Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant (16 page)

Suddenly, I saw Cary's face had expanded to the size of a close-up on a gigantic movie screen. He opened his mouth to speak and his mouth turned into a tunnel and I was traveling fast through it, into the cavern of his throat, and sliding on down through space . . .

Dr. Hartman said something to me, but the words echoed as if he'd shouted from within a cave. The walls had turned crimson and were breathing, in-out-in-out, and a sonic roar, like a jet, screamed inside my head. Then came the dancing bears, at first jolly and smiling, then scowling and singing nursery rhymes in German . . . as the walls became increasingly more swollen until they were about to close in on us all, and I screamed,
“Make it stop!”

“Take this.” Dr. Hartman gave me a pill. My mouth was as dry as dust, but I swallowed it. Cary had wrapped his arms around me from behind, and I was kicking, trying to make the bears stop singing in German. But the bears were closing in on me, so I zapped them with a yellow bolt of light, straight from my forehead. That showed them. They stopped for a moment but then resumed, this time in Italian.

Damn singing bears.

“F
eeling better?” Cary asked. He was lying next to me, on top of the covers, reading.

“What happened?” I said.

“You weren't reacting well, so Dr. Hartman gave you a dose of Seconal to knock you out.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost two. You've been asleep for eighteen hours.”

Eighteen hours!
“I still feel knocked out,” I said. “I feel like I've been run over by a truck. I will never,
ever,
do that again.”

“Sweetheart, you've got to fall off the bike a few times before you learn to ride. Remember, we're in this together. If we keep going, there's no stopping us.”

“Cary, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, my dear.”

“How in the hell can giant bears singing in German bring you closer to God?”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Big Sting

T
he turquoise waters lapped gently against the white sands of the beach, and the palm branches shivered when the breeze kicked up. From a distance of about ten yards, I watched Cary as he prepared himself for the next scene. He was doing location work in Jamaica on
Father Goose
and had invited me down for a couple of weeks of the filming. In this picture, Cary had uncharacteristically donned the aspect of a ragged, whiskey-soaked sailor. He was as unkempt as his costar, Leslie Caron, was groomed (even though the story had them stranded on a Pacific island during World War II). Cary was having a ball playing a disheveled rogue.

Jamaica was wonderful. I slept late in Cary's rented beachfront villa, took long walks on the shore, and every day went to the set to join him for lunch. Then I'd stay for the rest of the day to watch filming. I really loved seeing Cary frolic with the child actors. They followed him around like ducklings, laughing and giggling at his monkey faces and pratfalls. He was like a big, happy kid.
This man was meant to have children,
I thought, and I said as much to him: “You are great with those children! A real natural!”

He gave me a knowing smile. He was onto me.

Now I sat in Cary's chair and watched. Leslie was a natural if unconventional beauty, with a high-domed forehead, bedroom eyes, and bee-stung lips. She was about my age, and it hadn't occurred to me until now that Cary hadn't made a peep this time about starring opposite a much younger woman.
Hmmmph.
It made me wonder . . .

In the scene, Cary and Leslie were knee-deep in the water. Cary was supposed to be teaching her how to catch fish—with her bare hands. That required him to stand behind her with his arms encircling her, a position intended to generate some romantic heat between the two characters. Up until now, they'd been at loggerheads through the whole story.

Ralph Nelson, the director, called, “Action!”

The scene culminated with Leslie turning to Cary, looking deep into his eyes, lips a-quivering. And then . . .

I freaked.

I knew about movie kisses, but weren't they both putting a little too much feeling into this one? I could feel that kiss down to my toenails, and I was standing thirty feet away.

“Cut! Print! Okay, let's go again!”

Go again? Another kiss like that and neither one of them would have any lips left.

“One more . . .
action
!”

I turned away. It was too much.
Stop this, Dyan!
I told myself. But it really rattled me. I thought of Cary and his affair with Sophia Loren. Was this going to be another
Houseboat
? I was leaving in a couple of days. What on earth would happen after I left?

“Let's try a couple
without
the kiss,” Bob Arthur, the producer, told them. “This time, Cary, you chicken out. I think maybe there's even more heat if you save it for later . . .
action
!” That was more like it.

Hmmmph
.

“I
s something bothering you?” Cary asked that evening.

“No . . . Yes . . . No . . . a little.”

A lot.

I don't quite know what came over me, but it was the first time I'd felt any real pang of jealousy—and along with it, insecurity, of course—over Cary. It was spring 1964, and we'd launched into the third year of our courtship lighthearted and in love, and taking advantage of Cary's downtime to travel and have fun. We'd go to England for Wimbledon and soccer and to New York for shows and shopping, which, since he was friendly with many top designers, was quite an experience. Cary loved to gamble for fun but was never serious about it, so on Saturdays we'd go to the Santa Anita racetrack and place our $2 bets, and to Las Vegas for shows and low-stakes blackjack. We'd go to Dodgers games, sit in the box seats, and gorge ourselves on kosher hot dogs. At my insistence, we'd take long walks around town and on the beach, something he really came to enjoy; it turned out that since the last person anyone expected to see just walking around was Cary Grant, he was rarely recognized. And of course, Cary loved to eat as much as anyone I ever knew, so we went to a lot of restaurants.

We were more comfortable with each other than ever, and although we enjoyed going places and doing things together, we enjoyed each other's company so much that we could have been happy stranded on a desert island, even if it meant just playing word games into perpetuity, which we loved to do. We didn't need anyone or anything; each other's presence was enough.

Maybe that was my problem at the moment. I'd gotten attached and I didn't want to see him kissing another woman, let alone a
beautiful
woman, and it didn't make a sliver of difference to me if it was all for the camera.

“You look very nice tonight,” he said.

“Don't change the subject.”

