November–December 1961
The suite at the St Regis was stupendous. I’d never seen such luxury: elegant Sheraton furniture, sofas, writing desks, opulent cream and gilt mirrors, sweeping curtains with swags and tails – and we had yet to see the bedrooms. The sumptuous sitting room had stopped us in our tracks.
Gloria smiled at my awe. ‘We can have a nice big room-service breakfast here in the morning,’ she said. ‘They roll in a table with a heated drawer, a rose in a vase – the works. Let’s meet then and make plans, but right now I’m pooped! I’m going to grab the chance, since Mike’s out with Frank, probably till dawn, to curl up in bed with a book.’
Manhattan was giving off a tangible buzz. I could feel its throbbing pulse even up on the seventh floor and hear, far below, the blaring horns and metallic sound of screeching brakes and slamming car doors. The city was a temptress, beckoning, luring us out to explore.
‘You two should go see the lights,’ Gloria urged. ‘Stroll the streets and eat out. Frank has plans for tomorrow night, I think, and then we’re off again. It’s your one chance.’
‘George told me about Patsy’s, near Broadway,’ Joe said. ‘“Mr S’s favourite place”, he called it, which sounds a pretty good recommendation.’
‘Yes, true, Patsy cooks all the traditional Italian stuff that Frank adores. Patsy’s a man, his name’s really Pasquale – his surname – but back in the forties some immigration wonk wrote down Patsy and it stuck.’
The last thing Joe wanted in his present hostile mood was to be saddled with me, on his very first night in New York. But we were Gloria’s guests and she was beaming in that firmly encouraging way of hers, so he had no out.
We went to our bedroom, the smaller of the pair of suites, but still palatial. Our scuffed overnight bag looked lost and sad on the large tapestry-lined luggage rack. Joe flung himself down on the vast bed, scattering the heaped decorative silk cushions, the chocolate and cream of a bowl of profiteroles. ‘This bed would sleep an orgy,’ he said, but with a scathing edge and he wasn’t holding out his arms. His bitter resentment clung as tight as a wetsuit. There was no way to reach him, no way in – and all over a stupid film test.
The concierge said the lights of Broadway stretched from 50th to 41st Street, which was just a few blocks west and down from the hotel. We set off in silence, soaking up the city in our separate ways, the drugstores and tattier shops of the West Side, the harshly lit diners that reeked of onions and fried chicken. There were red-plush establishments too, with a uniformed maitre d’ on the door, and an apartment block or two whose entrances looked inauspicious, but probably, being so central, housed grandiose living space inside.
The streets steamed. Backed-up yellow cabs, frustrated drivers in Hudsons and Cadillacs, rusting trucks, they all leaned on their horns. People pushed past, unseeing, pressing ahead while never jaywalking; they waited dutifully at every crossing for the lights to change.
Broadway was a familiar sight from postcards and films, yet to be here, right at the hub, gazing up at all the sparkling winking neon, gave me the sort of spring in my step, the bouncy pizzazz that often kicks in after seeing a catchy warm-hearted show. The huge ads and hoardings were as brazen and colourful as peacocks or birds of paradise, all vying to be the brashest and best. I’d made a decision too, and had a sense of release to add to my urge to skip and dance on the pavements.
We seemed to be expected at Patsy’s. A table was booked in our name. It was probably George’s or Gloria’s doing; they’d have known, with the theatre crowds, that the place would be heaving. The tables were tight-packed and it was impossible to talk or even shout over the din, but Joe’s look of relief at not having to communicate with me hurt deeply; he could at least have smiled, if only for appearance’s sake.
He was ridiculously wound-up and jealous, but was it understandable? He was used to topping the bill, not sharing it, and the movie crowd had made quite a fuss of me, taking fair English looks and shyness as a sign of class and treating me almost like royalty; I’d been having a head-swelling time. And Joe, less in the limelight than usual, had chosen to take that personally. It was pointless and petty, and he knew it – but that only made matters worse.
