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