Home Work

by Julie Andrews

  Journeyed back to Tokyo. Found lots of loving notes from Blackie, and a suitcase of his for me to bring into London. Thank you, darling. The room is a mess. So many gifts, luggage muddled and untidy.

  * * *

  Last concert tonight. I had a lump in my throat when I sang, “I’d Rather Leave While I’m in Love.” The dearest moment of the evening was when my sweet musicians shuffled into my dressing room after the show and presented me with a white bomber jacket, with “Julie—1977 Japanese Tour” inscribed on the back.

  * * *

  Last night, Emma and I began the marathon pack-up. Suddenly, the hotel began to shake. It was an earthquake, and we were on the 39th floor. We could feel the building swaying and hear the empty hangers banging against each other in the closet. As Emma and I ran toward each other, I thought, “This is it.”

  Afterwards, we kept our bedroom doors open so we could see each other and vowed to meet in the hall between our rooms if it happened again, which it did—a second, bigger one. We were terrified, but thankfully there were no more tremors after that. Somehow, I managed to sleep through the night, which was a testament to my fatigue.

  The next morning, I phoned each of the eight guys on my team to say thank you and goodbye, and signed endless photos and programs for fans. I sorted through and packed the piles of gifts from each venue we had visited. Finally, dear Saito took us to the airport, where a few loyal fans were waving banners saying, “Julie! Come back soon!” We flew across Siberia, with a brief layover in Moscow. After the lightness and beauty of Japan, everything seemed dour, dirty, and bleak.

  London seemed equally bleak. We piled into the Hilton at midnight, UK time, and Blake was banging on the door the following morning at seven-thirty, having just arrived from Los Angeles, in much better spirits than when he left Japan.

  16

  W​HILE IN LONDON, I visited with my mother and Aunt Joan. The visit with Mum was brief, as she was leaving for a vacation at the coast with a gentleman friend whom she seldom mentioned but who I gathered was often in residence. Mum looked terrible, and never removed her sunglasses.

  Auntie and I had a long chat. She was angry, lonely, paranoid, in physical pain—and hating herself. She ranted on about her church and the deceit of her friends, about her ambivalent feelings toward Mum. Finally, I asked her what she intended to do about it all. She had no answers. In one heartbreaking moment, I asked her how she’d feel if she never saw Mummy again, since they so obviously rubbed each other the wrong way. She thought about it—it really stopped her—then answered, “. . . but you see, the real Barbara, the Barbara I used to love, is still in there somewhere.” I guessed that she missed the big sister that took care of her long ago. It made me deeply sad.

  I met with Jen Gosney to firm up the plans for her stay with Emma in L.A. Emma visited with Clare; both girls were excited at the prospect of living together for a stretch. Blake, Emma, and I then headed for Gstaad, where Charley and the babies were waiting for us. They had grown yet again, and Joanna was beginning to form sentences.

  Peter and Lynne Sellers were in town, and they took Blake and me to dinner. I was struck by how young Lynne was, and wondered what she saw in Peter. He still appeared to be acutely depressed. They had seen a chalet for sale that belonged to good friends of ours, and had fallen in love with it. I felt mixed emotions about the prospect of having them as neighbors, and I voiced my concerns to Blake.

  “If it gives Peter one day of true happiness,” he said, “then it’ll be worth it.”

  A week later, we headed back to London, where Blake began preproduction for Revenge of the Pink Panther. Emma and I picked up Clare Gosney, and the three of us boarded the flight for Los Angeles. Jen would be joining us there in two weeks’ time.

  When Emma returned to school, Clare was sitting in alongside her. Once Jen arrived, I headed back to London. It was heartbreaking to leave Emma, but I was reassured by how very happy she seemed to have Clare and Jen there, and she didn’t know that I planned to fly back later in the month to surprise her for her birthday.

  There followed a packed few weeks, during which I taped another special with the Muppets, and visited the set where Blake had begun filming.

