My Week With Marilyn

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.

WEDNESDAY, 6 JUNE

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.4 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.

FRIDAY, 8 JUNE

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 Celly5 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.

MONDAY, 11 JUNE

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.

TUESDAY, 12 JUNE

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.

WEDNESDAY, 13 JUNE

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 R6 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.7 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.

THURSDAY, 14 JUNE

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.

‘In England we do not normally behave like that,’ I said icily.

‘Whadja talking about?’

‘Throwing all those newspapers out of the window. They caused a terrible mess.’

‘I’d finished with them.’

Nothing more to say.

I can’t believe everyone does that in America. He’s just a totally egocentric and insensitive boor, and that’s that.

But I soon had my revenge. The passenger seat back on the Bristol rests on two chrome ‘cams’. If I corner too fast to the left it slips off these cams, and falls back flat. The first corner I came to off the A4 was a left-hander. I was grinding my teeth with rage and consequently driving faster than normal. Suffice it to say that for a fraction of a second Mr Jacobs thought that he was falling through the bottom of the car onto the road. Of course I stopped and helped him to sit up again, with many sincere apologies. But he looked pale, and at last he actually noticed who I was for a fleeting moment.

We were very late for Mrs C-P at Tibbs, but the house is exactly as I remembered it. Thick gold Wilton, heavy curtains, eau-de-nil bathrooms etc. surrounded by dark foliage. Mrs C-P all charm and very excited: ‘Your friends were here,’ she said to me but APJ, unremittingly odious, took no notice.

After 20 minutes we drove back to Piccadilly. No lunch of course. I suppose APJ had had a healthy breakfast at the Savoy, but I’d had nothing since seven and I was in a bad temper.

‘Well?’ said Mr P, after giving APJ a patently false show of comradeship.

‘Not bad, I suppose,’ said APJ – just as I thought he would – and shut Mr P’s office door in my face. I went out for lunch and made another phone call.

At 5 p.m. I wandered back in. It was now or never. Luckily it was now.

Mr P’s office door was open. ‘They want to see you right away,’ said Vanessa. ‘I’m afraid they’re rather angry.’

‘Good,’ I said and marched in. APJ was in a corner, his face black with rage. ‘Colin,’ said Mr P, very growly, ‘Have you seen this?’ He held out the Evening Standard.

Headline: ‘This is the house Marilyn Monroe will live in while in England blah blah.’ Picture of Tibbs Farm.

‘Yes, I have.’

‘There is only one person who could have given the papers this story.’

‘You must have given it to them before I even saw the house,’ said APJ through clenched teeth.

‘Of course I gave it to them.’

‘Well now you’ve ruined everything. It was the perfect house, but once the press know of it, it is out of the question. Couldn’t you have realised it had to stay a secret?’

‘It wasn’t the perfect house this morning.’

Mr P: ‘Colin. What’s going on?’ He is a shrewd old bean. He knows that I like and admire him. He can’t stand APJ and can see that I can’t stand him either. Suddenly I saw it cross his mind, ‘Maybe I can trust Colin after all.’

‘When you told me to get a house for MM yesterday, I took the precaution of finding two. I showed Mr Jacobs the least good first. Now the press will always think that MM is staying there and we can rent the second house for her to live in. The second house is much better. It belongs to a Lord. I can take Mr Jacobs to see it now, or tomorrow morning, if he’d like. It is only a couple of miles from the first house, but it is much more elegant.’

Mr P: ‘And what are we going to say to the owners of the first house?’

‘I thought perhaps the production team could use it.’

‘What do you know about production teams?’

Before I could admit to total ignorance, APJ suddenly recovered his composure. ‘Hey, Milton and Amy could use it. It would be perfect. Near the studio, near Marilyn.’ Now he was the PR man, selling it to us. I suppose that in Hollywood people like him have to jump backward somersaults every day.

Mr P: ‘OK, that’s settled then. Arrange for both houses to be rented from 9 July, for four months. By the way, how much are they?’

‘£100 per week, each.’

Mr P’s eyebrows went up. Then he brightened. ‘Well, it comes out of Marilyn Monroe Productions’ budget.’

‘Don’t you want to see the other house?’ (I was really proud of it.)

‘Nah, no need, we trust you boy.’ Arthur had completely changed sides, and probably did not fancy another trip in the Bristol. Mr P nodded towards the door, and I left. Soon APJ left too. ‘See you, kid,’ to me. ‘Bye, sweetheart,’ to the secretaries. Then Mr P: ‘See you tomorrow, Colin.’ Just a hint of a smile.

I call that victory.

FRIDAY, 15 JUNE

And a victory it is.

On Monday I start working on the staff of LOP Ltd, at £8.10s. per week, as Mr P’s assistant. When I came in this morning, Mr P called me into his office and actually gave a grin. Somehow Arthur Jacobs had persuaded himself that the whole house business was his triumph and had gone away (to Paris) happy. Mr P loathes him – quite rightly, he’s a bullying shit – and sees it as his success, a problem neatly solved by a member of his staff (!).

‘Never trust that Hollywood crowd, Colin. The better you are, the more likely they are to stab you in the back.’

The secretaries already knew of my appointment and offered friendly congratulations. I’ve been living in their office for two weeks only now am I officially one of them. It means that I can share the gossip with Vanessa, which will be useful as well as fun.

