B00C4I7LJE EBOK (13 page)

As she herself admitted, her playing was not concert quality. She flubbed some notes, but that only made it funnier. When she hit an obviously wrong note, she laughed and the audience laughed with her. At first the conductor stopped and looked at her, but then he simply shrugged and the orchestra played on. The little old lady sketch did not go as well. There had been too little rehearsal, and Phyllis improvised as she went along. Cute at first, it soon started to drag and the audience grew restless. She later decided not to use it in her regular concert program, which I thought was a shame. It could have been a gem.

Phyllis practiced a lot more after that and her subsequent performances were better, but I never heard an error-free étude, and somehow I think everyone would have been disappointed with a perfect performance. When she made a mistake, she would turn to the audience with a “what did you expect?” kind of expression as if they were sharing an inside joke. Everyone had a good laugh.

Back in L.A., Phyllis’s schedule started to fill up with conventions and state fairs as well as shows in Chicago, Indiana, Houston, and San Francisco. We went from an average of three weeks at home for every one on the road to just the opposite. I loved it. Traveling made me happy. At the end of April—had it really been four months since we were in London?—the schedule listed only one appearance between June 2 and July 12, a benefit in Los Angeles. A month later, Phyllis had seven new appearances between those dates: a week at The Music Circus in Sacramento, a celebrity game show in San Diego, a taping of
Love, American Style
, an appearance at Magic Mountain in California, hosting
The Tonight Show
in New York, and an entire week in London on the
Des O’Connor Show
.

Yes! And there was no debate about my going to London. I had proven that I could handle it. Besides, as Phyllis put it, I “spoke the language.”

We went in early June, which was certainly preferable to December. Once again, I stayed at the Cumberland. Des O’Connor was an English comedian, but his show lacked the vitality of Tom Jones’s show. Phyllis had two skits and we rehearsed them in the car on the hour-long ride to the studio. Once again, we passed the home for retired horses. It was so typically English that even Warde, on the days he went with us, got a huge kick out of it.

With only two skits and her monologue to tape, we had plenty of free time. Warde and Phyllis went out every night, and so did I. Once the limousine dropped me off at the hotel, I could do as I pleased. In June, it stayed light until long past dinnertime, and I loved strolling through Hyde Park in the extended summer twilight, savoring all the sights and sounds that were distinctly London.

The first night in town, I sauntered along Park Lane, enjoying the excitement of the great city. I promised myself that I would never have a plain old nine-to-five job again. Eventually, I reached the Dorchester Hotel, where I was meeting friends for dinner. I’d arrived early, so I went into the elegant lounge where Mary of Teck, wife of King George V, had taken afternoon tea from time to time. As I stirred my drink—not tea—a feeling of well-being washed over me, and I knew at that moment the snail was on the thorn, God was on His throne, and all was indeed right with the world.

It was just as well I couldn’t see into the future, for it would surely have ruined a lovely evening.

The next day, the car arrived late; then I discovered I had forgotten my briefcase, so we had nothing to work on between takes. Des O’Connor made extensive changes to the skit with Phyllis, so the rehearsal dragged on. Warde paced the dressing room like a caged tiger because of the delays, which messed up their dinner plans, and when we did emerge from the studio, it was pouring rain.

When I finally got back to my hotel, I had a message from Tim, the friend I was supposed to have dinner with, saying he’d been called out of town. “Perhaps we could do it next time,” the message read. Tim and I had been introduced by friends who thought we would make a great couple. We enjoyed many of the same things, and I loved his sense of humor, but the romantic spark was not there. I’d been looking forward to an evening of just kicking back with an old friend.

It was too late to call anyone else, and I didn’t feel like leaving the hotel, especially now that the weather had turned cold as well as rainy. I hated eating out alone and room service was practically nonexistent, so I went down to the gift shop and bought a paperback novel for an outrageous price, got a candy bar for dinner, and returned to my room feeling miserable, hating every minute of being on the road and wishing I were back in California where it was sunny and I could at least pick up the phone and talk to someone.

