Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [48]
When we returned to New York to do final preparations, Cary started calling again. It was like picking up an old habit: comfortable and familiar, though not necessarily good for you. After a week, he made plans to visit the following week.
It seemed like a month before he got there, but I kept plenty busy. When the day came, he called me at the theater. “I’m here,” he said, sounding strangely offhanded. “I hope you’re free for dinner tonight. I’m meeting some old friends. I’m sure you’ll like them.”
I’d been counting the hours, and he talked like he was making an appointment with his accountant. He was just off the plane so maybe he was tired. In a few hours, we’d be together and everything would be back to normal, I assured myself. We were going to the Copa and he would pick me up at eight thirty.
I got home from rehearsals in the late afternoon, exhausted, and took a long hot bath. I knew exactly what I was going to wear that night: a black gabardine pantsuit. It had a double-breasted jacket and short pants that fell midway down the thigh. Chic, sophisticated, sexy, and they looked great with my high-heeled sandals. I loved it. I thought Cary would too.
“Hello, stranger,” I said when I met him downstairs.
He looked me up and down. “What is that you’re wearing?”
I tried to ignore the cold, hard stare and I kissed him. “You don’t like it? Let me run upstairs and change.”
“No,” he said coldly. “There’s no time. We’ll be late.” He then took me by the elbow, less than tenderly, and led me toward the exit.
It hadn’t even been a minute, and I’d already blown it.
“Are you really Cary Grant?” asked a middle-aged woman with flaming red hair as the waiter poured our champagne. We were at the Copa.
“That’s what I’ve been told,” Cary replied. Then her eyes took me in, and she said in just about the most fatuous tone imaginable, “And this must be your lovely daughter.”
“No,” Cary said, without even a hairline crack in his composure. “I don’t have children.” I could tell, though, that the remark added a measure of vinegar to his already astringent mood.
Aristotle Onassis, the Greek shipping magnate and one of the wealthiest men in the world, gave the intruder a look that somehow combined the not entirely compatible sentiments of “We understand your excitement” and “Get the hell out of here now.” Ari’s date was Maria Callas, perhaps the most renowned opera singer of the twentieth century. She was one of the most beautiful and elegant women I’d ever seen. She had exactly the look that Cary liked. Ari’s meaningful glance had quickly restored our privacy, and now he raised his glass: “To new friends, and to old,” he said.
I raised my glass and looked around. The room was crowded with happy, festive people, and the band was in full swing. Everything about the place—from the elegant waiters to the glittery, well-heeled crowd—made me feel as if I’d stepped into a distant, more opulent past. “Dance?” I asked Cary. He shrugged me off. His manner hung on the lip of overt rudeness. But Ari sprang to his feet. “I’d love to dance,” he said, and led me off.
Ari was not conventionally handsome, but he had beautiful eyes, grace, and above all, presence. He was magnetic and I found him very attractive. He was light on his feet, too.
“Something’s troubling you,” he said.
“Cary’s mad at me. He hates what I’m wearing.”
Ari stepped back to inspect me. “Nonsense,” he said. “You’re absolutely fetching. You turned every head in the room when you walked in. Maybe that’s what’s bugging him,” he said. The song ended. I smiled and turned, but Ari pulled me back for one more. When that song ended, he did the same thing and said, “My dear, let him sweat a little. It’s beneficial for his health.”
When we got back to our table, the atmosphere was still arctic. Ari steered me to the seat next to Maria and he sat down by Cary. Maria’s hair was swept up in a tight bun, and her black cocktail dress was a sheath of elegant