Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [31]
From Cary Grant.
“Make way! Make way!” Cary swept his arms out, dispersing an imaginary crowd from my living room. Victor was right behind him, pushing a trolley stacked high with glossy boxes and hanging garment bags. My eyes nearly popped out of my head. It looked like a caravan of Arab merchants had wandered off the Silk Road and into my apartment.
“I took the liberty of picking up a few things for you while I was in New York,” Cary said. “England isn’t known for its balmy weather, you know.”
“My goodness, Cary. I don’t know what to say.”
“I just want to make sure you keep warm,” he said.
Cary was just off the plane from New York, and he’d come straight from the airport.
“I dropped in on a few designer friends, some of the best in the business,” Cary said, holding a cashmere sweater to my shoulders and checking the color against my eyes. “They’re like shamans. I described you to them and they just went to town.”
For the next hour, Cary appraised each outfit with the keen eye of a professional wardrobist. The clothes were exquisitely tailored. Skirts, suits, and dresses in silk, wool, and cashmere. Even shoes and handbags. I sprinted in and out of the bedroom, trying on each outfit and making a grand entrance with every change of clothes. Cary sat back and smiled approvingly, enjoying my remaking. So did I. But at one point I hesitated in front of the mirror and wondered, who was the girl looking back at me? She had my face and my body, but she was dressed like a stranger. The new wardrobe was beautiful. It was a totally different look. It was a great look. It just wasn’t my look. Maybe that was a good thing. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it.
“How do you like your new look?” Cary asked.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s smart, elegant, and sophisticated. I love it.”
“Then I love it,” I said. “You’ve got the most amazing taste of anyone I’ve ever known. Did someone teach you like you’re teaching me?”
“If I’ve got any sense of style at all, the credit goes to my father,” he said. “When I was a young fellow, I started hanging out with a bunch of dandies. What a bunch of fops we were! Jazz suits, hideous plaids, silly scarves. But we thought we were the cat’s kimono. One day, my father took me aside and told me something I’ll never forget. He said, ‘Archibald, when you’re walking down the street, it’s you walking down the street, not that ridiculous, garish shirt, which incidentally makes you look like a poof. People should notice you first, then the clothes. The best clothes are always graciously understated. Good clothes never call attention to themselves.’
“For once in my life, I knew good advice when I heard it. I took that as my guiding principle. You know, I don’t think it’s so much knowing how to dress. It’s how not to dress that matters.”
A week later, Cary left for London for a script conference on Charade, and three days after that I was packed and ready to follow. The night before my flight, I went to bed excited and, yes, a little nervous about the trip. I soothed myself with visions of what a fine, wholesome impression I would make on Mrs. Leach. My dear, I am so happy that Archie has found such a healthy, lively girl, she would say, extending her hand, which I would take in both of mine. And she would compliment me on my wardrobe, which would be perfect for the occasion: And you’re dressed like a fine English gentlewoman! What exquisite taste. And I would reply, Thank you, ma’am, and thank you for bringing Cary Grant into the world.
That was my conscious mind talking. My subconscious, though, was up to no good.
Nerves. That’s the only explanation. Nerves. It couldn’t have been anything I ate. It wasn’t natural. I never in my whole life even had a pimple. But when I awoke the next morning, my face felt funny. I touched it. I rushed to the mirror.
I had hives.
Big, huge, red, blotchy welts, running from my forehead, down along my face, along my neck, even my ears.
I called Cary.
“What do you mean you can’t come?”
“I’ve got hives.