Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

CARY GRANT Continued, from page 56 falling asleep. He was tired too often. It had been like this since the first serious mistakes. Twice he had married for love — and twice he had lost. Now he could look back and admit, “I married lovely women. But I was an idiot and a boor. I deserved to lose them.” But hadn’t the knowledge come too late? Too late to save his marriage to lovely, delicate Virginia Cherrill, who had laughed off hundreds of his escapades but who, one day, couldn’t laugh any; longer. Too late to save his marriage to Barbara Hutton. He had loved her, too. For two long years he had lived in the hope of making her his wife. She had been hurt in the past — her fantastic fortune had brought her more grief than joy. He was going to make it up to her, all of it. For two years he talked, telling her how wonderful it would be. Finally, she said yes. She married him in 1942 and the gift of gab that had won her love was what drove her finally away. The truth of the matter was that Cary was too clever for his own good — or anyone else’s. There was no conversation so serious, no subject so delicate that his quick tongue failed to find an opportunity for a pun, a jibe, a pointed joke. He couldn’t help it; it was the way he was used to talking. But he had married a woman too sensitive to laugh when the barb went deep. Time after time she was reduced to tears; time after time he would pull himself up, furious at himself and at the world. “Why did someone like you ever marry me?” he would shout. But he couldn’t stop, and eventually Barbara left him, too. Not good memories, but, at least, on this brilliant day in August, 1949, they were far behind him. The trip to England had been fun and wasn’t that what he was most interested in? He’d been to the theater a lot; the biggest impression had been made on him by a little American actress he’d never heard of, Betsy Drake, playing the lead in “Deep Are the Roots.” She wasn’t beautiful but she had a glow and she played the difficult role with grace and intelligence. “Talent there,” Cary had remarked to a friend and then forgotten all about it. Sailing day had come at last; the Queen Mary was waiting. His pals treated Cary to a farewell champagne luncheon. None of them was feeling any pain when they piled into a convertible and headed for the dock. But for Betsy Drake, also sailing for home on the Queen Mary, life was not so much fun. She didn’t really want to go home. It had taken her years of desperate struggle to get anywhere in the theater — and now her first big role was finished. Her parents had been divorced since she was a child and she had no home, no people, really, to return to. Just another dreary year of job-hunting with her clippings under her arm. She was all worn out and it wasn’t a pleasant prospect. Besides, she had a toothache, a perfectly terrible pain that swelled her jaw and destroyed the fun of the ship’s sailing. The first glimpse she ever had of Cary Grant off a movie screen was when she was standing on deck and Cary’s coni’ vertible pulled up to the customs’ shed. What she saw was a slightly high-looking young man, surrounded by friends, roaring with laughter, lifting his suitcases out of the back of the car and dropping them in again. For an instant, she had wished she were a part of them, having fun. Then her tooth throbbed and she turned away. “As far as Betsy Drake is concerned,” she thought, “this trip is going to be one long, dull rest.” And it might have been if, two hours later, as the ship got underway, she hadn’t had to pay a visit to the purser’s office. In her sensible flat-heeled shoes and brown dress, she walked down the corridor just as Cary Grant pushed open a door and walked in on his way to join Liz Taylor and her mother for lunch. The ship, leaving the harbor, lurched violently, Betsy staggered and was pitched against the wall with one arm above her head, the other at her hip — a perfect cheesecake pose. Cary grinned, then recognized her. “Hey, I saw you in ‘Deep Are the Roots.’ You’re . . .” Her face burning with embarrassment, Betsy marched right past him. Later, telling about it, she told reporters she hadn’t heard him say a word. Later, denying it, Cary maintained she deliberately cut him dead. At the time, all that mattered was that Betsy Drake, nobody from nowhere, slammed the door of the purser’s office right in Cary Grant’s face! He spent the next three days looking for her. And without success. Betsy, nursing her toothache, and her humiliation at being practically thrown into the arms of a movie star the first day out, wasn’t budging from her cabin. But on the fourth day, she came up for air. She walked to the deck and stood leaning over the rail, watching the waves. Actually, nothing could have kept Betsy Drake down for long. She stood on deck a minute, then decided on a walk. Walking was — and still