Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [11]
I told Skip that I found the article wonderfully informative, and I thanked him for sending it. “What about the age difference?” he demanded, practically snarling. “The guy is sixty years old! He’s an old man!”
“Skip, he’s fifty-eight and he’s proposing lunch, not marriage.” I was getting the impression that Skip had drawn a comparison between Cary Grant and himself, and in Skip’s mind, Cary came out second.
The fact is, the age difference didn’t bother me. What bothered me was that I was starting to have feelings for Cary Grant. I didn’t want to have feelings for Cary Grant. Feelings get hurt. No-feelings don’t.
“Is lunch today a possibility?” Another day, another segment of the Daily Word.
“No, I’ll be busy until seven, and then I’ve got dinner plans,” I said. (TV dinner plans—Addie and I would be heating up a Swanson’s and watching Gunsmoke.)
The next day, undeterred, he called again, sounding mildly exasperated. “Dyan,” he said firmly, “I want you to have lunch with me today.”
“Oh, I have to run over to the Fox lot to do some looping.”
“On what film?” he asked. “I’ll call over there and get it rescheduled.”
“No, wait!” I told him. Cornered. I was fresh out of excuses and worn out with lies. White lies, yes, but my good upbringing had almost completely crippled me when it came to lying. If you put me on a polygraph when I was trying to tell the most innocuous fib, the thing would probably blow up.
I rattled some magazine pages for effect. “I was wrong! I see from my calendar that it’s not ’til tomorrow.”
“That’s wonderful! I’ll see you at the studio commissary at one. I’ll leave a guest pass for you at the main gate.”
He hung up before I could change my mind. I riffled through my wardrobe. Nothing seemed right to wear to lunch with Cary Grant. I poked a shaky finger into the phone dial and called Addie at work to borrow an outfit from her. I knew just which one.
The commissary was bustling and bursting to the seams with important people. I felt like the little match girl walking into this pantheon of stars, but when I told the maître d’ that I was there to have lunch with Cary Grant he bowed as if he were my personal valet who would get whipped if he didn’t perform up to snuff. “This way, madam, I’ve been expecting you,” he said with a sweeping gesture. Our progress was interrupted by none other than the man who thought he was Cary Grant but wasn’t: Skip Denning. Seeing me, he leapt out of his seat and barred our way like a nightclub bouncer.
“Dyan!” he called. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m having lunch with a friend.”
“Cary Grant?” he said with a smirk, clearly assuming that Cary had by now lost interest in me.
“As a matter of fact—”
“Dyan!” It was Cary, calling to me from the entrance to a private dining area. Skip’s posture absolutely crumpled as I said good-bye and went to join Cary and his retinue. “Let me introduce you around!” he cried, as if I were visiting royalty.
I shook hands with Milton Greene, the renowned photographer (famous for his iconic images of Marilyn Monroe); Bob Arthur, the renowned movie producer; Delbert Mann, a well-known film director; and Gig Young, an immediately recognizable actor. They made room for me between Cary and Milton and plunged right back into their conversation—a scene-by-scene analysis of the movie they were just about to wrap, That Touch of Mink, starring Cary Grant, of course, and Doris Day.
It was a lot of shoptalk, very technical for my purposes, so I smiled and listened and nodded until my facial muscles stung. The conversation churned on right through dessert and coffee. As lunch drew to a close, Cary was summoned away to take a phone call. Before he left, he leaned close, looked at me with those big brown eyes, and whispered, “I have to leave for a moment. I hope you’ll join us when I come back.”
He walked off, and I turned