Gilman bounded in and gave a whoop of delight. ‘You can get his lunch now – official!’

It did seem rather wasteful for Sir Laurence and Lady Olivier’s Bentley and chauffeur to be sent in every day just to get Mr P a cheese roll. The pub is only 100 yards away, but that’s showbiz.

It seems that as from Monday there will be another LOP production office at Pinewood. They will have the job of hiring all the personnel and facilities needed to make the film, and the Pinewood accounts office will pay people too – including me. Mr P promised to take me down to look over the studios in a few weeks’ time.

‘We’d better try to get you a job on the production side for later on. You won’t want to stay with me once filming starts.’

He has become quite fatherly. I rang Cotes-Preedy who is very excited. Naturally he believes the newspaper report that MM is going to stay in his house, and I did not disabuse him. Then I rang Garrett Moore,8 who owns house No 2. A bit of panic when he said the whole thing was off, but I guessed the problem. ‘£100 a week is not enough,’ he said severely. He is extremely astute and can somehow tell he has me over a barrel. I had told him, on pain of death to keep it a secret, that MM was going to be the tenant, and since he fancies himself as God’s gift to women, I knew he was not going to refuse. I’ll bet he secretly thinks that he will get to meet her and that she will be unable to resist his languid charm. Eventually we settled for £120 per week. Mr P had said ‘Price no object’, so I didn’t bother to check back with him. But I did insist on going down to Parkside House over the weekend. I just can’t resist meeting Garrett’s wife, Joan.9 She is incredibly beautiful. I hope the house is also as attractive as I remember it. Right now I’m going out to get sloshed at the Stork.10 To eat, drink and, as Al Burnett would say, ‘Make Merry.’

MONDAY, 18 JUNE

A great weekend. On Friday night I told all the girls about my job. They were very impressed and I succeeded in getting Yvonne into bed at last. She is tough as an alley cat on the surface but quite scared underneath – like an alley cat is, I suppose. She is really too moody for me, but she was just the company I needed to stop me getting big-headed. After all, I’m not exactly going to direct MM in a movie yet.

I had quite a hangover on Saturday, but I spent Sunday sleeping in the garden and today I felt really good.

This morning Mr P gave me quite a cheerful, for him, ‘Hello Colin,’ when he came in. Mind you, if you didn’t know him, you’d have thought he was going to a funeral. He must have a wardrobe full of the same clothes as he never varies what he wears, day by day. Brown tweed suit, dark brown shoes, pale brown shirt, brown tie etc. Gilman said he’d never ever seen him in anything else. (There is a Mrs P. I wonder what she thinks?) After a bit, Mr P called me into the office.

‘You might as well know everything we are doing if you are to be any use.’

He showed me a huge squared-off sheet of paper, covered in columns and names and shaded squares.

This is really Mr P’s pride and joy, his chef d’oeuvre, his bible. It is called a cross-plot. It has been cunningly worked out so that Pinewood’s studios A and B can be alternated, with different ‘sets’ being built on one stage while the other was being used for filming.

To get the most out of each set the film is not shot in chronological order. If there is a scene in a particular room at the beginning of the story and another scene at the end in the same room, then they will both be filmed together. This is especially hard for film actors who have to develop a character in fits and starts.

The major actors also have to be fitted into the cross-plot so that we get the most out of them in the shortest time. Dame Sybil Thorndike,11 for instance, is going to play Sir Laurence’s mother-in-law (no more ‘Larry’ now that I’m officially working for him). But she is also booked for a West End stage play, so all her scenes have to be shot first if possible and most should be finished before the play begins. (Some of her scenes need special effects and these can be put in later.) SLO12 and MM and Richard Wattis13 are in virtually all the scenes so they don’t influence the cross-plot much.

MM has a terrible reputation for being late on the set, and not turning up at all on some days. Mr P has scheduled her to do all her scenes first with a long list of alternate shots, cutaways and reactions which can be put in at short notice if MM is not available.

‘What happens if shooting gets a week behind? The whole plan will collapse.’

Mr P grinned a Machiavellian grin and pulled out a second sheet and a third.

‘We just switch sheets. Warner Bros will never know.’

I gather that Warner Bros is lending LOP and MMP the money to make the film. Already I hear Mr P say: ‘Charge it to MMP’ pretty frequently. I wonder if MMP is MM herself, or a group of people backing her.

I don’t dare ask anything about MM. It seems in bad taste, like asking about childbirth. Anyway my job is to be preparing for MM’s arrival. Police, press, chauffeur, bodyguard, servants, redecorations, everything to delight her eye and soothe her nerves. She must be a very difficult lady. I can’t believe anyone is so unreasonable and silly, that they have to be spoiled so much. What would Nanny have said?

TUESDAY, 19 JUNE

Six weeks until filming starts and a lot to prepare. Mr P depends on me a lot now but of course he won’t need me at all when it does. Today a David Orton came in, and Mr P warned me that on him my future in the production would depend. He is going to be 1st Assistant Director. This does not mean SLO’s assistant (SLO being the director), but the man in charge of seeing that everyone in the studio does what they are told.

‘He’s a sort of sergeant major,’ explained Mr P.

This didn’t sound very attractive and I can’t say I liked him at all. Blondish-mousy hair, a thin face and glasses which he is forever pushing up onto the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. He did not take to me either: