Clutching my résumé and large handbag, I took the elevator to the twelfth floor. The doors opened onto the prestigious executive suites, and I stood there, taking a deep breath. Where to go? I had been told which office suite I would be in, so I walked through the spacious area, pretending I knew where I was going.
I found the correct office, but the door was closed. There was an empty secretarial desk with a typewriter outside, which I presumed was for me. Nervously, I knocked on the door. A loud voice called back “Come in, come in.”
Ed Perlstein was nothing like his British counterparts. From our first meeting, he treated me like a princess, as though he had been rewarded for good behaviour. He looked me up and down with a huge smile splitting his face, and said “Glad to meet you, Valerie. Welcome.” I relaxed a little, but even more so as the hours went by as I realised I had scored another “plum”. Ed Perlstein was turning out to be the most wonderful, loving, funny and kind “boss” I had ever worked for.
Although the work was easy, it was pretty dull, because he dealt in contracts. Dry stuff, but work I could complete without missing a beat. In fact, I could type and daydream about meeting Mr. Right constantly. At the end of the first day, and each following day, Ed would come to my desk as he was about to leave, give me a kiss on the cheek and say “thank you so much.” He would occasionally sit me on his knee and give me a big hug, but these endearing gestures were given from a man who had no ulterior motives. He was happily married with kids, and just exuded love and sweetness, always with a huge smile on his face. He had originally worked with Lucille Ball at Desilu as their attorney, so had plenty of interesting tales to tell. He made my trek to work by bus each day so worthwhile.
After the first few days, I started to take notice of the people around me. Remember, I had barely arrived from England, and was still getting used to a different style of show-biz. I was unfamiliar with the names of executives and bigwigs in the industry, so the name Sid Sheinberg meant nothing to me. His office was next door to mine and when I walked by, he waved a greeting. Thirty-four year old Sid Sheinberg was hot stuff at MCA-Universal in those days, although he had yet to take over the presidency of the company from Lew Wasserman.
I noticed a young man coming in and out of his office quite regularly. He was very young, about twenty-two years old, but kind of awkward looking. Skinny, medium height, scruffy… certainly not my type. I didn’t waste a second attempting to flirt with him and barely noticed him, to tell you the truth. I later learned that this was Steven Spielberg who had been hired to direct a television series called “Night Gallery”. He was unknown, young, and I was amazed that a studio would take a chance on someone so inexperienced. If I had only known that Steve would become a mega-mogul in the future, perhaps I would have spritzed on some of my favourite perfume and sashayed past Sid’s office more often. Then again, perhaps not.
CHAPTER TWO
I quickly made a few friends, including the wonderful writer, Dick DeRoy, who was working on a television program called “The Survivors”. He was about 40 years old at that time, but full of fun and friendship… and very happily married. It was easy to take breaks and chat because I always finished my work in record time. Dick was in another office close by, and we would sit over coffee during breaks and laugh over stories he would tell me. I was beginning to realise that I didn’t have to flirt with every man I saw in order to make him like me. They seemed to like me just the way I was, and that was very refreshing.
I had presumed that Universal Studios would be somewhat like Granada Television. Not so. It was entirely different. While Granada had an intimacy whereby secretary and janitor could mingle with actor and director, Universal seemed quite impersonal. There were small buildings scattered all over the lot, containing independent production companies. The commissary, or dining room looked quite forbidding to a mere secretary, and the actual studios were located way across the lot, sometimes requiring transportation to get to them. The brand new Universal Studios theme park was in the process of being built, and required a ride on the studio buses to get to it. It certainly did not have the “family” feel that I was used to at Granada.
My early days in Los Angeles were spent going to work, taking the bus home, and going out on dates with Danny Renet. I quite liked him, but not enough to have a physical relationship. I told myself that I was being “loyal” to Steve because I was in love with him. It gave me a sense of safety, knowing there was someone back in England who knew me, loved me, and wanted us to have a future.
Steve and I enjoyed our weekly phone conversations and numerous letters. He told me he would come out to see me as soon as possible, but that it was difficult to do right away. Steve was a Libra – the kind who could never make up his mind – a real waffler. I found it most frustrating to deal with him and started to realise that he probably would never make the trip over. Being a Moon child, I was still yearning for that elusive package – husband, family, security.
One night, Danny took me to a Hilton hotel on Sunset Boulevard, and booked a room for the evening. I never had the confidence to say “no,” to sexual requests, fearful a boyfriend wouldn’t want me if I refused. We had an unremarkable coupling, after which I slipped out of bed and stood at the balcony, looking at the traffic below. My new life was just starting, but I felt as though I were slipping back into my old promiscuous ways. This was not what I had intended to do. America was supposed to be my chance for a fresh start.
Danny dragged himself out of bed, washed his face, and decided to take me to a nightclub in West Hollywood called “Orgasm”. At this point, I wasn’t feeling too well, and couldn’t really get into the music or dancing. After ten minutes, I told him I wanted to leave but, instead of taking me home, he took me back to his place, just a few blocks away.
Danny opened his front door, and I was surprised to see people sitting around his coffee table in the darkened living room. They were smoking and talking among themselves. I knew none of them and wondered what they were doing there. Somehow I felt afraid. It smelled funny and I didn’t understand what was going on, and did not want to find out. Danny led me to his bedroom, and told me to rest there. He left the room and did not come back.
The most incredible pain I have ever experienced suffused my whole being. I felt as though my lungs were on fire. Each breath caused a paroxysm throughout my body. I lay on his bed, trying not to inhale the smell of his unwashed sheets, and waited and waited for what seemed hours for him to return. He never once opened the door to come to check on me. The feelings I had at that moment were quite similar to those I had in my flat in Sale when Barbara showed up with my half-brother Robby. I knew I should get up and go out to face the people, but I was too afraid. Danny finally came back in the room around 3:00 am, and I pleaded with him to take me to a doctor.
Danny quickly rushed me out of the house to a medical clinic on Santa Monica Boulevard, where I was told I had pleurisy, a painful lung infection. I was given medication and instructions to get to bed and take it easy. He drove me home and I staggered into bed, deciding I never wanted to see him again. I realised that his friends were taking drugs, and that was something I was deathly afraid of.
CHAPTER THREE
After a week of recuperation, I returned to work, still feeling quite shaky. Every time I took a deep breath, pain stabbed through my chest. To my surprise, Ed had moved our offices and my new desk was outside his office, next to George Hamilton’s secretary, Sharonne Whalley. She was a pretty, friendly young woman and we hit it off immediately.
I had been in America about a month, and was starting to enjoy life at Universal Studios. There were a few interesting looking men, but no-one that was husband material. I was terrified of another sexual relapse, as I didn’t want to get back to my old ways, since they had proved fruitless. Steve was writing and phoning regularly, but he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, make any promises. I was almost twenty-seven years old and wondering where my life was taking me. Was I destined to be an old
maid? Would my knight ever show up? As a matter of fact, my knight’s armour was made by Pampers. He was only two years old in 1969, crawling around in Hamburg, Germany, but I didn’t know that then.
Sharonne had filled me in on her boss, George Hamilton. She confided that he was a ladies’ man and a frightful flirt. I didn’t even know who he was but gathered he was an up-and-coming movie star. Wasn’t I done with actors?
George appeared at Sharonne’s desk one day, ostensibly to give her some instructions. He said “hi” to me and when I answered he could hear that I was British. We exchanged witticisms together and he enjoyed imitating my accent. I was not too impressed with this over-toasted young man, particularly since I knew what actors were like. One lay was pretty much like another to them. However, one day Sharonne leaned over to me and asked if I would consider going out with George. I was a little taken aback, since he had only spoken to me once, and was definitely not my type. I didn’t respond, and the next day she placed a bone china cup and saucer on my desk, together with an autographed photo of George. Apparently this was his way of courting, but fortunately I didn’t hear from him again.
I had been working at Universal for about two months when the call came that my car had finally arrived at the Long Beach docks. I was beside myself with excitement. Finally, I would have transportation. I missed my little sports car, and could not wait to pick it up. I could picture myself driving through the streets of Los Angeles, top down, the wind running through my hair, music playing – admiring glances – yes! I must retrieve my car pronto.
A charming older lady named Mo Olsen worked at an adjacent desk, and offered to drive me to Long Beach. I was a little nervous about driving back on my own on the freeway but she promised to drive slowly so I could follow. We picked up my car which looked dirty and bedraggled from its long journey across the ocean. I had decided to call it “Holly” named after Holly Grove where I had lived in England. Despite its appearance, I was thrilled to have it back and drove full speed to the studios, stopping off at a car wash to give it a good shampoo.
My MG Midget “Holly” 1969
I had become much closer with my cousin, Jackie, by this time. She was now married and living in an apartment in North Hollywood. We spoke on the phone often, and I occasionally went to visit her and her husband for dinner. She had turned into a great cook, and it was a real treat to be invited over. Unfortunately, her marriage didn’t last and before too long she and her husband divorced. We were now in the same boat –sexy and single. Our phone conversations became more frequent and the aloof Jackie of my childhood now became my friend and confidante.
One day in May, Jackie telephoned me to say she wanted me to meet a young man who lived in her apartment house. She told me he was divorced, a court reporter, and very nice. “He plays a lot of tennis, too,” she enthused. “I think you will like him. His name is Bill Fee.”
In fact, she said, she had given him my phone number. I waited a few days for his call, but when I heard nothing, I didn’t think too much of it. After all, I had never met him, so who cared? And of course there were starting to be a few more fish jumping out of the sea at Universal.
One such fish was a producer named Rick Dumm. It was an unfortunate last name and I tried writing it down. “Valerie Dumm.” Oh dear, that really wouldn’t work.
We went out a few times and even went on a double date with Jackie. I was horrified to learn, after he stopped taking me out, that he had started seeing Jackie without my knowledge. I was very hurt, but didn’t say anything to her. I mean, after all, I was really attractive. What was wrong with me? Did he prefer short blondes? My confidence took a hit and I wondered what he saw in her that he didn’t see in me. I was mollified when Jackie introduced me to another young man who lived in her apartment complex, and all was forgiven. After all, I had never wanted to be “Valerie Dumm”.
