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THE MYTH AND THE PLACE
who asked, "How long will I have to wait for a table?" was once told, "For ever."
Midnight. I meet Joan Collins at a party. She is with Arthur Loew, Jun., son of the boss of MGM. Miss Collins is usually with Arthur Loew, Jun., these days.
I notice that she has given up costume jewellery, has now taken to wearing the genuine stuff. "Just a few trinkets Arthur gave me for Christmas," she explains. "Trinkets" include a dazzling diamond ring and a star-sapphire.
Three a.m. At Ciro's, the principal Hollywood nightclub, I hear about a producer who bought a story as a vehicle for Shirley Booth, then changed his mind and decided to make it a vehicle for Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. I also hear a story about the stick-up man who said, "Hated the picture. Give me all their money back."
Eleven-thirty a.m., Monday. Outside Beverly Hills Hotel. I am about to tip the boy in the leather jerkin and jeans who, I think, has called me a taxi, when I recognise him as the millionaire producer Mike Todd. I do not tip him.
Noon. I am sitting by Alan Ladd's swimming pool. I find Ladd almost as silent and expressionless off-screen as he is on. I gather he has no gun for hire, but he will gladly sell me some pots and pans if I come to his hardware store.
Mrs. Ladd, plump, homely, and fortyish, says: "Alan is such a worrier." Dead-pan, tough-guy Ladd, I learn, worries about the children if they are out late, about his career, his fan mail.
Does Mrs. Ladd worry about anything? About her famous husband being exposed to the seductive charms of his leading ladies? "Oh no," says Mrs. Ladd; "it would be different if my husband were the sort of man
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