into Mr P's office. I expect his first question was ‘Who the hell's that?' and the second ‘What the hell's he doing here?'

A few seconds later in comes Vivien, followed by a grinning Gilman. (He will have briefed her after Larry left the car. Vivien is
never
caught off guard!)

‘Colin, darling.'

Vivien comes up so close to me that our noses are almost touching. She gives a pleading look: ‘Please look after my darling Larry for me, will you?'

She flutters her eyelids, gives a small quick confidential smile and
sweeps off into Mr P's office, ignoring the two girls. I am left standing in the middle of the reception room, as if struck by lightning. Vivien does pack about 100,000 volts, and she completely stuns me. The two secretaries are equally dumbfounded.

After 10 minutes, Vivien reappears, kisses me on both cheeks, with her lips pointing at my ears, and goes off with Gilman. Larry stays about an hour. As he goes out he says: ‘Do find this dear boy something to do, Hughie.'

Then a very charming and sincere goodbye to each secretary before he and Mr P go off for lunch at the Ivy.

After five minutes, the girls had recovered their composure and went out to lunch, again together, leaving me to answer the phones and take messages. They now regard me as a convenient fixture, but I wonder what they would have done if I didn't exist. The same I expect.

When Mr P comes back he says: ‘I might have a job for you tomorrow, Colin. (Colin!!) Just one day's work, mind. Nothing permanent, you hear. No chance of that. So be in early in the morning.'

Hasn't he noticed that I am always here first? Maybe it's part of his ‘Keep Colin in his place' strategy. Anyway I've refused a really good party tonight. I hope my virtue is rewarded.

Work at last.

I arrived at 8.30 and Mr P came in almost immediately. Vanessa too. (She must have been warned!)

‘Come straight in, Colin.'

Mr P had a problem.

MM's publicity man is coming to London tomorrow. He wants to see the house MM is going to stay in while she is in England for the filming. Mr P hates publicity men and thinks this one is fussing much too early. Naturally no one has started to look at houses yet.

Mr P wants me to find a suitable house today. It must be no more than 40 minutes' drive from Pinewood Studios and no more than 40 minutes' drive from central London. Minimum three double bedrooms and three bathrooms plus ample servants' quarters. It must be surrounded by gardens and well off a main road. It must be ultra-luxurious. Price no object.

‘Check the estate agents. You can have one of these phone lines all morning. Report back to me by 5 p.m. I'm putting my trust in you. Don't let me down.'

My mind was racing. I walked out of the offices and went and sat in the car. 40 minutes was about 20 miles. I didn't even know where Pinewood Studios were. I got out the AA map, found Pinewood and made a rough 20-mile arc around it. Ah-hah. Ascot. I walked down Piccadilly to the St James's Club.

‘Morning Mr Colin.'

‘Morning Lockhart. Mr Cotes-Preedy in yet?'

‘Not yet, but he's always in by noon.'

‘Good.'

Enough time for a hearty breakfast. Last year Tim R
⁸
and I had rented a tiny cottage from Mr Cotes-Preedy's wife. They lived in the big house, Tibbs Farm, opposite Ascot Racecourse. It was up a long drive and was exactly what Mr P had specified. Mrs C-P is a splendid lady – much older than her husband and looking like a macaw, but somehow attractive and even sexy. They were both very fond of money, like all the Ascot crowd.

After breakfast, I still had a long wait, and I made a lot more phone calls. I'm going to try to pull off a stunt. If I don't do something to surprise Mr P I'll be sitting in that waiting room forever.

By the time Mr C-P arrived I was all fired up. Mr C-P is a lawyer. He was surprised to see me but he did remember me – he's seen me occasionally in the bar. I put the proposition to him in stages.

‘Rent the main house? Out of the question. Mrs C-P would
never agree . . . £100 per week!!! For 18 weeks? Famous film star?' He simply shot to the phone to call Mrs C-P and came back all smiles.

Copious drinks bought for everyone in the bar. (Only one for me.) Some more frantic phone calls, lunch, and back to Mr P by 3 p.m.

Raised eyebrows. ‘Hmph. Hmph. Hmph.' But he didn't dare call my bluff.

‘Have you got a car?'

‘Yes.'

‘You are to be at the Savoy Hotel at 9 a.m. tomorrow and ask for Mr Arthur P. Jacobs.
⁹
He's MM's publicity man and he has to approve the house. Take him to see it in your car and then bring him back here to me.'

I left and came straight home. I rang Mr C-P to confirm that Mrs C-P would be ready for us, and then washed the car, inside and out.

Now I can't sleep because of my gamble, but, to be honest, I haven't that much to lose. Just an awful lot to gain.

I got to the Savoy at 8.45 a.m. At nine I went in and told the concierge. He looked up Jacobs and said he had a wake-up call booked for 10 a.m. (!) so I went back and sat in the car until eleven, then checked again. ‘Yes, he had been called at 10 a.m.,' and ‘Don't bother me again, you serf,' implied.

At 11.30, APJ emerged. Close-cropped black hair, pugnacious, bad tempered, puffy face. Naturally no apology – not even good morning or hello. He looked at my car with great disgust and got in.

He was carrying one copy of every single newspaper you can buy, and these he proceeded to read until we were on the A4 by the airport. Then quite suddenly he wound down his window and threw the whole lot out. I could see them in my mirror, blowing all over
the road, blinding other drivers. It seemed to me the single most anti-social act I had ever seen. I couldn't resist a protest.