is — her favorite sport. A dozen yards away, down the deck, Cary spotted her and his eyes lit up. He was standing at the rail, talking to Merle Oberon; now he nudged her. “Merle — there she is. That’s the girl.” Merle turned and looked. “Fine. Now go introduce yourself.” Cary nodded, grinned, took a step — and the grin faded. He had never been shy with women, except once before. . . . One morning at the studio he had been called to the phone. It was house guest Noel Coward ringing up from Cary’s home. “Cary? I’ve invited Greta Garbo to tea this afternoon. Try to get home in time to meet her, eh? She’d like to be introduced . . .” When Cary put the phone down, his hands were shaking. By mid-morning he had realized the truth: Garbo, with her incredible beauty, her talent, her aloofness, was such a legend to him that he was afraid to go home to his own house and meet her. Noon came and he told himself not to be a fool, that it would be wonderful to be introduced to someone he respected and admired as much as he did her. But he couldn’t budge. All afternoon he invented things that had to be done, to keep him at the studio. It was dusk when he finally pulled up to his driveway. He walked in — and there in the living room, standing up, ready to PHOTOGRAPHERS' CREDITS Leslie Caron by Jack Stager • Dave and Rick Nelson color by Thomas; Dick Clark and family color by Gene Cook; Gale Storm and family color courtesy of CBS-TV; Bing Crosby and family color by U.P.I.; Carol Lynley color by Henry Janssen; Pat Boone and family color by Zinn Arthur; Jerry Lewis and son by Ted Allan; Eddie Fisher and Debbie by Peter Basch; Cary Grant and Betsy Drake by Sanford Roth. leave, was the fabulous Swede. Noel smiled I happily. “Greta, I’d like you to meet Cary * Grant . . .” Cary opened his mouth — and nothing came out. In wordless silence he shook hands with his guest, he bowed. Garbo smiled, said she was happy to be there, asked a question, waited, stared at him, asked another, remarked on the weather — and finally gave up. Cary had still not said a word. Bewildered, Noel escorted Garbo to the door. Miserable, Cary trailed after them to Garbo’s car. And there, at long last, he found his tongue. “Very pleased to meet you,” he burst out to his departing guest. “How dod you do?” It became a running gag among Cary’s friends: for once he had been tongue-tied, stricken dumb by admiration and awe. ... II “Cary, Cary . . .” Merle’s amused voice brought him back from his reverie. “Look,” he began haltingly, “it’s like this. I don’t want her to think I’m picking her up. You know.” Merle stared at him. “Well — ?” “Would you go talk to her for me? Ask her — ask her to have dinner with us tonight. Tell her — at the captain’s table.” “But I don’t know her,” Merle wailed. “I never met her!” “That’s all right. Go on. You’re a woman, you can do it.” He paused. “If she doesn’t want to — you might try telling her — it’s the captain’s table.” Merle’s mouth dropped open. Cary Grant, cocksure, debonaire, lady-killer Cary not only afraid to talk to a girl, but afraid she’d need more inducement than just his name to join him for dinner. She almost laughed, but changed her mind. Without another word, she headed down the deck towards Betsy. When she got there, of course, she was embarrassed. “Excuse me. Hello. I’m— I’m Merle Oberon, and a friend of mine . . .” Betsy whirled — and stared. “Of course, Miss Oberon. I recognize you . . .” Merle blushed. “Yes, well, Cary Grant is a friend of mine and he, he was wondering if you would join us for dinner tonight. At — at the captain’s table.” Betsy’s lips parted slightly. If there had been a chair, she would have flopped down into it. Finally she said slowly, “I don’t have an evening dress with me . . .” “Oh,” Merle said. That did it. Evening clothes were absolutely obligatory in the formal dining salon — and everyone in the room stared at the captain’s table, the place \ of honor. No woman would be caught dead there without her best gown. She’d be glad to lend Betsy something but they weren’t the same size at all. “Well,” she stared. Suddenly Betsy smiled. It was more than a smile, it was a grin. It brought with it > the glow that had lit her performance on the stage, that seemed to light up her entire life. “Tell Mr. Grant I’d be delighted.” That night Cary was at the table early. I He sat there with Liz Taylor and her mother a few seats away, with Merle across the table. His evening clothes were, of course, faultless. He kept his eyes constantly on the door. And then he saw her. She walked into the dining salon with her brown hair brushed to a shine and parted neatly on one side. She wore a plain black street-length afternoon dress, and black shoes. She wore no jewelry because she didn’t own any. The side of her face was puffy with toothache, but she was smiling. I She walked right across the room with every eye following her, and her head was i