Life’s a Scream

Where Eagles Dare was well and truly behind me now. I had moved into a little mews house in Carmel Court in Kensington with Steffanie and Maria. I was getting bags of publicity, and invitations to premiéres and other less salubrious events, but no work. I regretted giving my agent in LA the raspberry when he had suggested TV work but hadn’t the guts to ring him and do some world-class grovelling. My London agent seemed to have forgotten me as well. I had taken him for all the wrong reasons. For one, he was Mary Ure’s agent, although he emphasised that since he had Robert Shaw on his books he had been obliged to take her on. That he could be so ungallant should have been enough reason for me not to join his agency. Especially since I could have had Jimmy Frazer who was a total treasure. It’s a big mistake to use the head instead of the ticker. It didn’t work and I was stranded with someone else’s man who didn’t give a hoot about me. I’ve never forgiven myself for such a terrible error of judgement.

But that just paled into the embroidery compared with the lulu I was about to make. Theo Cowan, my press agent, introduced me to a man who appeared to be the answer to a wanna-be superstar’s prayer. He seemed to be kind, persuasive and reasonably influential in the business. And all he professed to want was friendship. It seemed too good to be true. I should have trusted my instincts. George Pinches was the booker for the Rank Organisation cinema chain, which at this time commanded more than half of the screens in Britain. If George, on behalf of Rank, gave you the cold shoulder it was very cold indeed.

George and I seemed to rub along fine. He swore he just wanted to be my friend and didn’t put any pressure on me to step up the relationship into anything more meaningful. He was also hugely sympathetic about my work-permit problems. The temporary work permit I had for Eagles had long expired. I wasted a lot of time sitting around at Immigration in Holborn trying to convince bored civil servants of my love for England and the Brits, and my desperate need to stay. I just couldn’t impress anyone. George suggested I went to see the greatest lawyer of them all, Lord Goodman, to tell him about my father’s successful years in England and his subsequent refusal to put his scientific knowledge to work for the Nazis. His Lordship tried to work something out on my behalf but for another year I struggled on with the Home Office, spending a day each month trying to secure my status. When it seemed that there was nothing left that I could do to stave off deportation George came up with the perfect answer: we could get married. I would get a passport and we could live separately but happily ever after. I wasn’t sure. I liked George, but not enough to marry him. What if I met someone who swept me off my feet and became the love of my life? It wouldn’t be a problem, George promised, we’d just get divorced.

Eventually, when the deportation order became more threatening, against my better judgement, I agreed to the marriage. Our future was mapped out at a Sunday lunch in the country. I would give my attention to my work without all the nasty little side issues that day-to-day life served up. George, with his influence in the industry, would look after my career. He would live in Dolphin Square near the Houses of Parliament and I would live in Richmond, Surrey. I would continue to attend premières and business dinners and play his acolyte, but we would keep the marriage secret.

I’m sure George entered into the agreement with nothing but good intentions but, like a prospective lover promising passionately only to want a feel, George’s attitude changed as soon as we walked out of the Register Office. Unfortunately mine didn’t. It was to prove a salient point on a domestic battleground for a long time.

Although I carried out my part of the deal to the letter, and was there, lipsticked and hairdressed to the nines, whenever George needed a partner for a party, George always wanted more and the pantomime became very boring. Every sentence he said was full of innuendo and spite. And I wasn’t exactly being inundated with film roles, either. Instead of helping my career, my liaison with the Rank film booker seemed to be scaring potential employers away. I couldn’t understand it, especially as George was always telling me about all the strings he was pulling in the background to assure my superstar status.

In spite of our messy on/off relationship, I did feel sorry for George for it was clear that he pandered to my every whim and promised me everything, while I gave him nothing but reluctant limited companionship. He also appeared to have no real friends. We were never invited to anyone’s home and he even admitted that if he were to lose his job, no one would ever talk to him again which, as it turned out, was a frighteningly prescient statement.

One year Disney invited us to the Oscars. When we arrived at the hotel it was the old game again: only one double room was booked and the hotel was full . . . I told him that if there wasn’t a room for me I was getting the next flight back to London. A vacant room was mysteriously made available.

The Oscars should have been a joy. I love that sort of thing. Instead, it was a nightmare with George in a particularly ugly mood making disparaging remarks all the time and trying to make me feel small. I was sullen and didn’t speak even when spoken to. I’ve always regretted not being more conciliatory. I could have been more gracious but clearly whatever there had been between us as friends had long been ruptured and discarded.

When we returned I tried to keep out of George’s way but he reminded me of our bargain and salted the pot by telling me about a film called Gemini which he had negotiated for me. Later, when George and I had one of our vicious rows, the producer, Arnold Barber, sent a big bouquet of flowers with a note telling me that he was sorry but George had demanded that I be dropped from the cast . . . George asked me to come with him to Monaco for a Disney convention and reluctantly, on the proviso that I could bring Steffanie, whose birthday was imminent, I agreed.

At dinner one night we ran into Jack Kelly, Princess Grace’s brother. He came over all gallant, ignored George completely and rabbited on with a highly fictionalised account of the dates we’d once had. I could see the steam coming out of George’s ears but I was beginning to enjoy myself and did nothing to cool the situation. Jack invited me to join Princess Grace’s party at New Jimmy’s, down on the seafront and, as there was no way George was going to leave me alone, he came along as well.

Grace was wonderful. We talked babies and I told her that I had Steffanie with me. She instantly suggested that I brought her to tea the following day, Steffi’s birthday, to meet Princess Stephanie. I was so excited I woke Steffka up when I got back to the hotel and told her my great news. We would have tea at the palace on her birthday.