We ordered fusilli pomodoro for Joe, veal piccata for me – I was still on the protein kick, hung-up on weight loss – and Joe asked for a carafe of red wine and a double vodka and tonic as well to keep him going. ‘That’ll be Patsy, don’t you think?’ I gestured towards a long-faced elderly man in a grey busboy’s jacket who looked to be in charge. Joe shrugged. He continued to studiously avoid eye-contact so I stared at the walls that were littered with wood-framed photographs, probably of famous people, but no one familiar to me. I watched waiters carrying plates aloft, eyed noisy groups waiting at a small mahogany bar, hoping for tables. I hated us being so conspicuously sour and silent; nearby diners would be whispering, saying that if we were out on a date it was going nowhere, or if married then we’d certainly had the mother of a row.
‘The man I think is Patsy is coming our way,’ I muttered, leaning forward to be heard. Joe instantly rearranged his features and began to spark. He knew how to play the part.
‘Mr and Mrs Bryant? It’s a pleasure to welcome you here. I hope you’re being well looked after.’ He nodded to a waiter arriving who set down glasses of champagne, and Joe was excessive in his thanks. ‘My pleasure,’ Patsy assured him, wreathed in smiles. ‘Now I’ll leave you to enjoy your meal.’ I wondered, staring after him, what chance we had of that.
Joe downed his champagne and I pushed my glass towards him. The bloom was off my decision, but it was made and I’d stick with it. I sighed. Where was the rosy, copybook marriage of my naive teenage imaginings? Why hadn’t I had the baby I yearned for? Was it stress? Something wrong? Should I see a doctor? I had to keep giving our marriage my all; separation or divorce seemed unthinkable. Alicia, the victor . . . She was pregnant. Didn’t she want what I wanted, a loving loyal husband and a happy home for her child? A fulfilling relationship, the faithful version that I’d dreamed of?
‘Joe, it’s not easy in here, I know, with the noise, but can we talk?’ He stared impatiently, bristling with suspicion. ‘Look, love,’ I said, sitting forward, leaning over the table, ‘I’m sure nothing will come of the film test and neither David O nor anyone else will follow up on that offhand mention, but just for the record and in the unlikely event, I’d say thanks, but I’d be wasting their time. You’re the actor in the family, not me.’
Joe looked too patently relieved, almost triumphant. ‘You’re tops at modelling, hon, you know that. Do what you do best – the devil you know and all that cock. Acting’s a tricky old game. It really isn’t your bag, old darling,’ he said, trying but failing to sound warm and conciliatory. ‘Wouldn’t do to have the wifey falling splat, after all. You’ve made a good decision there, it’s just not your scene.’
Why shouldn’t it be? Why couldn’t he be encouraging, pleased for me to have the chance to find out at least, and even, just possibly, to shine?
I felt a deep, quiet anger, rising tension and bitterness, a reversal of roles. Joe’s putdown was cruel. I’d given in, done what he wanted, put him first, hadn’t I? Didn’t I deserve a scrap of credit for that? Couldn’t he, just once, make me feel properly appreciated and loved?
He squeezed one of my knees under the small table, a patronising token gesture that only swelled my rage. Then he poured the last of the carafe into his glass and ordered another, joking and chatty with the waiter, oblivious, it seemed, to my uptight reaction.
But whether innocently or deliberately, he’d shaken my confidence – fragile enough at the best of times – and I began to feel almost relieved. It would have been a disaster for sure. I couldn’t act to save my life – I wasn’t the type. I’d have felt ill with embarrassment and never able to live it down. Better never to have known what might have been, than suffer the pain of humiliating failure.
Joe was drinking steadily, but he was back on form, making caustic witticisms that had people at nearby tables smothering smiles. He’d finished a second carafe and was onto a third brandy, but meeting my anxious eyes, accepted it was time to go. ‘I know, you need your beauty sleep, wifey old bean, off seeing Eileen Ford tomorrow. Can you be on the books of two model agencies at the same time, though?’ he asked, showing unexpected curiosity. ‘Would you come out to work here for a few weeks or what?’
‘Reciprocal arrangements,’ I said. ‘An American model would probably go to London and I’d come out here some time for a bit, I suppose.’
‘When? Where would you stay? Have you thought it through?’
‘No, I’m just going to see Eileen Ford since I’m here, that’s all.’ I had a hazy idea that she occasionally put up models in her home, but I wasn’t going to elaborate. Joe needn’t think he could have a clear run with Alicia. His questions had seemed a bit keen.
He summoned a waiter and I imagined the bill would be steep, though Joe, in his relief at my decision, looked as if he thought it was worth the doubling of his overdraft.
The waiter returned with a big grin. ‘No check, nothing to pay, all seen to.’
