It was at this very time that I received an unexpected transatlantic phone call. In fact, it was the next morning. Of all the people in the world, I had not expected to hear from Danny Renet again. He was the young movie producer I had met on my two-week vacation to Los Angeles earlier in the year. He had learned of my imminent return to the States from my cousin, Jackie, and had decided to romance me long distance. Letters followed, proclaiming his infatuation with me, and of course I fell for it, hook line and sinker. Suddenly, the idea of returning to America did not seem so bad. Being wanted was so much better than being rejected.
Min’s work at Granada was in an entirely different section than mine. She was working on a comedy programme and came in contact with all sorts of up and coming young directors, editors and researchers. Two of these people were Gus McDonald and John Birt. Both fairly young men at the time, they accompanied us to night clubs, drank heavily and were lots of fun. John Birt eventually became Lord John Birt, Director-General of the British Broadcasting System and Gus advanced in his career to head Scottish Television and become a member of the House of Lords. Who knew?
And of course there were the two youngsters who had arrived a few years earlier, fresh from university into Granada’s directing stream… Michael Apted (“7-Up,” “The World is Not Enough,” “Gorillas in the Mist,” “Chronicles of Narnia,” and hundreds more films) and Mike Newell (“Harry Potter,” “Indiana Jones,” etc). Favoured by the head of Granada, Sir Sidney Bernstein (brother of Cecil,) they were the blue-eyed boys of television, even at the tender ages of twenty seven or so. They were a year older than me, but I always perceived them as being much younger. Mike Apted had rosy cheeks and a shy demeanour, while Mike Newell was tall and thin, with a look of the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. Both were smart and industrious, but friendly and kind to everyone. We all rooted for their success.
While Min was working on the comedy “Nice Time,” and I was working in the evenings doing overtime, transcribing for “World In Action,” Germaine Greer arrived at the studios to join “Nice Time” as a presenter. Min and I were sitting with several other friends in the canteen when we first saw Germaine. About six feet tall with a huge afro and mini skirt, she swept into the cafeteria like a tornado. All eyes were on this amazing looking “Amazon” from Australia, wondering what on earth she was here for. We soon found out. A couple of years later, Germaine went on to publish her feminist book “The Female Eunuch” and became an icon in the women’s movement. But when we knew her, she was focused, funny and very direct. I remember her squeezing her long body into my tiny MG Midget one evening as we dashed off to “The Brown Bull,” one of our local hangouts, and downed her drinks with the rest of the Granada “family.”
Min and I both had flirtations with Peter Egan, a very attractive actor, and Mark Jones, another actor whom I dated for a few months. Eventually, Min started seeing a Welsh cameraman, named Peter Drinkwater, and seemed to be quite happy with him, eventually becoming engaged. As for me, I seemed to have forgotten I had promised to return to America, especially when I had the opportunity to apply for a junior casting director position within the company. That was my dream job – being able to see local theatre, find new talent, and cast Granada’s fabulous dramas and comedies. Unfortunately, it was a long process and I had to wait a long time before I heard any news about my application and possible interview. My hours of leafing through the actor’s SPOTLIGHT should definitely have helped my chances – I knew them all!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the meantime, each week at Granada continued to bring in a constant stream of attractive young actors. My life returned to romance and dating and looking to find the perfect niche within the studios, forgetting that I had promised to return to America.
Finally, the opportunity of a lifetime landed right in my lap. There were old stables attached to the studios that had been unused for years. A new project was being talked about that would transform the stables into the Stables Theatre Club, or the Manchester Drama Group. It was to be run by Scottish director, Gordon McDougall, and I was offered the job as his assistant. Although Gordon was a young man when I knew him, straight from the Traverse Theatre in Edinburgh, he went on to bigger and better things in later years.
Words cannot describe my elation at landing this plum position. I was so excited and thrilled to be part of a new venture that I could not wait to start. Unfortunately, it took a long time for all the pieces to fall into place and lots of hanging around the office doing virtually nothing for several months. I became friendly with a young researcher named Roger Tucker, who worked in the office with me. We spent days chatting and doing crossword puzzles, as he worked on his thesis. As more and more staff members arrived to complete our group, everything became increasingly exciting.
The day finally arrived when the Stables were almost completed in their renovation, and a group of both well-known and new actors arrived to become part of the Manchester Drama Group. The premise was that the actors would appear on live stage, and then perform for television. My boss, Gordon, took me aside and explained what my new responsibilities were to be. As the actors arrived in Manchester, I was to help anyone who needed to find accommodation. Since I now had a car, this would be a fun project for me. Once they were all established in flats, then work would start on the first stage play, and then the television productions. A lovely young man named Carey Harrison, son of Rex Harrison and Lili Palmer, arrived to be the creative director. Gordon asked if I would pose with Carey in the newly constructed Stables for publicity shots. Of course I happily complied.
Soon the actors started trickling in from London, and I noticed that there were some well-known names among the group. Richard Wilson, John Fraser, Bill Simon, Maureen Lippman, John Shrapnel, John Byron, Sam Dastor, Anne Rye, Fiona Walker and Ewen Solon were just a few of the remarkable people coming to join us.
