Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [12]
“What did he mean by that?” I asked, completely lost.
“I think he wants you to join the conversation,” Milton said.
But I felt like the newest member of an old club. Joining in would mean turning all of the attention onto myself, and I didn’t want to do that. So I smiled some more, and nodded some more, and listened some more. I had a sharp sensation that I was under review. Well, what could you expect? Any woman introduced as Cary’s lunch date was bound to be subjected to serious scrutiny. It was a little disconcerting, though.
Cary returned a few minutes later and, with lunch concluded, invited me to the set to watch him film a few scenes. “It’ll be nice for you,” he said. “And I’ll introduce you to Doris.” Doris Day? I felt like Dorothy in the Land of Oz. I was processing all this when he added, “And I really don’t want to let you go.”
I really don’t want to let you go.
Did he really say that? To me? Yes, he said that! What did he mean by that?
My mind was about to go into overdrive.
He drove us to the set in his silver Rolls-Royce. I petted the leather upholstery. I felt like the queen sitting next to the king.
Once in the soundstage, he seated me right behind the camera in the canvas-backed chair emblazoned with his name.
Have you ever walked on stilts, Dyan? . . . It gives you a very different view of the world.
I wasn’t on stilts, but I was viewing the world from Cary Grant’s chair.
They were about to shoot a bedroom scene. Delbert Mann, the director, adjusted the lighting, peered through the camera lens, and conferred briefly with the cinematographer. Then Doris Day appeared. A peppering of scarlet welts covered her face, making her look like she had buried her head in a mound of red army ants. That startled me for a second. Even though I had been on my share of film and TV sets, it was still a little jarring for me when reality and fantasy clashed like that. Doris crossed the room, tucked herself into bed, and smiled pleasantly. Cary joined her, sitting at the edge of the bed, and Delbert Mann yelled, “Action!”
Doris suddenly twisted her face into a woebegone mask of misery. Now in character, “Cathy” (Doris) told “Philip” (Cary) that no way was she going away with him for the weekend and exposing herself to the horrified looks she was bound to get. Philip did his level best to get her to forget her silly rash. They repeated the scene three times until Mr. Mann was satisfied, then shot the same scene from various different angles. It took a long time—they had to keep repeating the same lines—but I didn’t mind; I was watching two amazing actors doing what they loved best. It was what I hoped to be doing for the rest of my life. Obviously, I hadn’t read the script, so I asked one of the technicians about the plot. “Rich businessman meets pretty young gal,” he said. “Sparks fly. But he just wants an affair while she’s saving herself for marriage.”
Sounded plausible to me.
When they wrapped the scene, Cary asked me to join him in his trailer, and for a moment I envisioned it as a harem full of concubines doing the dance of the seven veils. A harem into which he would rapidly try to induct me! Relax, I told myself. What if he really was a masher artfully disguised as the most elegant and chivalrous gentleman since Sir Lancelot? Well, someone would hear my screams.
Not surprisingly, the trailer was as tastefully appointed as Cary’s bungalow—it felt more like a home than a trailer. But as soon as we sat down, we were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was one of the crew members. Cary thanked him for coming and then handed him a small gift, and for the next hour our conversation was interrupted every few minutes as more crew members appeared at the door to say their good-byes and to accept their gifts. We managed to chat between visitors.
“Do you like horses?” he asked.
“I do. I love horses.” (From a distance, I might have added, but didn’t.)
“Do you like to ride?”
“Oh, very much,” I said. (In cars, that is.)
“Would you like to go riding with me in