I felt uncomfortable. Who’d taken care of it with all that drink? George? Gloria? But as Joe left a decent tip and stood up to go he looked rather more humbly relieved and pleased. He took it as a sign of having made his mark with Frank.
Frank was certainly very good to us, always including us, ever considerate of our needs – as he was with everyone he gathered up into his circle. He travelled with a pack. Sinatra had many names – the Chairman, the Pope, King of the World – and he wasn’t called Il Padrone for nothing; he suited that Sicilian role of lordly father and protector and had adopted the mantle. He expected loyalty and adulation while in return tucked all his friends under the widespread wing of his generosity.
Joe was up for sex the moment we were back in our hotel room. He was hard and horny, leaning me backwards onto the bed, tossing my shoes, light little pumps, over his shoulders; pulling off my pants and pinging the suspenders on my stockings. He felt around a bit, a two-finger attempt to work up an orgasm, but it was a bit half-hearted and heavy-handed and I was too bottled-up and brooding. I wanted Joe sober, making genuine love to me, not randy sex that felt too much like payback time. I was his wife, not just an available bit of pussy to poke when he was up for it. I was his bloody wife.
A white-haired waiter wheeled in the breakfast table and prepared it carefully; smoothing down the pristine tablecloth, arranging gleaming cutlery, glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice and positioning a slim vase with a single yellow rose. Yellow for jealousy, I thought morosely, as he indicated the warmer drawer with the bacon and eggs.
Joe gave Gloria a run-down on Patsy’s. ‘You’re going again tonight,’ she said. ‘Patsy’s is the one place where Frank can dodge the press. It has a secret door with stairs up to the first-floor restaurant, and Ava Gardner’s coming; she’s in town. She’ll see Frank, but only with others around, never on his own. I feel for him. It must be painful – he does still love her so.’
‘Will it be a big party?’ I asked, overawed by the evening in store.
‘Not very, our lot plus George and Joan Axelrod and the Rubirosas; Rubi is Frank’s polo-playing, playboy friend. His wife, Odile, is miles younger and very flirty – especially with Frank! Wear your last night’s dress, you looked gorgeous, or you could pop into Bloomingdale’s and treat yourself. It’s near Eileen Ford’s. How about you, Joe?’ Gloria turned to him. ‘Any plans?’
I glanced at him, anxious to know as well.
‘Oh, I’m fine, plenty to do, people to look up. Shall we meet back here around six?’
The Ford Modeling Agency was on 51st and 2nd Avenue. I walked, leaving acres of time – sensibly as it turned out, since there were steep steps up to the office on the first floor, and it hadn’t been easy to find. Pushing open the door, I saw three girls manning a whole row of black telephones, lined up like London cabs. No one looked up; they were too busy thumbing at folders and diaries, holding one phone and speaking into another.
‘Who are you?’ the nearest girl snapped, noticing me at last. ‘Got a book?’
I shook my head, feeling tongue-tied, but a woman at a desk on the far side of the room immediately yelled across to me: ‘You’re Susannah Forbes.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘You’re early. Come right here and sit down. I’m Eileen Ford.’
She was a slight, gimlet-eyed woman in a sleeveless charcoal-wool dress who exuded such raw boundless energy that I felt helpless, a limp ineffectual rag. She stood up and shook my hand briskly, throwing back a loose wedge of wavy brown hair as she did and indicating a chair. Her every gesture seemed electrically wired.
‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘Glad you made it. Hey, Rusty!’ she barked out, giving me a fright. ‘Come take a look. She’s perfect.’
The middle girl of the three returned her phone to its cradle and came over. She was tall with strong features, thick eyebrows, deep-set eyes and a mane of reddish hair. She must be the chief booker, I decided, warming to her and grateful for her friendly mother-hen manner.
‘Hi, great to meet—’ she said, breaking off with a smile as Eileen cut in.
‘Well, whaddya think?’
‘She’s got it made,’ Rusty answered. ‘She should go see Penn, of course, and Gil Foreman, he’ll love her to death. So will Lillian Bassman, Dale Kane, Bert Stern – they all will! Shall I hit the phones?’
Before I knew it, I was being packed off on a couple of go-sees, without even my book. Eileen said she’d sort that, get onto my London agent for pulls of my head sheet and follow up on the calls. She pushed me to stay in New York, offering a bed and to arrange for a three-week work permit. It was tempting. I was smarting, chewed-up about Joe . . .
