Another Life_ A Memoir of Other People - Michael Korda [172]
Crawford’s apartment was reached via a cramped elevator and a narrow, dark corridor, lit by recessed fluorescent lamps, that had rows of identical painted metal doors on each side. There was nothing to distinguish Joan Crawford’s apartment from the other dozen or so on her floor. It had the same blank peephole, a little plastic plate bearing the apartment number, and a bell. A maid opened the door and ushered me into the living room. It wasn’t at all what I would have expected of Joan Crawford. The walls were standard New York City landlord–issue white, there where white plastic venetian blinds on the windows instead of drapes and curtains, and the furniture seemed to have been salvaged from somebody’s pool, that of the Beverly Hills Hotel, perhaps—lots of white-painted wrought iron with green plastic-covered cushions and white wicker. The tables were glass topped and so shiny that one hesitated to touch them for fear of leaving fingerprints. The familiar pink ashtrays with turquoise script actually did come from the Beverly Hills Hotel. I could imagine that Joan Crawford might have taken the ashtrays home with her, but I didn’t see how she could have taken the furniture.
On the coffee table was a large ice bucket containing six bottles of Pepsi and a full bottle of Stolichnaya vodka—Joan Crawford apparently remained loyal to the Pepsi-Cola company, or perhaps to Steele’s memory, despite everything. In each ashtray there was a full, carefully opened package of Pall Malls, with one cigarette sticking out exactly one inch, and a book of matches, folded back with one match sticking up. At various strategic locations, there were unopened packets of cigarettes and matchboxes, a reserve supply of Pepsi, and a generous supply of paper napkins. This, I was soon to discover, was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Joan Crawford’s need for order.
When she appeared, I was instantly won over, not only by the warmth of her greeting—most stars can pull that off when they need to—but by the fact that she was direct, cheerful, and very clearly a bundle of energy. She asked me what I wanted to drink, and I tactfully asked for vodka. She poured us two stiff ones and took the exposed cigarette from the nearest pack and lit it with the bent match.
The first thing she had to tell me was that she was not a prima donna, whatever anybody said. She had her faults, God knew, but she was a pro through and through. She had worked for the studios in the old days, when stars were expected to work their butts off and smile about it, and when you didn’t say no to any demand the publicity department might make, however damned tired you were after getting up at five in the morning to be in makeup at six, and even if you were hungover, or sick, or suffering from the goddamn cramps. She just wanted me to know that S&S could count on her to go out and sell the book, that was number one. She had put Pepsi-Cola on the map all over the world, after all, so she understood a little bit about publicity. As for the book, I should know that she had never been one of those actresses who fought directors. She took direction and was grateful for it. She just didn’t understand the new breed of actors and actresses, who went around looking like slobs and ignored their director on the set. Well, just look at Marilyn Monroe,