by Judith Wills
They were superb hosts and proudly showed me all around the property, which they’d bought and done up from scratch. I found out later that this was a hobby as well as another way of making money, and that they never stayed anywhere for too long – buy it, do it up, sell it. Adam was a canny guy and I wasn’t surprised when in later years he became a financial guru.
He was also becoming a shrewd music manager and the following year he would discover his biggest act – Leo Sayer; derided at the time for his hair, his voice and his songs but in 2006, a comeback kid with a remixed number one. Who would have thought?
Another huge TV star in the same year was Peter Wyngarde, star of mega TV series Department S. I popped down to his huge apartment in Battersea one day to do an interview. While he looked the part – the sex symbol with his velvet jackets, cravats and ludicrous moustache, who would get through several woman every week as Jason King – he was strangely nervy and on edge all the time I was there. Perhaps he had a wardrobe full of young men and was frightened they’d escape and he would be outed. Homosexuality had only been legalised in the UK in 1967 and very many of the gay actors were still running scared.
Later in the year, Fab 208 magazine moved from the Fleetway offices up to 32 Southampton Street in Covent Garden. I moved into an office of my own, with an interconnecting door to Georgina’s office. Although I had loved my years ‘on’ Fleet Street, the Farringdon Road area was run down to say the least, while the area off the Strand was much more central and near more pubs and shops. The old Covent Garden fruit and veg market was still in place and I’d occasionally pop round the corner from the office for lunch (usually liquid) at Rules in Maiden Lane. The Boss, whom I was seeing on a regular basis by this time, had left Fleetway (which was to become IPC Magazines) and was working as a PR for Rules, and seemed to have virtually free run of the drink and food in the place.
Meanwhile the press receptions for a never-ending stream of singers, bands, musicians, actors and would-be famous people continued unabated and one had to exercise a small amount of self-discipline and discerning choice in order not to spend most of each working day out of the office, getting no writing done.
One I chose to go to, wearing my crushed brown velvet hotpants and brown patent platform shoes, was a thrash for Ike and Tina Turner – now I wonder why that word came out just then? Anyway, at the time none of us in the music business was aware, as far as I know, that Ike and Tina’s marriage and professional partnership was under a great deal of strain and that Ike had, on occasion, a somewhat physical way of dealing with the problems.
So off I went to this particular shindig, being quite a fan of some of their music, in particular ‘River Deep Mountain High’ which never failed to make me feel just fantastic whenever I heard it on the radio or in a disco. I believe they were doing a tour of Europe at the time and had one or two live gigs in London. Anyway the press reception was buzzing, the Turners were working the room (a sure sign that they needed us more than we needed them – the big stars would sit in a large chair in a corner and their PRs would ‘allow’ the chosen few to go and see them, and the super-mega-stars might even just arrive in the room towards the end of the ‘do’, entourage all around, wave a hand, pose for a couple of photos and then depart) and after half an hour or so they introduced themselves and began chatting to me. Ike seemed distracted for some reason but I found Tina easy to talk to and after a few minutes her voice, which was quite in your face talking as well as singing, quietened and she leant towards me.
‘Do you want a job?’ she stage whispered.
Now this quite took me back; it wasn’t really what I was expecting her to come out with. I would have been less surprised by, say, ‘Fancy a shag with Ike in our hotel tonight?’ or, ‘Can I borrow your comb?’
‘Err…’. I smiled tentatively, trying to work out what the right response was. I didn’t think I wanted a job, I already had one I was enjoying no end – but it isn’t every day of the week that a leading international singing star sidles up to you and says that.
‘What kind of job?’ I said eventually.
‘Well, working for me and Ike! We’re looking for a new PA and we want you.’
Well talk about making your mind up on minimal information. I should have asked Tina what it was about me that so took them so suddenly. Desperation, most likely. After all, my reputation for shorthand hadn’t exactly gone before me, well not in a good way, anyhow. But she’d thrown me off balance and all I managed to say was a pathetic:
‘Can I let you know later?’ Nothing about ‘What does the job entail? What’s the pay? When would I start? What are the freebies? What are the hours?’
