“How delicate?”
“She’s pathologically shy with strangers. She’s practically a recluse.”
“Dick will be gentle with her,” Ed said.
“It’s not going to be easy for her to open up to a guy she’s meeting for the first time. She’s more relaxed after a glass or two but I don’t think that would be advisable either.”
“Dick really wants this book. Trust me, he can handle the situation.”
I said I’d talk to Ava and get back to him.
AVA WINCED. “WHAT’S THE fucking point, honey? I thought Ed Victor was handling the money side of things?” she said when I told her that Dick Snyder wanted to meet her. Dressed in sweatpants and a gray wool sweater she looked bulkier than usual. “Didn’t anyone tell you? I stopped auditioning a long time ago, honey. No, I don’t think so. I don’t think so. I hate dealing with suits. Tell Ed he can forget it.”
I poured a couple of glasses of wine and handed one to her. “Ava, he doesn’t want to audition you, I give you my word. But he is buying your book, we hope for a lot of money. It’s perfectly reasonable that he should want to meet you. He is the head of Simon & Schuster. He’s the guy who signs the checks.”
She lifted her glass. “Down the hatch, baby,” she said, and sipped her wine. “I hate talking to suits,” she said again.
“You said you wanted to redeem your life for a little cash,” I reminded her.
“How about a lot of cash? A lot of cash would be better,” she said, and burst out laughing. “Jesus Christ, I’m such a whore!”
“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re Ava Gardner, you’re a legend, and you’ve got a wonderful story to tell. All you have to do is have tea with the man.”
I told her how good our last interview was, and how moved I was reading about the death of her father.
“It’s hard talking about those times, honey. Those times still hurt. Talking about the past makes you realize how many of those you’ve loved are dead. You know, you love people far more when they’re gone,” she said. She was calmer now but she still hadn’t agreed to the meeting with Dick Snyder. I didn’t push her. We talked for about an hour, reviewed our progress, and discussed ideas for the next couple of chapters while I made notes and asked questions that would keep her on track.
“When Daddy died in 1938, we were still living in Newport News. Daddy passed in the hospital there but we laid him to rest in the Smithfield graveyard back in North Carolina. I don’t know whether he asked to be planted there but that’s where his family had been buried for generations, so I guess he had said something about it, and that’s where Mama said he belonged. ‘He’s done his purgatory in Newport News,’ she said, and she was damn right. Then Mama took sick. We didn’t know it then, but she had cancer. Anyway, the following year, we shipped back to North Carolina—I reckon because she wanted us to be closer to Daddy, but she had never warmed to Newport News.”
She stood up and walked across to the French window and looked down into the square. Her feet were bare. “I guess he will have to come here,” she said. She put down her glass. “We don’t need a butler, do we, honey?” My mind seized up—who was she talking about, what butler? Then I realized she was discussing Dick Snyder.
“I think a butler would be a bit over the top,” I said.
“You can take care of the booze,” she said.
“Why don’t we invite him for tea? He will appreciate that,” I said, remembering Dirk Bogarde’s stories about her unreliable behavior after a glass or two. “I’ll tell Ed you’ll see them here for tea. If we say Wednesday at four o’clock, you and I can get in an interview session afterward. It’ll be a productive day.”
“You think tea rather than champagne?” she said. She sounded disappointed. “Really, honey, tea?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
THE FOLLOWING MONDAY SHE phoned me at 2 A.M.
“What the hell should I wear for this guy on Wednesday? I guess a dress, huh? Jeans would be too casual, you think?”
“I think so,” I said, clearing the sleep from my head.
“I think so, too. Why don’t you come over this afternoon and help me choose one? There’s a darling little dress shop near here. I saw a black dress I liked in their window the other day.”
I was working on Theodora during the day; I didn’t want to traipse around Knightsbridge looking for a dress for Ava. “You know, Ava, I wouldn’t go to all that expense. You look great in anything, and you’ll be more comfortable in something you’ve worn before.”
“Maybe,” she mused. “Get back to sleep, honey. I’m sorry I woke you.”
No more was said about what she should wear for the meeting on Wednesday, and on Tuesday there was another crisis. “I look terrible, honey. I look as if I’ve been in a fucking train wreck. That fucking stroke,” she said. She wanted to cancel the meeting with Snyder. I reminded her that he was only in London for a few days. “It would be a pity to miss this opportunity,” I said. “He really wants to meet you.”
“But he can’t see me looking like this—we’d never get a deal if he sees me looking like this. I’ve got more lines on my face than Lana Turner.”
“Do you want me to call Ed? Shall I tell him and cancel the meeting?”
That got her attention. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
“It’s your call. I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” I said. It was ten o’clock in the morning; an unusual hour for her when she wasn’t filming. “Have you put your makeup on yet? I’m sure you’ll feel much better once you’ve put your face on,” I said.
“Call Jack Cardiff,” she said after a silence.
“What can Jack do, Ava?”
“Call him now and explain the situation. Tell him I desperately need him,” she said, and put the phone down.
I rang Cardiff and told him exactly what Ava had said. That afternoon, the world’s finest cinematographer rearranged the lamps in her drawing room—and placed a key light above the chair on which she’d sit for her meeting with Snyder.
He called me that evening. “It’s the best I can do discreetly,” he said. “When she sits in that chair tomorrow, keep telling her how beautiful she looks. Keep on saying that. How beautiful she looks. Lay it on thick. She won’t believe you, she’s too smart to fall for blarney, but it’s what she wants to hear. It’s the tribute you must always pay to great beauties when they grow old. Remember, it’s always the cameraman who grows old, never the star.”
I ARRIVED EARLY. I wanted to go through some lines with Ava before Snyder and Ed Victor got there. A bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne rested in a silver bucket packed in ice. There was another one in the fridge, she told me. She clearly mistook what must have been a look of deep apprehension on my face for one of approval. “And I hope they like quails’ eggs and caviar,” she spoke softly into my ear. “They cost a fucking fortune at Fortnum’s.”
“I’ll go easy on the champagne,” I said. I was determined we wouldn’t have to open the second bottle.
“Don’t make me look mean, honey. Jesus, I hate people who pour small measures.”
“I won’t,” I said. “But don’t forget who we’re dealing with.”
“Is it too late to back off?” she said.
I checked my watch. “Definitely,” I said.
“It’s just that I have to get a little pie-eyed to talk about myself, honey,” she said.
I knew that was true. “Just don’t overdo it,” I said.
“Time will tell,” she said mischievously, but I knew she understood what was at stake, and let it go.
“I’m just not happy having strangers digging around in my panties drawer, honey.”