  Once again, Blake was having trouble with Sellers. Peter was becoming more and more eccentric—he was moody and paranoid, superstitious about the color purple, and holding regular conversations with his dead mother. One night, after a particularly difficult day during which Blake only achieved one shot, Peter telephoned to say that he had good news. He had spoken to God, who had told him how to solve the problem of the scene they had been working on.

  “Fine,” Blake tactfully replied. “Show me tomorrow.”

  When Peter demonstrated God’s plan for the scene, Blake said it was so appalling that he couldn’t help but respond, “Peter, the next time you speak to God, tell him to stay the hell out of show business.”

  I BOARDED A flight back to L.A. for Emma’s fifteenth birthday. When I arrived at the beach house, Emma and Clare were out seeing a movie. Jen made me tea, and then wrapped me from head to toe in gift paper. I sat on Emma’s bed and waited for her to find me. Her immediate words were quite matter of fact:

  “Mum! What are you doing here?” Then she burst into happy tears.

  I spent an all-too-short week with her. Jen and Clare’s presence hadn’t sustained her as much as I’d hoped, and she confided in me that she was blue and had developed a phobia of earthquakes, which kept her awake at night. I did my best to boost her spirits and help her understand why we had to be apart, but in truth, I was as blue as Emma was, though trying very hard not to show it. I’ve always felt that if my kids were OK, I was OK, but in this case, my hands were tied by the complications of our residency in Europe, which only allowed me to spend a certain amount of time per year in the U.S. I realized yet again what Blake and I had gotten ourselves into, and worried about the impact of so many extended separations.

  THE WHOLE FAMILY regrouped for the winter holidays in Gstaad, along with Avril and Tony, who now had two babies. Shooting for Revenge of the Pink Panther was scheduled to resume in the New Year, in Hong Kong. I took Emma and Clare back to school in L.A., then joined Blake on location. Since Gstaad was still our “official” home base, it made sense for Amelia and Joanna to remain there with Charley. Avril and her babies stayed on there as well, since Tony was working with Blake. Geoff was also in Hong Kong, working once again with the editing department. Much as I wished my family could all be together, I tried my best to ensure that everyone was safe and secure, even when at opposite ends of the earth—but my head was beginning to feel a little like a whirligig spinning in the wind.

  The Panther company was staying at the famed Peninsula Hotel, which still had an air of old colonialism. I visited the set and suddenly felt a twinge of concern about the degree to which Blake seemed interested in Lynne Sellers. With a wife’s intuition, I sensed there might be a touch more going on than compassion for her situation with Peter.

  Given how attractive Blake was, women would often throw themselves at him. It had never amounted to anything, but he had a soft spot for what I called “willow ladies”—lonely, fragile, and usually very pretty young women, who seemed to lack a central core. I always tried to wait it out, and they’d eventually fade into the mist. I hoped this would be a similar situation.

  Emma and Clare came for a visit, and I took them sightseeing. We saw the floating village of Aberdeen, the beautiful resort community of Repulse Bay, and the Tiger Balm gardens, where the girls bought out the gift shop. Later, they slathered themselves with the aromatic ointment to such an extent that it’s a wonder the hotel didn’t need fumigation! When shooting wrapped in Hong Kong, Blake, Tony, Geoff, and the film company returned to London to continue filming there. I traveled with Emma and Clare back to L.A., where they resumed their schooling with Jen in residence once again, then I returned to Gstaad.

  Our beloved Charley was soon to leave us to resume her work as an
obstetrics nurse. It was essential that I get back to Amelia and Joanna, now four and three years old, to help manage the transition to a new nanny. The stress of Charley’s departure took a toll on both girls, but for Amelia it was especially difficult. She was anxious and angry. I had come to understand that abandonment was a huge issue for her, given her background, and this had clearly triggered those feelings. I did my best to put in as much time as possible with both girls, taking them swimming at the local pool, playing games, reading to them, and having lots of cuddles, but it never seemed to be enough.

  One evening, at the dinner table, Amelia suddenly announced, “I know exactly what heaven looks like.” I asked her if she’d care to explain. “It’s like a square handkerchief, and on every corner, there’s a beautiful arch and people walk through them when they arrive.”