At this point she must have realised that I was an idiot and not PA material in any way. But next minute she was scribbling out their contact details on some paper and, I assumed, making sure the phone number was false; it’s only what I would have done myself, had I been her.
‘Here – can you call me by tomorrow?’ and she was off, with her tight short skirt and her huge hair and her famous walk, to the other side of the room. I thought she was fabulous fun.
Well I went back to work, thought about it some – it could be an incredible experience, I figured – went home, thought about it some more, and woke up in the night, realising with certainty that there was no way I could chuck in my job and go and work for two people I didn’t know, in the States, no matter what the job entailed or how much the pay was. I didn’t feel I’d exhausted all the possibilities of the job I was already doing … not by miles.
So I rang up the number as promised, quite shocked to find it really did put me through to Tina Turner, and apologised and said no.
Looking back, I guess whoever had been their PA immediately before had just walked, and left them in the lurch – hence Ike’s distracted air and Tina’s homing in on me; it really was desperation, I reckon. In later years the very bad state of their marriage and working relationship was revealed in a movie – at the time of the job offer, it would have been meltdown – and I have never felt so glad about my inbuilt sense of caution that sometimes, but not always, overcame the wilder ideas and opportunities that came my way every now and then.
In April I was contacted by the press officer for the film company making a movie called Catlow which was to star Yul Brynner and a long list of mostly B-list actors including Richard Crenna, Dahlia Lavi and Alan Ladd’s son David. Also making his first movie since leaving Star Trek was Leonard Nimoy – Mr pointy-eared Spock himself.
They would be filming in Almeria, Spain, in May and I was invited to go over there, all expenses paid, with photographer, to watch filming and meet the cast, in return for publishing a feature on Brynner. Well, it sounded like quite a good freebie. Although I’d never really liked Yul Brynner, I fancied a few days of sun and Sangria and anyway the Ed wanted me to go.
The Saturday before we flew from Heathrow to Almeria I went shopping down Kensington High Street – easy walking distance from the bedsit – to buy some lightweight items. At the time, the height of fashion was a loose smock top with matching hotpants, so I bought myself a set, a couple of floppy hats from Barkers and some sun cream.
And on Thursday 20 May, the photographer – who’s name was, I believe, Roger Morton – and I arrived in Almeria to be met at the airport by the film’s PR man, Brian, a slightly tubby guy in suit and tie – the swinging ’60s and ’70s had completely passed him by and no matter how hot it got or how many drinks he had I never saw him less than immaculate in his city outfits.
I secretly felt rather full of myself, sole journalist, being met with a posh car to go to a film set to visit the great Yul Brynner, being put up in Almeria’s finest hotel (whatever that was, can’t remember) with a big bowl of fruit and flowers waiting for me in the room – now this was the life! I hadn’t travelled much for Fab and what travelling I had done had more in common with slumming it than with living it up, that’s for sure. But this was a bit swish, if there was such a thing as swish in
southern Spain in the early ’70s.
The next day we were escorted by Brian to the indoor set to watch Brynner do a scene. I remember his wife, a tall, slim blonde woman, sitting there knitting furiously. And I remember getting more and more agitated as Brynner worked through his scene, knowing that when he finished I was expected to talk to him.
It was a return of my feelings of inferiority that had plagued me backstage at the Isle of Wight – he looked so fierce, he never smiled. I just stood there getting smaller and smaller, all sensible thoughts and questions slipping and dripping from my mind. And I didn’t even have a hangover.
But I couldn’t get out of it. He came over, bald at the front but with a plaited ponytail down his back, shortish, but tough, tough, tough eyes looking through you. I had vaguely hoped that once his scene was finished he would morph into a laughy, jokey, smiley kind of guy who couldn’t wait to put a silly little English fan mag journalist at her ease – but no. It was as bad as I had thought it would be. I would ask a question, he would give a one word reply. I would ask another question, same. Same, same.
