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MARILYN MONROE
more than men like me," and as she spoke removed the white rose and tossed it aside. "If I keep it there much longer it is liable to wilt," she explained with mock innocence.
The effect of this was to make the decolletage even more decollete.
Wilting a little myself, I edged a couple of inches away, trying hard to remember the questions I had intended to ask her. But before I could ask anything she had moved up even closer and was brushing cigarette ash from my shirt and was saying, "I don't like to make any man give up hope. Because . . . who knows? I'm free, unattached . . . and I'm looking."
I asked what sort of man she was looking for.
She said, "He must be a poet, though that doesn't mean he has to write poetry. He should be sensitive. Sensitivity is as important as masculinity."
"And physical qualities . . .?"
"He should have those too."
Talking to Miss Monroe, her celebrated body is like an open secret between you. You may not actually talk about it, but you both know it is there.
She ran her hand down her neck and bare shoulders in a kind of ecstatic appreciation of herself and said, "If I had a long couch I could sprawl on it and make like I'm Cleopatra or something."
Then: "Something is wrong. I feel like I ought to be drinking champagne. I know what's wrong — we need music. We need mood music to get the right atmosphere for this interview."
As she went over to switch on the radio I took a quick look round the room. Somehow it was not the kind of room that complemented Miss Monroe's personality.
There were high-backed wooden chairs, brass lamps, a china cabinet full of china, a glass jar full of boiled sweets, pewter mugs in a wall shelf, a grandfather clock,
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