  There was a pause while we all digested this. Joanna had been listening intently.

  “Do spiders go to heaven?” she asked.

  “Well . . . I guess they do,” I replied. “I mean ‘all God’s children’ means creatures, too.”

  There was another pause. Then, with an enormous sigh, Jo said, “Oh, dear.”

  I REMAINED CONCERNED about the constant separations from Blake and the effect they were having on our marriage. Our phone calls were all too brief, and I was anxious about how much time he was spending with Lynne and Peter. I felt foolish and paranoid, since I knew that Blake’s job required him to pay close attention to his lead actor, especially one as needy as Peter. Nevertheless, my intuition was still nagging me that something more was going on. Eventually, I became so uneasy that I flew to London for a few days, where my worries were not assuaged to the degree that I had hoped.

  The problems with Peter had escalated, and he was more of a handful than ever. One time he showed up to work drunk and was abusive to crew members. An important take was ruined, and Blake had to settle for it. Looking back, I suspect that Peter had become as concerned about his marriage as I was about mine, since Lynne was ever present, often dressed in provocative attire and being seductive with Blake. I was also aware that Blake was self-medicating again.

  I wrote:

  Every line between Blake and me feels crossed. I want to talk with him, yet know he’s distracted and busy, and I feel tongue-tied with insecurity. It’s clear he’s attracted to her, and he’s certainly allowed to look at other ladies. Probably that’s all there is to it. But I’m becoming more anxious by the day and feel as if I’m in the way here. It makes me angry that this slip of a girl is creating so much havoc in our lives.

  Finally, the stress got the better of me and I found the appropriate moment to speak with my spouse. I told him I was aware that he was preoccupied with Lynne. He threw a small, exasperated fit, citing the film and his responsibilities. Then he admitted he was flattered by her attentions.

  I said, “I don’t want us to bullshit each other, Blake. Do you still want our marriage? We can end this right away, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

  He thought for a moment.

  “I do want our marriage,” he finally responded. “Very much.”

  From then on, things were markedly better between us.

  PRINCIPAL PHOTOGRAPHY FOR Revenge of the Pink Panther finished in April, and Blake and I headed back to Los Angeles. The girls and their new nanny had flown there a few days prior, and Emma and Clare were there to welcome us. It was a great feeling for me to take up the reins again with most of my family under one roof.

  Blake began editing the film. He also began attending group therapy. After his first session, he came home awed and weary. “Don’t worry,” he said to me. “Our marriage is going to work. I needed this.” He seemed much relieved, as was I.

  A few weeks later, our boat broker telephoned us. “You won’t believe this,” he said. “Your lovely Impulse is for sale again, and going for a song.”

  Blake and I looked at each other and firmly agreed on all the reasons why we should not repurchase her: she was that much older, she was made of wood, there were surely so many better boats out there. Then we promptly bought her on the spot, feeling foolish and thrilled at the same time. Blake’s uncle Owen, and his wife Lucille, who were adept sailors, offered to bring her back to the States, where she could undergo repairs.

  OUR HOUSE IN Malibu was finally beginning to feel like a real home. The children were happy there; friends often came by for dinner and a movie on Sundays; and Blake’s parents and Aunt Thyrza visited regularly.

  The press premiere of Revenge of the Pink Panther was scheduled to take place in Hawaii at the end of June. A few days prior to our planned departure for the event, Blake suddenly decided that the final scene of the film didn’t work and needed to be replaced. With as much courage as inspiration, he came up with a new ending, and within two days he’d raised the necessary funds, brought most of the company back together, procured a soundstage at MGM, and had a set built.

  After the premiere, I wrote:

  Well, my Blackie’s done it. Based only on instinct, that clever man re-shot the last scene of the film, re-edited it, and didn’t see the complete result until the screening this evening.