At breakfast the next morning, however, George told me that the Disney people had heard about Steffanie’s big day and had organised a party at the Hotel de Paris where we were staying. I reminded him of the invitation to the palace and how rude it would be to cancel it but he scotched that straight away: we were there for business. I was furious.

The Disney party turned out to be pretty marvellous, however. There was a big cake and all the Disney characters sang ‘Happy Birthday’. The only discordant note was me. And I was making enough discords to drown out the Wigan Colliery Brass Band. The journey home was sub-arctic. I desperately wanted to say something that would make us mates again but neither of us knew how to step down.

He gave it to me and I began to wonder if maybe he was telling the truth. So I dialled Rome – but couldn’t get through. I tried a couple more times with no luck, so carried on cleaning. He rang again. I decided that if he was that persistent maybe I should believe he was who he said he was and we made arrangements to set up a screen test.

Fellini arrived at the hotel first thing in the morning. He kissed my cheek, plonked himself on the sofa and pulled me on to his lap. Sensing that I wasn’t too happy, he gave a big laugh and let me get up. Before I could get to the storming out and packing stage he confirmed that a screen test had been arranged for the following morning and I was appeased.

I arrived at Cinecittà the next day and was pounced on by a make-up man. Italian make-up men who play for the other team are a race apart. They prance and mew, and do outrageously camp things. That day’s campness seemed to centre around my make-up – I looked ridiculous. I crept on to the set and waited for the Maestro (as he was referred to by everyone) to do his nut. He came over, looked at me from different angles, nodded approval and directed me on to the set. The test was hell. Every other second somebody shouted ‘una cozza tecnica’ and rugby scrums formed around whatever piece of equipment was misbehaving. They’d scream into each other’s faces until they’d had their fill of halitosis and then they’d start again.

I wanted to know something about the character I was to play – we thespians have to have our motivation right or we feel we’re not being taken seriously – but Fellini said: ‘Just count numbers in any language you like, cara.’ I was stunned. Surely there was more to acting than counting numbers. Not according to Federico Fellini. He saw himself as a highly motivated shepherd and actors as moronic sheep. He’s probably right but it was a bit caddish of him to make it so obvious.

He looked pained and said until he knew what I looked like fat he could make no promises. I was a svelte nine stone and planned to stay that way – unless a juicy enough carat was slipped into my financial diet. In the end I didn’t get the part and it went to Sandra Milo. I believe she was probably always going to get it as she was in most of Fellini’s films. I spent a couple of days sightseeing various production offices, signed an agent and caught the flight back to London and Steffka. I wasn’t too put out. I hadn’t got the job but at least someone serious was looking at me.

George, predictably, was furious. Fellini was beyond his control and where I was concerned he had turned into a control freak. For the sake of peace I played down the trip. When he simmered down he told me that we were going to a première. Like a good little girl I asked when. Anything to keep the peace. As it turned out it should have been one of those times when bells rang, buzzers buzzed and lights ignited the sky.

The film was Alfred the Great. At the party afterwards I sat next to Hammer Films supremo James Carreras. I hadn’t a clue who he was and I’m sure he didn’t recognise me either. Gradually, however, it dawned on me that he was an active producer, a rare species indeed in the British film industry at that time. He hadn’t a chance. By the time he left I had his card next to my heart and he had promised to see me at his office the following day.

The next morning I had a hell of a time trying to make up my mind what was the best thing to wear to get a movie mogul to discuss long-term film contracts. As the grimy winter daylight struggled to take over from the night I came to a decision. It was snowing so I needed something a bit glam but winterproof: Russian boots were a must and a maxi-coat and wide-brimmed slosh hat to keep out the draught were de rigueur in Sixties London on Wardour Street. As I left and looked up to the window to wave goodbye, Steffanie was standing there, giving me a Churchill victory sign.

I arrived at Hammer House and ascended the stairs with confidence. ‘This’, I assured myself as I stood before the big double doors, ‘is my lucky day!’ I threw them open and went in. Where there should have been a twittering receptionist just waiting for my grand entry was a vacant chair. For a moment I didn’t know what to do. Then an inner door opened and a secretary with a broad smile and bouffant hair came into reception. I told her what I wanted and she looked surprised. Evidently my arrival wasn’t the big event I had anticipated. Jimmy Carreras hadn’t even told his secretary. She excused herself and went back through the door. I stood there, the snow that had collected on my coat and hat thawing and dripping around me. I felt my confidence ebbing away and prepared myself for the worst, but when the secretary came back the news was good: ‘Mr Carreras will see you now.’ I thanked her profusely and didn’t care if I was overdoing it. At the same time I was pumping up my own ego. Back to plan A.

‘Hello, Colonel Carreras . . .’ I said brightly and with a practised movement I swept off my hat and let my carefully prepared hair tumble around my shoulders. Act one. Another deft movement rid me of my maxi-coat. I tossed it negligently on to a chair and let him get a crack at the skimpy sweater and even skimpier micro-skirt I was wearing. He didn’t bat an eyelid when I slunk across the Axminster and hitched a thigh on to the corner of his desk. I’d seen Brigitte Bardot do the same thing in La Parisienne and I’d earmarked it for just such an occasion. He was a perfect gent and didn’t fall about laughing. Now I was perched on the corner of his desk I wasn’t quite sure how to continue. I was saved by the secretary appearing in the doorway and asking if I would like coffee, which gave me a chance to unhook my gam and sit in an armchair.

Jimmy thought for a moment or two, or maybe he was just making sure he could talk without laughing, then offered me three roles. I nearly fainted. Three films? ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘One film – three roles.’ Only faintly disappointed, I nodded encouragingly. The film was based on a Sheridan Le Fanu short story, ‘Carmilla’. It was about a vampire lady with a penchant for biting impressionable young girls, was called The Vampire Lovers, and was to start shooting in a month’s time.