B00C4I7LJE EBOK (8 page)

I took a walk around the gardens until I started to get chilly.
Time to get inside!
I flagged a taxi to take me back to the hotel. By the time Richard picked me up for dinner, I’d luxuriated in a hot bubble bath and got my second wind. Even so, I told him I wanted to make it an early evening.

I had met Richard shortly before my tour at the Embassy concluded. He was one of several Englishmen I’d dated. I had no serious attachment with any of them, and in a couple of cases, I wondered if they saw me as something of a novelty: a cute American girl from the U.S. Embassy. Richard and I corresponded after I left, and he was one of the few people who knew that I might be visiting. Over dinner I told him about my new life in show business and he laughed at some of the tales.

“Why so many suitcases, especially an office bag and a kitchen bag?”

“Phyllis is very particular about everything, especially her costumes and props, and, believe it or not, she likes to cook for us occasionally.”

As our delightful and delicious evening drew to a close, Richard walked me back to the hotel, where he left me in the lobby with a hug. I felt happy to have spent a lovely time with him and, with a full tummy, I took the elevator to my room. I barely managed to put on my nightgown before I fell asleep.

Surprisingly, I did not sleep late the next day. When I opened my eyes, my travel alarm said 9:30 A.M. London time, and I had to stop myself from figuring the time difference to California. It was a silly thing to do and made no difference whatsoever. It being Sunday morning, I thought about attending the morning church service at the Guards Chapel. I’d loved going there while I was with the Embassy. Regimental flags hung from the ceiling and the service was traditional, the liturgy soothingly repetitive, and it always ended with
God Save the Queen
and the Navy hymn,
Eternal Father, Strong to Save
. I don’t think I learned much about God or the Bible, but it was so incredibly English and conventional that no matter how hectic the week had been, I left comforted with the knowledge that in spite of famine, wars, and plagues, the world had gone on for centuries and would likely continue for many more. It put my little problems in perspective.

But my friend Kay, whom I’d called after checking in, had left a message at the front desk while I was out with Richard: “Brunch tomorrow. My place. Noon.”

It was too early for Phyllis to be up, but I called anyway. Sure enough, the operator at the Connaught told me they had a “do not disturb” on their phone. (I hadn’t even known it was possible to do that until I’d begun traveling with Phyllis.)

Brunch at Kay’s apartment turned into a reunion. Kay had invited several friends I’d worked with. My British friends didn’t know much about Phyllis Diller because her shows had not been on the telly there. But still they were pleased that I had such a great job and got to travel. Or at least I hoped I would do more traveling. Besides the trip to London, I’d only been to Pittsburgh and New York.

While at Kay’s, I called Phyllis’s suite. Three o’clock and they had just finished breakfast.

“Are you having fun?” Phyllis asked after I told her where I was.

“Absolutely!”

“Well, I don’t think there’s anything I’m going to need today. We’re going out with Colin for dinner and we leave at seven in the morning for the studio.”

I heard Warde say something in the background.

“Hold on,” Phyllis said as she put her hand over the mouthpiece. I could hear a muffled conversation, then Phyllis came back on the line.

“Warde wants to know if you’re sure you got all the bags off the plane. He seems to be missing something.”

My heart sank. I could imagine all the fuss and furor I would have to go through to retrieve a missing piece of luggage. On Sunday, no less.

Why the hell hadn’t he noticed it yesterday?

I thought back, remembering which bags we had brought with us. I couldn’t imagine I’d overlooked one. I was sure I had counted them all at least half a dozen times. I’d counted them at the airport as they came off the carousel, again after we’d gone through customs, and also when the porter stashed them in the boot of the car. At the hotel, I made certain that all the bags were out of the car, I counted again after the porter brought them inside, and I watched to be sure that all the bags were taken to the suite.

“No, I’m sure we’ve got them all,” I replied. “Which one does he think is lost?”

“Which bag, Warde?” I heard Phyllis ask. There was more conversation between them while in my mind I counted the bags once again. There was no way one had gone astray.

“He doesn’t know which bag it was,” she said, “but he’s sure he brought his suede jacket, and he can’t find it.”