But there was Frank’s inaugural flight, Marilyn Monroe, and a small sombre voice warning like a priest through the confessional box, of fresh lures and excitements in the Big Apple. I had a marriage to try to keep afloat. As I said my goodbyes and left, the other two bookers looked at me with new eyes. That cheered me up at least.
Gil Foreman’s studio was ten blocks downtown, also on 2nd Avenue. I was saving dollars and kept walking. It was a crisp bright day. Sunlight glanced off grimy junkshop windows, refractions of light gilding the leaves on trees, patterning the uneven sidewalk. The wide avenue with its small shops and seediness felt quintessentially New York, energising, from its steaming manholes to its skyscraper skyline. It was alive, different and enriching.
Few people were striding along the sidewalk. A man in a smart suit and brown felt hat gave me the eye. Two bored kids larking about by a roadside news-stand were making faces at passers-by. ‘Hey, miss,’ one of the kids called after me. ‘Wanna be my date?’
Life felt good. But whenever my mood bubbled up, the shadow of Joe was always there like a wisp of cloud over the golden orb in my lit-up sky. I never felt completely light-hearted. But it was a thin sliver of cloud today. I enjoyed the sight of a typical deli with a colourful fruit and veg stall extending onto the sidewalk. A large green and blotchy-white fruit, like a marrow only rounder, caught my eye. ‘What’s that?’ I asked a Mexican-looking youth in a lumber shirt, idling, leaning against the doorpost behind the stall.
‘Watermelon. Want one? You from England?’
‘No, sorry – just curious.’ I’d never seen the whole fruit before.
I reached Gil Foreman’s warehouse of a building. His studio was on the fourth floor. The elevator creaked and shuddered its way up and I stepped straight out into the studio. Facing me was a sort of partitioned-off reception area where a curly-haired girl at an L-shaped desktop was on the phone. I waited, gazing at all the model charts pinned up behind her: no shortage of competition. I could see above the partition into the studio, a vast all-white space. Huge pipes swooped and dived along the ceiling like the inside of a submarine. Loud music was playing, Ray Charles thumping out ‘Hit the Road, Jack’, and I could hear the click of a camera shutter, voices, a shoot going on.
She finished a call and looked up. ‘Hello? Ah, you’re the English girl Rusty called about. Gil’s shooting, not sure how long he’ll be. Can I see your book?’
‘I’m afraid it’s in London. I hadn’t expected to be here.’
She gave me an impatient look as if to say what the hell was I doing there then, but was conveniently distracted by a man coming out of the studio.
‘Gil, this is the girl—’ she began, before he overtook any need for her to go on.
‘Hey, you’re Susannah Forbes!’ He came closer and grinned. ‘Don’t go away, I’m nearly done in there. Hang about – talk to Dee. I want to take a proper look.’
I opened my mouth, but didn’t speak, didn’t even properly close it again. He was giving me a double-take look that reached into me somehow, this shortish man with a wide full mouth who was holding his arms, slightly apelike, well away from his body. Some quiver travelled through me: that hadn’t been a professional look. He swung back behind the partition only to immediately stick his head round it again. ‘Don’t go away! I want to photograph you.’
He was taking forever. Dee had long given up on small talk, was busy making calls and I’d studied the charts on the wall till I knew every face; studied my diary, my nails. A striking black-haired model finally appeared. She sloped cat-like up to Dee’s desk with her tote bag, signed a release form, gave me a cold curious stare and left.
Gil didn’t give me a cold stare. He stuck me on a stool in front of a white backdrop and began clicking away. I felt him studying me through his lens. He hadn’t much hair – what remained was thin and wispy, but his body shimmered with agility. ‘I want you for a bourbon ad,’ he said, looking up. ‘I want to show these to the client.’
‘But I’m flying out tonight, with my husband. Eileen Ford wants me to come back and I’m longing to, but . . . Well, it may have to be after Christmas.’
‘Stay just like that – looking at me like that. That’s the picture! We’ll get you here. Or I’ll come to London.’
‘I really have to go now.’
‘Who else are you seeing?’
‘Irving Penn – and I’m due there, sort of now. I, um, must go.’
