WHEN I STARTED OUT WRITING THIS TOME, I HAD THE idea of calling it One Lucky Bastard because that’s what I feel I certainly am. But the ‘b-word’ was thought to be a little too risqué and wouldn’t look good on the bookshop shelves, so I thought I’d better come up with another title that would describe, perhaps more accurately, what I hope you will find to be an interesting, amusing and moving collection of memories and stories about friends, colleagues and loved ones I’ve encountered in my eighty-odd years.
Lana Turner, whom I had the greatest pleasure of working with in Hollywood, told me her pet hatred was another actress named Linda Christian, namely because when Lana was engaged to Tyrone Power, Linda found out where he was going to stay in Rome while working on a film and booked herself into a room next to his ... and the rest was history.
Why am I telling you this? Well, a while later, Linda and Edmund Purdom – who was under contract at MGM at the same time as me – started a big affair and to complicate matters further, Linda found herself in the centre of a rather sticky situation regarding another past affair, this time with a wealthy industrialist who had presented her with expensive jewels and precious diamonds that his family now wanted back. Linda felt she should have some recompense for her trouble, and when the day for a changeover of cash for jewels was set, she asked me to accompany her and Edmund, feeling that because I was a fairly athletic and fit young man, I would ‘scare off’ any unwanted intervention.
A year or two later, I was offered a TV play with Linda, and it was quite the worst script I’d ever read. Though the stage directions made it very clear why Linda was so interested: ‘In the first scene, Linda makes her entrance and her beautiful hair is held back behind her ears ...’
Scene two: ‘Linda comes in with her beautiful hair and dress hanging over her shoulder and looks even more lovely than before ...’
This went on, and on. Vanity was obviously in play.
But the one thing I remember from the script was the description and explanation of death: ‘When one dies one has actually just gone into another room; we know you’re in there but don’t have the key to get in.’
That line has always stuck in my mind, and now being one of the last men standing I’m finding that a great many of my friends are in the next room. I don’t wish to be morbid, nor want to write a collection of obituaries, but I do write about quite a few of my friends in the past tense ... but don’t feel depressed, dear reader, feel happy that we’ve had these wonderful characters in our lives, as I certainly do. Frank Sinatra used to say, ‘Who’s going to be left to turn the light off?’
Hopefully, it’ll be me!