It didn’t take me long to notice a very angelic looking young actor named Richard Howard, who was part of our new drama group. He was slight, golden haired with dreamy grey eyes and only twenty-five years old, a couple of years younger than me. I was delighted to help him find a flat, and we sped through the streets of Manchester in my new MG Midget looking at various flats for rent. Our friendship grew slowly, and I enjoyed going out for dinner with Richard and watching him during rehearsals. Time spent at the Stables, observing the actors rehearsing their musicals or dramas, was absolutely magical for me. Not having the talent myself, or the desire to act, I always gained a great deal of satisfaction and joy watching others perform and being a part of it, in a small way.
One evening, after a lovely dinner out, Richard and I went for a long walk through the streets of Manchester. He invited me back to his flat, and I accepted. There was an incredible amount of chemistry between the two of us, something I had never known before, despite having been with so many men. This was completely different, and I could not believe the magnetic, almost electric attraction between us as we stepped into his flat. As I walked over the threshold, Richard took me into his arms, and I was taken aback at the amount of sensuality and desire his embrace evoked in me. I had the most intense orgasm just from being held. From that moment on, although it did not become a full-fledged love affair, we became firm and lasting friends.
It was nearing Christmas 1968, when I received a letter from the Immigration Department, informing me that I would have to go to London for my medical examination in order to return to America. I took the train and underwent a battery of tests. I was a little excited at the adventure of leaving for America, but another part of me did not want to leave. I arrived back in Manchester late that same evening, and decided to stop by Granada for a bite to eat.
I was sitting in the cafeteria by myself, having a meal, when I noticed a tall, dark-haired young man named Steve Marians sitting in a booth nearby. He and Richard Stewart were new film editors, who had just come to Manchester from London to edit a series. Steve and I got into conversation that evening and I tho
ught he was the most interesting man I had met in a long time. Since my girlfriend, Sue Pethybridge, had a huge crush on his editing partner, Richard Stewart, the four of us started going out on double dates. If you are wondering how on earth I was juggling Steve, Richard Howard and, yes, Les Davis, wonder no more. I did it, and did it quite well.
As I got to know Steve better, I started to develop very strong feelings for him. We spent a lot of time together over the next few months, and I debated whether or not I should go to America after all. I thought I had finally found someone to spend the rest of my life with. Steve was tall, dark haired, with piercing blue eyes, and he absolutely adored me. What more could I want? Les Davis was looking less and less desirable, and I spent no more time with him. After all, I thought I had finally found the love of my life.
I made weekly phone calls to my mother, but they were filled with pretence that I was looking forward to being with her. I just didn’t have the nerve to tell her I didn’t want to leave England. But guilt impelled me to keep my bargain and I just could not let her down. Also, by this time, final arrangements had to be made and it was imperative that I sell off furniture and fixtures from my flat. Funnily enough, Les Davis bought my bedroom set for his children… and various other employees at Granada purchased the rest of the stuff. Min and Christine had to find new housing, and when I finally got rid of everything, there was nowhere for me to stay. Fortunately, Roger Tucker, who I worked with, offered me a place for a week. Steve and I moved in with Roger and his wife, and spent a very intense week together before my day of departure. Steve and I drove to London together to have my car shipped to America, and came back to Manchester in his car. It was done. I was going. Oh dear!
A few days before I was to leave, the cast of the Manchester Theatre Group threw a party in my honour in the new bar at the Stables. I was very sad to leave everyone and it showed. They gave me a huge piece of cardboard that everyone had signed, and which I have to this day. During that evening, although I was with Steve, Les Davis arrived at the party much the worse for the booze he had already consumed, which was no great surprise to any of us.
He had finally told his wife about our affair and was determined to drag me away, no doubt to fill the role of dish-washer and sock-mender now that his wife had thrown him out. Unfortunately Steve had other ideas and, when Les became a little over insistent, Steve tried to quietly elbow him away. Big mistake. In seconds the two were fighting over me, not that Les was in any fit state to do so. I remember him taking a haymaker of a swing at Steve who merely stood aside while we both watched Les throw himself off his feet and crumple into a heap on the beer soaked carpet. It was a shame after so many happy times that that should be my last image of Les.
In the morning Steve and I met up with Min and Chris. We were all desperate to clear the party fug from our heads so we spent most of the day on the moors, running around like two year old colts. By chance, Steve had his camera in the car so we decided to take photos of each other, to be used for posterity. At one point, Steve threw his camera to me and I foolishly fell down a steep slope, landing on my back. Later that evening Steve whispered in my ear that the choice between attending to me ‘on my back,’ or recovering his camera may have been the most difficult decision of his life.
Those were the days of needing to have rolls of film processed in the local chemist’s shop and, as I was due to leave the following day, all I got from the day was a wrenched back and a sore ankle. I do still have the black and white prints that Min later sent me, and we look very young and vulnerable.
