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"We art well, and work well, together.'*
The best way to fall in
love is not to know it's coming. Then all at once, there you are — and (if you're as lucky as Betty and George) it's wonderful!
46
THE life we've found together is really pretty special — and so peculiarly ours, I'm wondering how to talk about it. . . .
I'm also afraid to remember how close we came to never finding our love at all. Or, correction, how close I, who was allergic to love, came to passing it by.
George's story is that the instant he first set eyes on me, he said, "That's for me!" I. tell him I don't believe him. How can I believe him when he describes what I was wearing all wrong — proving, doesn't it, that he didn't really see me at all? He insists that I was wearing a brown suit with, of all repulsive combinations, a black and white checked coat and, I'm quoting him, "The most vile hat!" — when actually I had on a beige wool dress, what I thought was a pretty wonderful hat and no coat at all!
We met, strangely enough, in the studio at CBS, the day George auditioned for the part of Bill Roberts in our Rosemary show — the part he got and, as our fans » and friends know, still has.
Nothing could have been more unpropitious for falling in love, so far as I was concerned, than to meet another young man auditioning for the part of Bill. We had been auditioning young men and not-so-young men all week long and I was young-men happy. To me, George was just another young man, another young man in uniform (this was 1945 and George, still in the Army — just back, in fact, from overseas) so, barely glancing at him I said, riffling the pages of the script, "Okay, let's go. . . ."
But when we started to read together I realized that with this young man there was a mature interpretation of the script — and, for me, there was something more. There was a fine point, here, of relationship in acting.
In good acting, in proper acting, when you read a script with someone, you establish a relationship with him. Usually, however, actors are so nervous while auditioning that they are thinking only of their lines, only of themselves and not at all of you. But with George, it was different. It was the difference between making contact and not makihg contact. In other words, I felt that George related to me and I, to him.
. . . but only as Rosemary and Bill. . . .
After the audition, I congratulated him and we went our separate ways. If I'd thought about him at all, which I didn't, I'd have said that young Mr. Keane's lack of interest in me matched, nicely, my lack of interest in him. He didn't even say he hoped he'd see me again "some day." He'll tell you now, "I didn't try. I didn't even try. I just bided my time."
That he did.
"I kissed her in a taxicab on Thanksgiving Day, 1945" is George's line-a-day in his diary for Thanksgiving Day of 1945.
So he did.
We had been working together, by that time, for about two months and never an "ask" for a date; never a gleam in George's eyes. Then, suddenly, after the