After a few minutes I turned to his wife and began to ask her questions instead, and got much more out of her; she was charming. But Brynner – when I got home and told my mother what I thought of him, she was incredulous. He’d been a long-time idol of hers – and I hadn’t even bothered to get her his autograph.
But the trip began to look up in a big way when I was introduced to Mr Spock. I’d always had a quiet fascination for him in his TV role but had never thought of him as the sort of man I could fancy; a caesar haircut and big pointy ears had never been my things. I hadn’t come on this press trip even to see him, really, so I hadn’t boned up on him at all and knew next to nothing about him and his life.
But it took me about two minutes flat having been introduced to Nimoy to realise that he was completely stunning. WOW. It was the first time I grasped that sex appeal often has little to do with classic good looks or a head of blonde hair or broad shoulders.
Leonard Nimoy was nearly twenty years older than me. He had smallish eyes, a wide mouth, a long nose, a thin frame, a beard (oh how I never liked beards!), glasses, dark thinning hair and nondescript clothes …. and he was sex on legs, even more so that Jim Dale, my first interview that seemed so long ago now.
Was it the deep honey voice, was it that he had the knack of making you feel you were stunningly beautiful and fabulously interesting? Was it the blue eyes, which sparkled full of mischief even when he was being serious? The warm, dry handshake that did it, or the truly gorgeous smile that came out of nowhere?
Whatever – I was lovestruck, and, even better, I could talk to him, and even better still, I liked him. And he seemed to like me.
We went back to his apartment – a dark, dark place because all the shutters had been closed to keep out the heat. We drank sangria, talked and laughed a lot and arranged to meet up the next morning when he would take me for a walk up into the hills to see Almeria’s fort.
Every evening most of the cast and crew – with the exception of Brynner and Nimoy – would meet up in the restaurant of the hotel where we were staying, for a meal, lots of wine, and plenty of chat and laughter.
Over the dinner table that first night I found out that Leonard Nimoy was not only married, but that his wife was here with him. I felt devastated enough to have trouble eating anything. Of course, I had been stupid to think he liked me. Of course, he was just acting, just being pleasant so that I would write nice things about him. Of course.
Next day, knowing I still had to keep our ‘date’ I made sure that Roger came along too. Nimoy came to collect me – did I detect a crestfallen look when he saw someone else with me? I think so – and off we set up the hills of the old town to the ancient fort, me trying hard to be cool and professional and avoid any kind of flirting or the easiness we’d had between us the day before.
Having done little in the way of exercise except drinking and dancing for several years, I was pretty unfit and after a hundred or so steep narrow steps, was puffing and panting in a far from sexy fashion. Nimoy saved the day by grabbing my hand to help me along, and continued to hold it firmly and warmly from that moment right to the end of the walk.
How well I remember trying hard to keep aloof but feeling quite blissfully happy about this, feeling some kind of electric current running between the two of us, forgetting all about Roger, and about Nimoy’s wife. She wasn’t here. I couldn’t pretend to be cold towards him any more, I just couldn’t do it. We sat around the fort walls for a while, we talked, we laughed, we just sat. Roger, quite obviously, felt like a spare part and spent most of his time wandering around well out of our way.
As we sat, Nimoy gave me what was probably the most sensual, fabulous and tender, real, lingering and unforgettable kiss I had ever had.
Later, I somehow managed to pluck up the nerve to ask Nimoy about his wife: ‘Oh, she’s gone to Madrid shopping,’ he said. That was all he ever said about her.
Eventually we headed back down the hill and he had to go to get ready for some night filming. The next time I saw him he was on set. I watched filming of a street scene with Crenna and Dahlia Lavi on horseback during which Leonard and I took breaks at the refreshment van together once or twice – but were never alone again.