My head was in a whirl by the time I got back to the hotel. ‘It was all amazing!’ I confided to Gloria. ‘I saw Penn, who’s just the best. Everyone at his studio treated him like God. He was delightful, friendly, very calm, measured; he had a sort of solid quiet dignity – and pointy ears! He said we’d definitely work together if I came out – it sounded wonderfully positive. There’s masses to tell, but I’d better change quickly if we’re expected down in the bar. Oh, and I made it to Bloomingdale’s. I’ve got a new frock.’
I’d bought a low-cut cinnamon dress with a wide matching belt and slim skirt. It showed off my waist and I felt good, but all eyes tonight would be on Ava Gardner.
Frank and the people whom Gloria had mentioned were established in a quiet dark corner of the King Cole Bar, attracting stares, but being left alone. I liked the look of Joan Axelrod, with her short waved blonde hair; she said a warm hello. Odile Rubirosa’s greeting was less warm. As her husband Rubi bent to kiss my hand, she turned pointedly to Frank.
He was commanding attention, taking charge and encompassing us all. ‘You gotta have Bloody Marys here,’ he asserted, as a waiter brought a trayload of them to the table. ‘It’s the House special, invented right here in this bar. Fernand Petiot, the barman, called it a Red Snapper, and I dunno how the name got changed, but it sure tastes as good! Great bar. Salvador Dali comes in, lives in this hotel when he’s in town. Bill and Babe Paley do too, and Marlene Dietrich in her day.’
‘That’s some Bloody Mary,’ Joe said, tasting it. ‘Perfection!’
Joe sipped his drinks slowly, but they still disappeared fast and Frank never allowed a glass to remain empty. It worried me no end as refill after refill arrived.
Mike was relating some lewd catchphrase of Frank’s, that a hard dick had no conscience. I was more involved in trying to catch Joe’s eye to slow him up on his fourth Bloody Mary. ‘We’ll be going soon,’ Gloria whispered, catching the look. ‘We’re meeting Ava there, and Frank will want to be ahead of her for sure.’
The secret door with steps up to Patsy’s first floor was down a skinny little alley that smelled a bit pissy and beery. A solid metal door opened onto a single flight of stairs up to the restaurant where Patsy was on welcoming hand. He ushered us into a screened-off area where a large round table awaited us, white-covered and laid with an artillery of cutlery and glass. Frank settled himself on a plush bench, leaving a space beside him, and gestured to us to sit where we fell. He called for drinks, ‘Like now!’ and a flurry of bustling waiters saw that bottles of champagne, wine, Jack Daniel’s – which made me think of Gil and the bourbon ad – and vodka arrived. We’d been drinking for hours already; the long mural on the wall behind Frank, a sepia-coloured Bacchanalia, seemed a fitting backdrop.
I was seated between Mike and Rubi, Joe was next to Odile on Mike’s other side. The clock ticked on – and no Ava. Joe was on his eighth vodka, including the Bloody Marys; I was counting. Hors d’oeuvres were spread over the table to keep us going, and spirits unsurprisingly, were high. Breakfast at Tiffany’s was just about to open. I was dying to see it, and Frank showered George Axelrod with praise. ‘You’re gonna win the Oscar, no question. And Manchurian’s gonna make it bigtime, too – I feel it in my bones. My best role, your best screenplay . . .’
Joe was up in Axelrod’s films and raved about The Seven Year Itch. ‘An iconic, uncappable masterpiece – and yet you’re about to cap it! Adapting Truman Capote can’t have been easy either, for sure.’
‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s wrote itself,’ George shrugged. ‘I could see it all.’
Frank was watching the door. The tension in him was reaching across the table, seeping everywhere, like the glass of red wine that Rubi had spilled.
I had tensions of my own. I’d edged my chair back, about to go to the loo, and had seen Joe’s hand on Odile’s thigh, rubbing rhythmically. My heart throbbed to a chill beat, I felt wretched through and through. She hadn’t brushed his hand away . . . It was the drink, I told myself. She’d know that and was probably just avoiding a scene. Oh, shit.
I stood up abruptly and walked past Joe’s chair, close enough to cause him to lift his hand. He wasn’t quite as drunk as to be unaware of me.
I calmed down in the ladies’ and returned to see Patsy murmuring in Frank’s ear. Ava must be arriving. She came in, undoing a headscarf, taking it off and shaking out her lustrous jet-black hair to dramatic effect. Frank was on his feet, we all were, and he settled her next to him with such a look on his face: pride, elation, love and concern.