  I was so nervous for him—we all were—to be so down to the wire and to take such a gamble, but everything worked, brilliantly. The film is funny—the most surreal, the most mad of all the Panthers. Thinking back on the sheer pressure of it all, plus putting up with Peter’s behavior, and then pulling off this last-minute coup, I can only say, “Bravo, Mate!”

  Revenge of the Pink Panther was a success, and Blake quickly received word that a screenplay he had written in Gstaad a year or two prior, called 10, had been approved for production by Orion Pictures, a new company that had been formed that year. It was about a man in midlife crisis, who, on a whim, pursues a beautiful young bride he perceives to be a “10.” Filming was to begin that fall in Los Angeles, which meant that Blake had to start preproduction immediately.

  We had been planning to charter a boat and tour the Greek Islands with Emma and Clare—Blake’s idea, as he had long wanted to visit there, and he thought it might be nice to spoil the girls a bit. Now he was unable to go. He suggested that I take the girls anyway.

  The Greek Islands were surreal in their beauty. I felt as though we had landed on the moon, with the sun-bleached white villages and baked landscapes against the crystal-clear aquamarine sea. It was wonderful to spend concentrated time with Emma and Clare. We swam daily, and to our amazement, we were accompanied by the ship’s cat, who had been found abandoned dockside and adopted by the crew. As a means of keeping her cool and free of fleas, they washed her in the sea, and to their great surprise, she had taken to the ritual. Now, every time we jumped into the water, she followed. It occurred to me that a story about a cat that lived at sea and loved to travel would make a charming children’s book. I began to make notes.

  Early one morning, after we put in to a small island port, the “head” in my cabin overflowed. Desperate to protect the carpet, I began to bail it out as best I could with a small garbage can, rousing Emma in the process by dashing into her bathroom to empty it. She gamely began assisting me, and we were busy squelching back and forth, trying not to alert the crew, when we heard a stranger’s voice calling “Hallo-ooo?” from the main deck.

  “See who it is!” I hissed at Emma, who quickly threw on some clothes and disappeared upstairs. Moments later, she reappeared.

  “Mom—it’s the mayor!” she said. “He wants to introduce you to his wife, who is a big fan, and wants to be an actress.”

  I gasped. “Keep them occupied! I’ll come up as soon as I’ve changed.”

  Emma held the fort, serving coffee and making small talk, until I appeared, having donned a pair of jeans, a floppy hat, sunglasses, and a daub of lipstick.

  I swanned onto the afterdeck, putting on my best Hollywood charm, and was aware of Emma stifling giggles. The mayor was effusive. He introduced me to his wife, who was taller and considerably younger than he. Clad in
the tightest of bustiers and sporting an abundance of gold jewelry, she gushed, “You look just like Mary Poppins!” Nothing could have been further from the truth. We did our best to graciously wrap up the visit as quickly as possible, so as to get back to the pressing matter below.

  THERE FOLLOWED yet another period of back and forth between Gstaad, London, and L.A. for both Blake and me. Blake was totally consumed with preproduction for 10. Tony Adams had served as associate producer for all the Panther sequels, and Blake had now promoted him to producer, since he was doing fine work and our friend Ken Wales had moved on to other projects. I was to play a role in the film, but for now, my mission was to keep the family “topped up” in our various home bases by spending as much time with each member as I could, while maintaining our Swiss residency, a task which seemed to have fallen more and more on my shoulders. Fortunately, Jen and Clare would be back in Los Angeles with Emma for another year, which was a huge help.

  Toward the end of September, I flew back to L.A. with Amelia, Joanna, and the new nanny to begin preparing for my work on 10. The day after I arrived, Jennifer announced that her marriage to Tom had ended, and asked if she and her daughter, Kayti, now two years old, could move in with us for a while, since they had nowhere else to go. We made hurried arrangements to accommodate them in our already densely populated house.

  To add to the family dramas, Blake approached me with an astounding request: “Darling, would you mind terribly if I asked Patty to design the clothes for 10?”

  I was aghast. The idea of attending fittings—revealing all to my husband’s ex—was unthinkable . . . not to mention everything that had transpired between us over the years. I made my feelings known.