“Have you checked all the wardrobes?” I vaguely remembered the porter opening closet doors after he brought up the bags.

Phyllis called out to Warde. “Is it in one of the wardrobes?”

I heard only silence for nearly a minute, then Phyllis came back on the line. “We’ve found it,” she said. “It was in the closet behind the coats.”

What a relief! I had visions of my entire afternoon being spent trying to track down a nonexistent bag at the airport.

“Well, I guess that’s it,” Phyllis concluded. “Remember, the car’s going to pick us all up here at seven tomorrow.” I wondered why Colin, or whoever had made the arrangements with the car, hadn’t had the forethought to ask them to stop by the Cumberland at 6:55 and get me first, but that was a minor inconvenience compared to having the rest of the day to myself.

Kay served mimosas—champagne with orange juice—and we all chatted a long while. Some of my friends left, and after a bit someone suggested the four of us who remained go to a bistro, which was halfway between Kay’s flat and my hotel. It would be an easy walk.

The bistro specialized in French country food and although I thought I’d never eat again after the spread Kay laid out, I put away the better part of a
coq au vin.
We had talked and laughed for longer than I realized because when I glanced outside, it was fully dark
. How did it get so late so fast?

“Hey,” I said, “tomorrow’s a working day for all of us. It’s been great seeing you, but I’m going to head back to the hotel.”

There were hugs all around and I promised to drop by the Embassy before I left London.

The next morning the alarm went off at 5:30.
An unearthly hour to get out of bed
. It was still dark when I went downstairs. I stamped my feet in the cold as the doorman whistled up a taxi.

At the Connaught, I debated about going up to the room or ringing from the lobby. The simultaneous arrivals of the elevator and the Rolls solved my dilemma. Phyllis stepped out of the elevator, followed by Warde and a porter carrying the two large costume suitcases and a wig box. The porter stowed the bags in the car, and, with a mumbled greeting, Phyllis and Warde crawled into the back seat. I again slid up front with the driver for the hour-long ride.

At the studio I stepped out of the luxurious Rolls into the still dark and cold English climate and recalled the downside to life in the British Isles. I wrapped my cape around me and wiggled my toes in my knee-high boots. As usual, Phyllis was bundled in an ankle-length fur coat. “It’s the only thing that really keeps me warm,” she always said. She wore her white mink along with her usual white shirt, slacks, and shoes, and she had pulled a white hood over her head. In the morning twilight she looked like a small, furry ghost scampering into the studio.

Inside, everything was warm and bright. People walked about and talked as if it weren’t the middle of the night for those of us from California. Colin appeared and guided us to the dressing room, introducing Phyllis to everyone along the way.

Right off, Phyllis and Warde attended a production meeting with Colin. I stayed in the dressing room, hanging up costumes and arranging the dressing table in my best imitation of Karen’s style. The door opened an hour later.

“Why don’t you go downstairs and watch?” Phyllis suggested. “My monologue is taping after lunch. I don’t need you right now.”

Murmuring a silent prayer of thanks, I headed for the stairs, delighted to be out of the close quarters with the three of them.

I picked up a production schedule lying on a table downstairs and saw that in addition to her stand-up monologue, Phyllis was scheduled to perform skits with Tom Jones on Tuesday and Wednesday, and a closing number on Thursday with Tom Jones and his other guest star, Tony Bennett. An audience began filing in and I joined them, taking a seat on the end of a row.

It seemed to take forever to tape even a small segment. Setting up for Phyllis’s part that afternoon was tedious. First they had to get light readings off the costume and jewelry (the rhinestone-covered dog collar that Phyllis had on gave the lighting man fits), then there were camera angles and sound levels. They had to allow for laughter from the audience and endless discussions took place between the director and the production people concerning heaven only knows what.

Finally, after starting and stopping several times, they got the entire five-minute monologue taped. The audience laughed far more than I had expected and at the end burst into applause. Phyllis beamed with pleasure.

My friends might be in for a surprise.