I was quite taken with Al Steinberg, Jackie’s referral, who turned out to be tall, dark, handsome and Jewish. We dated casually for a while until my birthday came along. Jackie had invited my mother and me to her apartment for a Fourth of July barbecue. I squeezed into my tiny pink bikini, sucked in my stomach, and headed to the Valley for the celebrations. All of the apartment tenants were gathered around the pool area, eating and drinking, and generally having a great time. I looked for Al, but he was nowhere in sight.
“Valerie, this is Bill Fee” said Jackie, pulling me over to meet a young, tanned man in a bathing suit. Bill looked at me with interest and we started talking. He had just returned from a Windjammer Cruise and sported a full grey beard. Facial hair was definitely not attractive to me, so I didn’t make any effort to flirt with him.
He never left my side, and when my mother and I retired to Jackie’s apartment after the festivities were over, he followed. We sat in her apartment, drinking tea and relaxing. My mother looked unusually animated and I could tell she liked Bill. He sat at my feet, staring at me, hanging onto my every word. I was quite flattered by his attention but felt a little overwhelmed at the same time. He finally left, asking if he could phone me the next day.
“You’ve had my phone number for a while now,” I retorted. “How come you never bothered calling before?”
“If I had known what I was missing, I would have phoned you immediately,” he parried, looking pointedly at my very tight, very ill-fitting bikini.
Bill called me at home the next morning, Sunday. He asked me out for the next Saturday, and I laughingly said “Only if you shave off that beard. I have not a clue what you look like.”
He arrived promptly at 7:00 pm the night of our first date. I opened the door to see a beardless Bill standing in front of me. He looked like one of my favourite French actors, Louis Jourdan.
Poor Bill! I suppose he was trying to impress me and had made a special effort to look good. I think he had purchased brand new clothes for the occasion. Unfortunately, the yellow cotton trousers, with a faint white stripe, and a shirt that had another pattern, were horrific. I caught myself debating whether or not to be seen with him, but decided I could easily change his taste in clothes later on.
We went to Westwood Village for our first date and saw “Midnight Cowboy” starring a very young Dustin Hoffman and Jon Voigt. This was followed by dinner at a little Italian restaurant across the street from the theatre. Our conversation flowed and I was impressed that he was not only interesting and outgoing, but he wanted to know all about me. That was a first. Most of the actors I had dated in the past only wanted to brag about themselves. I was finding him more and more attractive. Could this be “Mr. Right?” I mused.
Before we could have our second date, I was back at Jackie’s apartment the following weekend, giving her all the details of my Saturday night with Bill. Out of the blue, Al Steinberg showed up at her door and somehow the three of us ended up in her bed. We were giggling and laughing as the door bell rang, and wondered who could be there. Jackie crept to the door and peered through the keyhole, only to see Bill standing there. She put her hand to her mouth, and we all stifled our laughter until we knew he had left.
Jackie later opened the door, to find Bill had left a box of Constant Comment tea on the doorstep for me. I felt terrible and vowed to make it up to him on our second date, the following day. He picked me up in his Chevrolet Corvair and we drove to the beach. His car had a bench seat, so I was able to sit close as we sped south along the freeway to a place I had never heard of before – Manhattan Beach.
We walked along the streets of the quaint little town, examining the beach cottages and chatting non-stop. We ended up on the sand, near the Pier, enjoying the July sunshine. Later, Bill asked if I would like to go back to his place for dinner. His apartment was in the same complex as Jackie’s, so it was a long drive back to the Valley.
Arriving back at his apartment, I made myself at home, noticing how my bare feet stuck to his kitchen floor. Apparently some wine had spilled, and he had not cleaned it up properly. He proudly made me dinner from a can of Di
nty Moore stew, laced with wine, and I sat back, trying to imagine myself living there. Eventually, as I knew it would, we retired to his bedroom and I wondered if making love would be wonderful… or not.
After a very brief and most disappointing joining of our bodies, I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I had so wanted our love making to be special because I thought maybe, just maybe, this could be the man for me. He was bright, interesting, and attractive. He actually listened to what I had to say. I remembered the only advice my father had given me: marry someone who loves you more than you love him. Those words rang in my ears for the next few days.
On our third date, Bill took me for a long drive. A week had passed and I was becoming used to his attentions, liking the fact that he had serious feelings towards me. I was surprised when he suddenly stopped the car and turned to me with a serious look on his face. I had no idea what to expect, and when he asked me to marry him, I was taken aback. Thoughts of Steve quickly rushed through my head. We had been writing and telephoning pretty regularly, but he still had not been able to make the trip out to see me. In fact, he seemed to be avoiding a total commitment and I was becoming more and more disillusioned with him.
After a moment’s thought, I impulsively accepted Bill’s proposal of marriage. He seemed so happy that I ignored the warning voice that was faintly calling, way down inside me. He dropped me off at home, and I immediately woke my mother and told her the news. She was not as surprised as I had imagined, and seemed quite happy about me marrying Bill. She liked him very much and was probably relieved to finally get me off her hands.
No Ordinary Woman Page 17