“Okay . . . what
is
the subject?”

“That kiss.”

“What kiss?”

“The one that curled my toenails.”

“I hope there's been more than just one of those.”

“Snap out of it. I'm talking about the kiss you gave Leslie in the water.
This very afternoon!
”

“Silly child, that's what they
pay
me for! Come here. I want to show you something.”

With my arms folded, I took a cautious step forward. Cary curled his arm around my waist, took my face in his hand, tilted my head to the side ever so slightly.

“Now, this one,” he said, “is on my own dime.”

Suffice it to say that Cary's kissing power had not been used up by the movie. Literally feeling dizzy, I took a step back and said, “How do I know you're not acting?”

Cary laughed. “
You
know I'm not acting.”

If he was, it was an Oscar-worthy performance.

We spent several more days swimming, dining, and taking long walks on the beach. Before I knew it, two weeks had gone by and it was time to go. Cary had an early call the morning I was leaving and we kissed each other good-bye after breakfast. Bob Arthur, who had also produced
That Touch of Mink
with Cary, was waiting to take me to the airport.

“Dyan, Cary has just been glowing the whole time you've been here,” Bob said as we drove the narrow highway beside the water.

“But Cary is
always
glowing,” I said.

“Not like that. Why don't you stay awhile longer?”

“Nobody asked me.”

“The fact is, Dyan, I was deputized to use my power of persuasion on you by Mr. Grant himself.”

“Really? Why didn't he just ask me
himself
?”

“I don't know. But why don't you stay and ask him that
yourself
.
”

“Bob, I really need to get home. There's so much I have to get done.” Then a half a breath later, I said, “Okay, I'm persuaded.” I was overjoyed that Cary wanted me to stay longer. But how odd, I thought, that he didn't just simply ask me himself. Was it possible that he didn't know how much I really cared for him?

A
couple of days later, Cary had the afternoon off and we went to the beach. “You know, I haven't had my monthly exercise in a couple of months,” he said. “I think I'll take a swim.”

“Good idea,” I said. “You've gained at least a half ounce. I can see it in your face.” He waded into the water and splashed around.

A few minutes later, Cary screamed like he was on a torture rack. I started to run into the water after him but he yelled, “Don't get in! Don't get in!” He paddled to shallow water and staggered onto the sand, still screaming in pain.

“What happened?” I cried.

“Sea urchin!” His leg was aflame with the spines of the creature. Cary writhed in pain as we walked the several yards up to the house.

Next to my father, Cary was probably the most stoic man I'd ever known. He did not show pain, and here he was screaming his head off. I couldn't imagine how much that sting must have hurt. Then the maid came running. She approached me and spoke softly, almost in a whisper.

“Only one cure for dat, mum,” she said. She looked a little shy about telling me, though.

“What is it?”

“You got to make water on the sting.”

“Make water?”

“Yes, mum. You know, you go to the bathroom on it. The urine take the pain away.”

“I have to pee on his leg?”

“Dat's right, mum. You got to do dat or he gonna have some bad misery for a long time. But you got to do it right on dere. It got to come right from the body, or it won't work.”

“It feels like someone is holding a red hot poker to my leg!” Cary complained. “Where's the doctor? I need morphine!”

“Cary, go into the bathroom.”

“I don't need to go into the bathroom!”

“Yes you do. The maid told me how to fix this.”

“I
know
how to fix it! I need an amputation! Immediately! Grab a carving knife, will you?”

“Come on, now.” I steered him into the bathroom. “Now, put your leg over the tub.”

“What are you going to do?”

It was hard to keep from laughing. Not because it was funny, but because it was
embarrassing.
“Okay, Cary . . .
remain calm
!”

“I'M CALM!” he screamed.

“Apparently, the antidote for the sting is urine.”

“WHAT?”

“Seriously, that's what the maid told me.”

“
Whose
urine?” he snapped.

“It doesn't matter whose urine! But somebody's got to pee on your leg!”

“Why?”

“It'll neutralize the poison!”

“I—I—ayeeeeeee! Okay! Anything!”

I dropped my panties and straddled his leg.
This is crazy,
I thought.
I am about to pee on the leg of the biggest movie star in the world.

“Well, don't take all day!”

“Cary, I'm sorry. I can't. I can't go.”

“Oh, heavens to Murgatroyd,
why not
?”

I turned on the faucet, remembering the old wives' tale about running water making people get the urge to pee. It worked.

Within a minute, Cary exhaled, then relaxed.

“Whoa,” he said. “Our friend the maid knew what she was talking about. Dyan, I never thought I'd thank anyone for taking a piss on me, but right now it seems like about the nicest thing anybody's ever done. Thank you.”

O
ne evening when Cary was done filming, he came back to the bungalow and suggested that for dinner, we picnic on the beach. “Actually, I already mentioned it to the houseboy,” he said. “He's going to bring some sandwiches down by the water at six. Nothing fancy.” I said I thought it was a lovely idea.

We relaxed awhile and then headed out the door. “This way,” he said, leading me out the front door and into the lush garden.

“Where are you taking me?” I asked.

“You'll see.”

We walked down a long, narrow path that led to the sea. There, just a few feet from the water, was a table for two. Twinkling lights were strung through the tree branches, and flaming tiki torches danced against the inky sky. On the table was a glistening bottle of champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket. Cary led me to the table and held my chair for me, then opened the champagne and topped off our glasses.

“You're beautiful,” he said. Hearing that made me
feel
beautiful. “And I'm not just talking about how you look. It's your inner light that stirs something inside of me.”

We sat there, sipping champagne, looking into each other's eyes, listening to the tide beat against the sand and the parrots squawking in the trees. We hardly talked. What he was feeling that night spoke so loudly, I didn't need to hear a word.