The next day Roger and I were booked on a flight home and Leonard had made me promise to come and say goodbye before we left. Back at his apartment, he came outside. His wife may have been inside, but I never met her. Nimoy gave me a long but chaste kiss on the lips and a long and warm hug.
‘Can’t you stay a bit longer?’ he said. ‘Do you really have to go?’
I said I did.
‘Stay in touch,’ he said. ‘Ask Brian. Come back over, we’re here for several more weeks …’
I forced myself simply to smile but not answer.
I didn’t want to leave the man, and as I forced myself to put one leg in front of the other to get in the car waiting to take us to the airport, it felt like there was a length of extra strong elastic holding us both together, holding me back, making each step feel more difficult than the last. I forced myself to wave and smile at him as we went, as if I didn’t care. I forced myself on to the plane and sat crying most of the way home. Roger did his best to cheer me up.
‘You really liked each other, didn’t you?’ he said.
‘Was it that obvious?’
‘Yes of course it was …’
‘Do you think he liked me, really?’
‘Yes, he liked you really. Why don’t you call him when you get home?’
The fact is, if Nimoy hadn’t been married, I would have done anything in my power to spend more time with him, to get to know him. I would have missed the flight and stayed there with him. But he was married, and there didn’t seem any point. He wouldn’t have brought her with him if they weren’t a real proper item, I reasoned. I must have misread the signals, I must have got it all wrong. The fact that I had been dating a married man, The Boss, on and off for some time didn’t cross my mind.
Back at home, I had the photos Roger had taken, I had my canvas Catlow bag, and that was it. However, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Okay – I had been taken in by men before, and since. But I am sure that guy was truly interested in me, I am sure there were real feelings between us and if I hadn’t been a journalist I think he would have done something more about it.
When the movie came out at the end of that year I had more or less got over Mr Spock because you have to – but how really, really, annoyed I was when I found out in the press that not all that long afterwards, Mr and Mrs Nimoy split up.
Eventually, Nimoy found himself a younger woman. She looked a bit like me. Well, that’s what I like to think.
That year The Boss and I were still seeing each other from time to time, though I am pretty sure he was having flings with various women and I was just one of them. Other than that the rest of my year, romance-wise, was pretty dead.
&n
bsp; I still did the occasional beauty piece and would go to very occasional cosmetics functions if I hadn’t anything better to do – one of which was a press party for Goya, the large firm which had been one of the best-known names in UK cosmetics and perfume for some time and which was worth a fortune.
There I was introduced to Tim Collins, the son of the owners of Goya. Tim took a real shine to me and by the end of the party had asked me out for a dinner date.
He was a charming young man, rather tubby, very clean cut, pleasant to look at, but sadly he most definitely wasn’t another Nimoy – he definitely wasn’t for me. Even so – I went on the date. I think I hoped he would somehow bring out his hidden wow factor, a previously disguised cache of sex appeal, and bowl me over after all. So we went to dinner, him picking me up at Avonmore Road in his Roller (bet that was the first and last time he ever went to a tacky bedsit to collect a girl and I bet it was the only time he had a Polish landlady standing on the door exclaiming at the car and waving us off!).
We had a pleasant date at a posh Mayfair restaurant and Tim asked to see me again – but I couldn’t face it. I so wanted to be the kind of girl who could see a rich guy at a thousand paces one day, get him proposing to her the next, and marry him shortly afterwards, henceforth to live in extremely comfortable, lazy, marital bliss with homes all over the world before getting a mega payout on divorce day – but I couldn’t do it. If I didn’t fancy someone, all the money in the world couldn’t get me enthused.
I went to one other interesting film set but this time it was only at Twickenham studios – The Straw Dogs was filming, with Dustin Hoffman, Susan George, and a few smaller time actors including Colin Welland who later became very well known in the UK as a playwright. Dustin Hoffman was another of those guys who could wow you with his sex appeal even though he was very short and not classically attractive. But he wasn’t a patch on Spock.