“Okay, that’s a wrap!” the director called. “Miss Diller, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

Back we went to the dressing room, and once assured that it would be locked up, Phyllis agreed to leave everything as is. She changed and the three of us piled into the Rolls for the drive back into town.

The sun had not quite set, and Warde came alive, looking forward to the evening and their get-together with friends. Phyllis was a little less enthusiastic and no wonder—she’d been working all day. I was good and tired. I slurped some soup in the hotel restaurant and headed upstairs to bed.
No partying for me tonight!

The next morning we didn’t have to leave so early since once again Phyllis wasn’t taping until after lunch. I went to the American Embassy and met the secretary who had taken my job. I also saw a lot of my old friends and poked my head into Kay’s office.       

“Just heading out,” I told her. “We’re leaving at noon for the studio.”

“Can I ask you a favor?” she said as she walked me to the elevator.

“Sure.”

“My sister is the biggest Tom Jones fan in the world, and she would be thrilled beyond words to have his autograph. Do you think you could?”

“Well, um, sure. I guess. I haven’t even met him yet, but if I get a chance, I’ll ask.”

“Don’t go out of your way, but if it works out, you know she would love it.”

I thought about Kay’s request as I headed for the Connaught. I didn’t know anything about Tom Jones and wasn’t sure he was the kind of person one could approach for an autograph.

At the hotel, the Rolls waited out front, and I called Phyllis from the lobby.

Warde answered. “She’s on her way down.”

“Are you coming, too?” I asked.

“Not today.”

I couldn’t say I blamed him since there was nothing for him to do. We drove out in silence as Phyllis studied her script. One of her pet peeves was people who didn’t know their lines. About thirty minutes into the drive, I saw a farm with a lot of horses. They looked old. A sign read “Horse Haven.”

“What’s that?” I asked the driver.

“It’s a home for retired horses,” he said. “Old working horses like they use to pull carts. When they get too broken down to work, they used to send them to the glue factory.” He chuckled. “Now they send ’em here.”

Phyllis looked up. She loved animals. “How long do they stay here?” she asked as we drove by another pasture.

“Rest of their lives, ma’am. Rest of their lives, bless ’em.”

It was so typically English. The old, useless animals who’d spent a lifetime pulling a cart through the city streets from before dawn till long past dark were enjoying the rest of their days on a farm where the grass was always green and the stalls were warm and dry. I wondered if their owners had such a happy retirement.

In another few minutes, we pulled up to the studio gate. The driver pointed out a large house trailer. “That’s Tom Jones’s dressing room.”

Both Phyllis and I stared at it as if it being Tom Jones’s dressing room would somehow make it different from other house trailers.

“It’s said to move about a foot a day,” he continued.

Phyllis and I looked at each other, then back at the trailer.

“It does?” she replied.

“Yeah,” the driver said. “Like this.” And with his hand held out flat, he made a back-and-forth motion as though he were sanding a floor.

I still didn’t get it. I looked back at Phyllis and she whispered, “Screwing.”

Oh!

The driver broke out in a huge laugh and Phyllis did, too.

Inside, Phyllis went right to makeup. She normally did her own, but television makeup is different, not just because of the close-ups but because of the quality of lighting. Phyllis still put on her own false eyelashes, however.

“The green dress,” Phyllis told me as she sat at the dressing table. She did the eyelashes, stepped into the dress, and pulled on the fright wig.

“Makeup,” a lady said from the doorway. “Do you need a touch-up?”

Phyllis checked the mirror. “No, I’m okay. Thank you.”

She put on the boots and dog collar, and we headed downstairs for her skit with Tom Jones.

“Careful he doesn’t latch on to you,” she warned me as we descended the stairs. “He has quite an eye for the ladies.” Then she held her hand flat, making the same back-and-forth motion as the chauffeur and laughed.

I wondered if Tom Jones would actually hit on me.
What would I do? Would I tell Phyllis? Would I spend the next three days hiding out in the dressing room? Surely he had all the women he needed.
I’d heard stories of women throwing their underwear onto the stage.
When we reached the set, Tom Jones was already there chatting with the crew. Colin appeared and made introductions. I tried to hide behind Phyllis, but that didn’t work.