Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [37]
At my consultation a week later, Dr. Park pried my nostrils open and looked up inside them.
“Passages are clear as a bell and completely straight,” he said. “Do you have trouble breathing?”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“Why are you here then?”
“So you can fix my nose.”
“What needs fixing?”
“The camera doesn’t like it,” I said plaintively.
“Did the camera tell you that?”
“No.”
“Did someone at a studio tell you that?”
“Yes.”
He took my chin in his hand and gently turned my face from side to side. He tilted my head forward and looked down my nose. He tilted my head back and looked up at it.
“Can you help me?” I pleaded.
Then he crossed his arms and looked me straight in the eye.
“Yes,” he said. “Get out of my office.”
“Excuse me?”
“Miss Friesen—”
“It’s Cannon now. Diane Cannon.”
“Miss Cannon, listen to me. I don’t know what kind of Froot Loops these studio guys are eating, but I get paid a lot of money to give people the exact nose you’ve already got on your face.”
“But—”
“Hear me out, please. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to get in the car with a megaphone and yell for them to stop playing with people’s insecurities. Once those studio guys start changing things, they don’t stop. First it’s your name. Then it’s your nose. Then it’s your eyes. One day your breasts are not big enough, the next day they’re too big. I think they get a thrill out of it. They will turn you inside out, then they will turn you outside in—if you let them.”
I gulped.
“Don’t let them. They’ll change you on the outside, and then they’ll try to change you on the inside. And if I were a betting man, I’d lay a pretty good wager that in a couple of years, more than one gal is going to be in here saying, ‘I want a nose like Diane Cannon’s.’ Do you follow me?”
“Yes,” I said uncertainly. “I think so.”
“I’m sure you can find someone who’ll take your money, but I won’t do it.”
I didn’t realize it at the time, but Dr. Park was one of my guardian angels.
I went home and looked in the mirror and decided I liked what I saw. There were other women out there who were far more beautiful, and there were things I would have liked to change, but I decided to work with what I had.
I didn’t get the part, of course—or more precisely, my nose didn’t get the part. Carroll Baker’s nose did. I was a little disappointed but happy that I’d dodged surgery. Things worked out all right, though. Two weeks later, I got a job doing publicity for Les Girls, an MGM musical comedy. With Oscar’s blessing, I left my job at Eleanor Greene and spent the next four months traveling the world with two other girls, promoting the movie at press parties and screenings. I was making $200 a week, big money for me, and when I got back into town, I treated myself to the gorgeous white Thunderbird that I would later sacrifice so I could stay longer in Rome.
Growing up in Seattle, I’d always longed for adventure. That dream had come true beyond my wildest expectations. And I had a feeling I’d only just begun.
I looked across the aisle. My scotch-soaked actor friend was snoring loudly, splayed out across the seats. I reclined my own seat and tried to get some sleep before we arrived in London.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Getting to Know You
Cary’s driver had picked me up at the airport, and now he pulled in front of a very old, crooked house that leaned almost like the Tower of Pisa. Cary preferred the privacy of a house to a hotel, so the studio had rented one for him. Standing outside, feeling like someone had thrown a pan of hot tomato sauce on my face, I was tempted to turn tail and head back for the airport. Why had I let him talk me into coming when I was such a mess?
When Cary answered the door, I lowered my head theatrically and pulled my hat down completely over my face. Cary ushered me in and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Now, let’s have a look,” he said, removing my hat and scarf. As he looked at me, his mouth flew open and his eyes bugged out. He took a step back, and then another,