Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [25]
Several days passed, and I heard nothing from Cary. But Clifford called again, and I politely declined his invitation, resisting the urge to tell him what a jerk his friend Cary was.
Then Cary called. And called and called. And called again. Addie denied my presence, over and again, but she was quickly tiring of the drill. I walked in once to hear her say into the phone, “Cary, she’s probably in bed with Clifford Odets.” I nearly fainted, but it turned out she’d already hung up. Hardy har har, Addie.
At a certain point, though, the sisterhood spoke again. I was still as riled up as a bull with a red cape being twirled before it, but the girls opined that given Cary’s unflagging attempts to talk to me—presumably to put things right—I ought to at least hear him out. “He was angry and he had a bad moment,” Addie said. “Men can be dolts. Yes, Cary acted like a dolt. But as long as he recognizes it and is willing to correct course, you ought to at least talk to him.”
I wasn’t having any of it. I was working pretty steadily and actually making a little money, so I started looking for my own place. My close friend Corky Hale had an apartment in a doorman building on Wilshire Boulevard and was looking to sublet it for a year. Corky had a clothing boutique on Sunset Boulevard, and I’d known her since my early days in L.A., when I did a little modeling for her, so I hurried over to take a look. It was a tastefully furnished one-bedroom in a great location, and I knew right away that Bangs and I would be very happy there.
Victor, the doorman, helped me move in. He was a short, handsome guy from Mexico and had the refined manners of a United Nations emissary. No matter how many times I told him to call me Dyan, he insisted on calling me Miss Cannon.
Late one afternoon, I returned home from shooting an episode of Stoney Burke and got in the shower. I was hungry, and I was making a tuna sandwich the way my girlfriend Darlene made them. So I was slathering mustard on one side of the bread, and mayonnaise on the other, and the house phone rang just as I was reaching for the pine nuts. Victor was on the other end. “Miss Cannon,” he said, whispering excitedly. “You will never guess who is here to see you!”
“Who?” I whispered back.
“Cary Grant!”
Victor sounded excited. I wasn’t. Okay, I was, but I felt obligated not to be. I couldn’t believe Cary had gone to the trouble of finding me.
“Should I send him up, Miss Cannon?”
I didn’t want to see him. Or, more accurately, my head didn’t want to see him and my heart remained unsure. “No,” I said. “Don’t send him up. Just put him on the line please.” Of course, I melted when I heard his voice. I told him I was on my way out to dinner and I didn’t want to see him anyway, but he wore down my resistance.
When I let him in, the first thing he noticed was my half-built tuna-fish sandwich on the kitchen counter. He tossed me a soft rag of a smile and said, “Having an appetizer?”
I didn’t answer.
“You stopped taking my calls.”
“Can you blame me?” I said.
“I’m not sure I understand,” he said.
“You gave my number to Clifford Odets!”
He seemed taken aback, incredulous even. “Is that what this is about?” he said.
“That’s exactly what this is about,” I said, my voice shaking. “What did you think it was about?”
“But—”
“No, Cary. I don’t want to hear any excuses. We’d been dating for months. Why would you let him think I was available?”
“Maybe because the two of you seemed to hit it off so well . . . when you drove on instead of following me home, I thought maybe you were going back to Clifford’s.”
“Are you crazy? Yes, you’re crazy. I was tired. I just wanted to go home and sleep!”
He shuffled his feet, ever so slightly—and deflected my challenge like a judo master. “How about dinner Saturday? I miss you.”
“No, Cary. No.”
“Why?