His emotions were worn on the outside like clothes, but they needed to fit more comfortably. His and Ava’s marriage had been doomed, their personalities just too huge to be cut to size. They would stay friends, I thought, come what may. Neither wanted closure. I saw Frank’s arm was along the bench behind Ava, his laughter was responsively loud as she took centre stage, swearing cheerfully, downing a Jack Daniel’s in one; he adored her.
Gloria was a long-time trusted confidante of Frank’s and an objective friend. She’d told us that Ava had gone to live in Spain after the divorce and set up with Ernest Hemingway. They’d had a passionate year together and he’d taught her to love bullfighting, although perhaps too well, since she’d left him for one of its stars, Luis Miguel Dominguin.
Ava herself was a star like no other. I could only stare with open-mouthed fascination at her wondrously arched eyebrows, vermillion lips and the alluring cleft to her chin that exquisitely defined her individuality. She was in a black dress with lacy, unlined sleeves, drinking neat bourbon and easily keeping pace with Frank.
‘Are we making a night of it, honey?’ she drawled, holding his eyes. ‘Doin’ the town?’
‘Painting it as red as your lips,’ he said, bending to light her cigarette. She threw back her head and exhaled. No one could take their eyes off her. ‘How’s the bullfighter?’ Frank grinned; he was all flashing white teeth and tension.
‘Fighting, how else? Luis is a toreador in the sack. It’s been fucking madness, crazy stuff, but it’s winding down. Had to, I guess. I needed a big fat slug of the city.’ She touched Frank’s cheek. ‘So tell me, I hear plenty going on with you and Marilyn?’
‘That dame needs looking after,’ he said, ‘no kidding. Hey, what’s with these empty glasses? Patsy, sack the staff!’ He needed the tableful of people, friends, but it was quite a strain to be party to his stressed-out emotion. Ava was above showing it; she couldn’t care how rude she was, how wild, how pissed. She was uncontainable, a Colossus of a personality. We were little timid mice looking on.
Waiters surrounded us. The booze flowed. Food arrived. Succulent prawns, meatballs in a rich appetising sauce, spicy and thick with tomatoes, crispy zucchini, buttery spinach speckled with garlic. A frothy creamy chocolate pudding followed, Tiramisu. It was new to me and I had to taste it. I’d been eating little, sticking as virtuously close to the protein diet as possible, and gooey puddings were taboo, a real fall from grace. Plunging in my spoon I felt as guilty as a schoolboy dipping into a porn magazine. The Tiramisu, heavily laced with alcohol, was sinfully, deliciously exotic.
It was well after one when we left. Sinatra and his party rolling into Peppermint Lounge caused a stir. The place was packed with everyone Twisting, crushed up together closer than sardines. No one took much notice for long; there wasn’t room.
‘The Twist has really caught on,’ Gloria shouted into my ear. ‘Peppermint Lounge was just a sweaty little den and now it’s the buzziest place in town. All the city’s ravers keep pouring in; it’s amazing how they’re completely hooked on this new dance.’
They were certainly Twisting like crazy. Someone quipped that we should be drinking screwdrivers. But the Jack Daniel’s kept coming, chinking with ice . . .
I was still focused on Joe’s straying hand. Did he have other women as well as Alicia? Was that better or worse? Equally bad, but either way I felt sure Alicia was more to him than a casual affair. And if he did play around, did she actually know – or even care? She was a sophisticated, heartless bitch. Somehow I didn’t feel tearful; cut-up and bitter, yes, but Gil Foreman was softening the fall. That look had caused more than a momentary frisson. It lived on in my mind. I wanted to see him again.
A kind of defiance was building up in me. A dangerous feeling, but there must be more to life than being walked over. Was I falling out of love with Joe? The thought sobered me into a state of grim determination. I tried hard to concentrate on Joe’s specialness. I remembered our wedding day when my father had trodden on my full-length veil. The tiara I’d worn, borrowed from one of Joe’s friends, had been askew in every photograph.
Joe had made it a positive highlight. So much better, he said, it stopped the pictures looking all cornball and sugar candy. At his best Joe was compellingly loveable and fun to be with – but was that side of him a thing of the past, gone forever more?