Dear Cary - Dyan Cannon [79]
It was a magical week we had in Ireland, and I hoped the spell would carry over to England, where we were headed to make the obligatory visit to Elsie. By this point, I knew better than to expect any magic there; I’d lowered my hopes to “merely bearable.” Still, I hadn’t given up on trying to salve the wound that Elsie and Cary shared. As we walked from the parking lot into Chesterfield, it struck me that Cary was walking with a forced deliberateness that reminded me of a funeral march. I took his arm and stopped him. “Cary,” I said, “we’re not visiting a grave. We’re visiting Elsie. Whatever mood she’s in, just be grateful she’s alive.”
Cary took my hand. “I know you’re right, but . . . okay.”
I had to hand it to Elsie, though. When we entered her room, she looked up and smiled, the very picture of a dear, sweet elderly lady.
After Elsie shrugged off his embrace, Cary announced, “Elsie, we have great news. We’ve gotten married!”
“Congratulations, Betsy,” Elsie said without blinking. Betsy, of course, was Cary’s previous wife, Betsy Drake.
“It’s Dyan, Elsie,” we both said in tandem. I could see Cary clenching his teeth, but I laughed. Cary and I were finally married, and Elsie could call me “Chuckles the Clown” for all I cared.
Driving back, we heard a crack of thunder and suddenly the sky unleashed a fierce rainstorm. Cary seemed like he was about to slip into another one of his Elsie-induced funks, but he was forced to snap out of it when we got back to the hotel, where dozens of reporters mobbed the entrance. We got out of the car in the pouring rain, and Cary took me by the arm, lowered his head, and charged them like a ram. My heel gave way in the confusion and I fell to the ground, but Cary pulled me to my feet, swept me up into his arms, and stormed through the doorway. We were safe, but we were also trapped.
“The way they’re carrying on, you’d think Cary Grant was around here somewhere,” I joked. To me, all of this was a novelty and I was treating it like a game. To Cary, though, it was a grind. A few hours later, they were still there, and even by midevening the throng hadn’t diminished. We ordered room service and watched television. The next morning, no change. For my part, I could think of far worse things than being trapped in a hotel room with Cary. But for him, it was old hat. He grew restless and started prowling the room like a caged animal, grrrrring and making phone calls like an exiled king trying to get back to his castle.
Finally, I couldn’t take any more of Cary not being able to take any more, and I said, “Let’s pretend we’re in a spy movie and make a daring escape.”
“How are we going to get out of here? I’m sure they’ve got the elevators cased, along with every other square inch of the building.”
“Call the manager,” I suggested. It proved to be a good idea. Cary and he cooked up the plan.
So, at four in the morning, we made for the back of the building, where the assistant manager opened the window that led to the fire escape. We rattled down three flights of iron steps to the alley below where a car awaited us. Two bellboys had already stowed our luggage in the trunk. Cary got behind the wheel, thanked the Bristol Royal Hotel’s manager for his help, and we sped