Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [66]
“Go look for yourself!”
The next thing I heard was his Cockney Popeye voice, unleashing a torrent of unintelligible profanity.
“Dyan . . . I’m stuck to the floor!”
Oh, I’d forgotten to warn him about the spilled Coke.
I peered over the top of the TV. “Cary, I forgot to tell you. Don’t walk in the kitchen. I spilled a Coke.”
“&^%#!”
“Where can I get you another one?”
“Another Coke? No thanks!”
“No!” I cried. “Another shirt!”
“Just call Hong Kong and ask for Jimmy! He makes all my dress shirts.” Then he let out a laugh. “You’d better come out from behind there now, silly child.”
I crept out from behind the TV and looked into the kitchen. Cary stood there shirtless over the ironing board holding his destroyed shirt, one foot bare, one sock stuck to the floor, and a look of bemusement on his face.
I couldn’t believe it, but he was smiling.
“I don’t suppose you have something that would fit me?” He arched a brow.
“I’m sorry, Cary. So, so sorry, Cary.”
“No worries,” he said, buttoning up his desecrated shirt with regal aplomb. He stepped into his patent leather shoes, and pulled on his tuxedo jacket, and straightened his bow tie in the hall mirror. He looked at his watch. “I’ll be right on time,” he said.
“You’re going like that?”
“Yes! I’m going to start a fashion trend.”
“Huh?”
“I’m going to show up for Sinatra’s party just like this, with a full-sized iron burn on my tuxedo shirt. And I’m going to pretend like it’s completely normal. I’ll bet you that in no time, everyone will want an iron burn on their tuxedo shirt.”
“Oh, Cary.”
“Come here, silly child. I haven’t given you your hug.”
But he didn’t give me a hug. He gave me a kiss. Full on the lips.
“I’d better go home and change,” he said. “And you’d better be well by tomorrow because I’m going to want to take you out for a Coke.”
It was easier to imagine Alfred Hitchcock throwing a Halloween party than a Christmas party, but for Alfred, every day was Halloween. And that included Christmas. As we rolled into the holidays—our second round of holidays together—Cary was buried in a flurry of invitations, most of which he politely declined. But Cary and Alfred had a special relationship. They’d done four films together, at least three of them classics. Hitch, who was vocal in his disdain of movie stars, had been quoted more than once as saying, “[Cary was] the only actor I’d ever loved in my whole life.” Cary loved Hitch, too, and in addition to everything else, I think he always particularly enjoyed being around a fellow Englishman. “He’s English to the core,” Cary said appreciatively, adding, “if you overlook the fact that he’s really from another planet.”
As we pulled into the driveway of the Hitchcocks’ Bel Air home, Cary looked at me and grinned. “All I’m going to say,” he said, “is be prepared for anything. He’s not called ‘the master of the unexpected’ for nothing.” With that in mind, we walked to the front door, where Alfred greeted us with a tray of Windex-blue martinis. Cary introduced us and Hitch gave a small bow.
“I hope you’ll forgive me, Cary, but we’re fresh out of LSD,” Hitch said, deadpan as always. “I hope a martini will suffice. I made them so you could have a drink and see colors at the same time.” We each took a glass off the tray and raised it to Alfred, who looked at me and said, “You know, Dyan, I think I’ve figured out why Cary likes LSD so much. The reason is, the letters stand for pounds, shillings, and dollars . . . This way, please.”
We followed Hitch to the living room, where about a dozen other guests were mingling. Impossible to miss was Jimmy Stewart, who, as I walked in, was just sitting down on the large, overstuffed sofa. As soon as he alighted, there erupted a seven-second burst of flatulence. Jimmy sprang from the couch like he’d been stuck with a hat pin and everyone laughed—including Jimmy, who broke out into his familiar mirthful croak.
“Oh dear, he’s at it again,” Alma Hitchcock said serenely. “Alfred bought his first whoopee cushion in 1927, and he’s never fallen out of love with them.” She smiled at Alfred.