The rain continued the rest of our stay. Of course, this should have been no surprise. In England it rained. In fact, when I’d lived there, I was always amused by visitors who remarked in the same sentence, “It’s so beautiful and green, but it rains all the time.” I always wanted to say, “Do you suppose that could be cause and effect?” So, yes, why should I be put out because of the rain? It wasn’t logical, but I was.

On Friday, I checked out of the Cumberland and took a taxi to the Connaught. As I entered the suite, Phyllis was just hanging up the phone. “That was Colin. The airport is fogged in.”

“What do you want to do, Ada?” Warde asked.

“We might as well head out there. Fog doesn’t last forever.” So we packed everything into the Rolls Royce and headed for Heathrow Airport, where I filled out the forms for customs and passport control. We sat in the VIP lounge for hours while the PSR issued occasional bulletins, telling us that nothing had changed—which we already knew by simply looking out the window. An impenetrable curtain of fog surrounded us.

Phyllis and Warde talked and drank copiously. I read and reread all the magazines and wished Karen were there.

As the afternoon dragged by, everyone in the lounge became short-tempered and edgy. At last, we heard the blessed sound of an airplane engine—someone was taking off. The fog had lifted! Or had it? The PSR announced that the fog had cleared just enough to get that one plane off the ground. It had been sitting on the runway for over three hours waiting for a break. I heard some talk in the lounge that we should be allowed to embark as well, but before it turned into a full-fledged mutiny, the PSR told us there would be no more flights that day. I got on the phone to Colin.

“I’ll come right away,” he said.

Next I called the hotels, dismayed to find they were both booked solid. The Connaught conceded that they might be able to find a room (not a suite, mind you) for Miss Diller, but that was the absolute most they could do.

“Couldn’t you stay with friends?” Warde asked.

“I certainly could not!” I replied. The thought of calling someone on Friday night and announcing that I needed a place to stay was ludicrous. I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying something I would regret later. I wasn’t there on vacation; I was working for Phyllis and it was up to her agent to find me a room.

By the time the Rolls arrived, all of us were tired and dispirited. Thank goodness for Colin’s phlegmatic English temperament. Totally unruffled, he took charge of the situation. In the end, he’d managed to get me a room at the Connaught, although they still insisted they were booked solid.

We arrived at the hotel bedraggled and shopworn. Phyllis and Warde went directly to the dining room for dinner, but a concierge sent Warde to his room to get a tie—gentlemen wore ties in the dining room.

After I had seen to the luggage (Lord, it seemed that I was born counting bags!), I returned to my room and threw myself into the easy chair. The room was small but incredibly elegant compared to the modernized digs at the Cumberland.

I wouldn’t mind eating my candy-bar dinner right here.

I checked the time. Still early, so I called Tim of the canceled dinner, even though I didn’t hold out much hope for a spur-of-the-moment evening. Not only was he home, he was thrilled I was still in London.

“I’ll pick you up in an hour,” he said without even waiting to hear of the day’s misadventure.

An hour later I’d showered and put on makeup and a nice dress, so I was ready when the desk called from downstairs. “A gentleman to see you,” the operator told me.

I smiled as the elevator made its slow descent. Tim was indeed a gentleman, but I was quite certain that only “gentlemen” and “ladies” patronized the Connaught.

“Nice digs,” he said as he held the car door for me.

“Believe me, this is not the norm!”

Tim took me to a delightful restaurant, one of many little places that he knew. I regaled him with stories of the week’s work, and he told me he had never liked the
Des O’Connor Show
anyway. We had a simple dinner and a bottle of pinot noir. The perfect antidote to having spent the day in the airport lounge. As he talked, I looked at Tim wistfully. He reminded me of Paul McCartney, with his cute, cocky grin and his slightly untamed hair.
Why did we never become romantic?

“. . . she’s a barrister’s assistant.”

“What? Who is? I’m sorry—I guess my mind was wandering.”

“Jennifer. I was telling you. The girl I’m dating.” His eyes crinkled and he grinned.

“Is this serious? Are you falling in love?”

“Not sure. I’ll let you know.” He poured the rest of the wine into our glasses. “You look like you’re done in.”

“It’s been a long week.”