Ringway Airport in Manchester was a provincial airport in those days, not much more than a flying club compared to the security conscious, glass and chrome lounges of today. Steve, Chris and Min all came to bid me farewell and like the soft-hearted fools we all were, we stood together at the check-in desk, everyone in tears and hugging each other in turn. When we reached the head of the line the desk clerk asked which of us was flying and would we mind deciding because there were other passengers waiting to check in. On any other day I would have been embarrassed by her curt tone, but today I was starting out on a new life and my back was killing me.
Everyone promised to write, phone, visit, love me forever and on and on. I guess if I had been a fly on the wall I might have seen the same conversation mirrored in a dozen other check-in lines but I only recall the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach as I wondered if I would ever see any of them again.
Steve Marians 1969
PART FOUR
CALIFORNIA
1969-1999
CHAPTER ONE
The flight to California was agony. The pain in my back seemed to get worse each of the twelve hours it took to fly from Manchester to Los Angeles. I don’t think I stirred from my seat the whole time, not even for a trip to the rest room. I huddled down in my seat, refusing the air hostess’s offer of drinks, fearful of having to pee.
I spent most of the time trying to ignore the man next to me, who was trying to chat me up. I had to get my thoughts in order and plan my immediate future. Most of all, I needed a job. My mother used to say to me that if I fell in a sewer, I’d come up smelling of roses and one particular rose in my pocket was a letter from Sir Sidney Bernstein, the head honcho of Granada Television. I had really only done a few odds and ends of secretarial jobs for him but I rather like to think that he might have had a soft spot for me, soft enough for him to write a glowing letter of introduction, ‘To Whom It May Concern’. My plan was to locate someone fitting the bill as soon as possible and my first port of call was going to be Universal Studios. I had already sent them a letter of introduction, and hoped they would be amenable to meeting me and giving me a glamorous job.
My fired-up imagination turned the arrivals gate at LAX into a red carpet receiving line and at the head of it was my mother, Aunty Betty and Uncle Ernest. There was the merest hint of déjà vu in my mind, but this time I was far from being a gawky twelve-year-old. I was the new me. Pretty, sophisticated and maybe a shade too sure of myself, but so what?
The Beatles had recently taken New York by storm and although the fashion for beehive hairstyles and micro-miniskirts had not yet caught on in the States, I knew that my outfit had trapped a host of admiring glances. I hit the arrivals strip that day, March 1, 1969, like a genuine catwalk model, but only I knew that my back was so sore that I had no other way of walking.
My first few days back in Los Angeles were spent in bed. I could not move because of the strain my back had received from frolicking around the moors. Eventually, I felt well enough to get up, and the first phone call I received at Betty and Ernest’s house was from the young producer, Danny Renet. Although I was already missing Steve, being a “bird in the hand” type of gal, I put thoughts of Steve aside, and happily accepted a date. A movie producer? In Beverly Hills? I was impressed and figured I would be introduced to all kinds of interesting people. Danny was good looking and seemed infatuated with me, so I decided to give him a chance, especially since I did not know anyone else in America.
In the meantime, getting a job was number one on my list of things to do. My mother had secured an apartment for us at Park La Brea, a new complex, ideally situated behind the La Brea Tar pits on Fairfax Avenue and Wilshire Boulevard. It was with a light heart that I waved goodbye to Betty and Ernest, and moved into our new digs.
Our new, two-storey garden apartment was quite pretty, considering it was part of a huge, sprawling complex. The unit had a view of a green lawn outside, plus a small patio area. I had my own bedroom but we shared a small bathroom. My mother had been quite pro-active, looking at ads in the newspapers for estate sales. She had also secured a job for herself with Jaguar Cars, and took the bus to Sunset Boulevard each day to work.
Our furniture, which I had shipped from England, finally arrived. My mother was excited to place Alan Aitchison’s baby grand piano in the fairly large living room, near the French doors. She positioned a huge vase of roses on top, together with a few framed
photos, and would sit for hours playing music they had loved. I could feel her sadness as she played “Come Back to Sorrento,” which was “their song”. But I couldn’t dwell on that… I had a life to live, and couldn’t wait for it to start.
Quite soon after our move, Mum wangled a ride to the prestigious Palos Verdes Estates, and was able to purchase a bedroom set for me, previously owned by the comedian Red Buttons. I loved the dark wood and the bookshelf headboard, together with the spacious chest of drawers, and made my bedroom into a warm, comfortable haven.
My MG Midget was due to arrive several months later, so I had to rely on the bus to get around. Since my mother had never learned to drive, we were without personal transportation in a city that really does require one to own a car.
I received a follow up call from the personnel office at Universal Studios in Studio City, saying they would like to interview me. Decisions, decisions. What to wear? I got up extra early the day of the interview and tottered down Fairfax Avenue to Wilshire Boulevard. It took two buses to get to the Studios and, dressed in my British garb of mini skirt and high heels, I must have looked a sight. The interviewer was very impressed with a twenty-six year old who could take Pitman’s shorthand at one hundred words per minute, and type at almost the same speed. Maybe he was more impressed by my British accent and incredibly short skirt, but I think my proficiency as a secretary did the trick. I was hired immediately, and sent up to the twelfth floor of the Universal Towers to work for Ed Perlstein, in Business Affairs.
No Ordinary Woman Page 16