Although the time was just past eleven, and I was indeed “done in,” I was reluctant for the evening to end. I had a feeling that it was the end of an era. I was leaving London, perhaps for the last time.

“It’s still foggy,” I said as we stepped outside.

“Don’t worry,” Tim said. “It’s never foggy two days in a row.”

I knew he said that just to cheer me up. We arrived back at the Connaught and the doorman whipped open my door before Tim could get out of the car. Tim leaned across and gave me a hug. “It’s been lovely,” he said in that English accent I adored. It sounded “luv-lee.”

I kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

We looked at each other for a moment, then he hugged me one more time. I slid out of the car and waved as he drove off in his little Morris Minor. In a matter of seconds, the fog had swallowed him up. I felt tears pricking behind my eyelids.
Good-bye, Tim. Have a nice life.

I have no idea why I felt so melancholy that night. The horrendous day, the wine, the feeling that a chapter in my life had just come to an end, or maybe just exhaustion. I cried myself to sleep. The next morning dawned bright and sunny. My eyes were puffy, my hair was flat, and I really didn’t give a damn. I just wanted to go home.

The Rolls picked us up on time, and Phyllis and Warde were subdued. We were all tired and ready for it to be over. At airport security, the guard started unpacking my purse. I had been shopping and seriously over-bought. Again. As a last resort, I’d crammed two bottles of my favorite English shampoo into my purse along with a couple of silk scarves from Liberty. Only with much adjusting and rearranging had I finally managed to zip it closed.

“Do you have to do that?” I whined as he extracted each item.

“Don’t worry, young miss. I do this all day long.” In no time he’d emptied my purse, then packed it all back so expertly that it zipped on the first try.

“Wow,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

He laughed. “When you do as many purses as I do in a day, you learn quickly.”

Other than that, the trip back was long and boring. I tried to watch the movie, but it didn’t interest me. Again I wished Karen were there so I’d have someone to talk to. It seemed to take forever to get to Los Angeles, then all at once we were there and it seemed as though we’d never been away. I couldn’t believe it had ended so fast. Even on the drive home I dug out the schedule to see when our next trip would be.

17

A
fter London, the highlight of the summer was Phyllis’s two weeks at the Playboy Club-Hotel in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. I’d never been to Wisconsin, but Karen raved about it.

“You’re going to love it,” she assured me. “It’s just like Las Vegas, but green.”

Unfortunately, Karen wasn’t going. She had planned to visit her family in Hawaii long before this trip came up. Phyllis was reluctant to let her go, and Karen was particularly sorry to miss two weeks in Wisconsin. (When she first began talking about Lake Geneva, I had harbored a weak hope that she might, just possibly, be talking about Switzerland. I was glad that I had not said anything out loud when I found out it was Wisconsin.)

Karen had a compelling reason for sticking to her vacation plans. Her brother was getting married and she was in the wedding. She assured me I would have a good time, and I looked forward to it, although with some apprehension. The Playboy Club-Hotel conjured up images of scantily clad “bunnies” being chased around the pool by horny old codgers. When we arrived I saw children scampering about the lobby.

“We’re a family hotel,” the manager said as he showed us to our rooms.

The hotel sat in the midst of acres of landscaped grounds. My room, which was decorated in forest green and dark wood paneling, looked out on the golf course. The bathroom had lots of mirrors—maybe too many, I thought, as I struggled to zip up my slacks. The one drawback was that my room was right next to Phyllis’s suite and our terraces abutted. No way would I be sitting outside enjoying the view with the possibility of one of them opening their sliding glass door and stepping out next to me.

As I hung up the last of my clothes, the phone rang.

“How do you like it?” asked Phyllis.

“Nice.”

“Are you all unpacked?”

“Pretty much.”

“Then let’s go down to the Cabaret,” the showroom where she’d be performing.

Finding the backstage entrance in any showroom is sometimes a puzzle. Often there is a discreet door opening right off the stage, sometimes the entrance is through the kitchen, and once in a while there’s a separate entrance entirely. The Cabaret had an inconspicuous door right beside the stage. Phyllis had been there before, so she knew exactly where she was going.