The Elephant to Hollywood - Michael Caine [65]
But back in the Seventies, although I had given up smoking cigarettes, I was still drinking very heavily – up to three bottles of vodka a day. And I was bored. I had plenty of money, plenty of friends, plenty of work, but nothing seemed to satisfy me. I hadn’t yet moved in permanently to Mill House so I was still spending a lot of time in London and although Paul and I would go out every night to all our old haunts, somehow my heart just didn’t seem to be in it anymore. One evening I decided I was just too tired to hit the clubs and rang up Paul and asked him round for a fry-up. We’d watch television, I suggested, have an evening in. He seemed a bit surprised by this sudden onset of domesticity, but came round anyway and we settled down for the night.
What happened next is a story I’m often asked to tell. It sounds incredible but it’s true and I often go cold when I think of all the things that could have gone wrong. I could have changed channels (although admittedly there were only two then – I was changing them, back in those pre-remote days, by means of a broom handle so I didn’t have to leave my seat); I could have gone into the kitchen for a fill-up; we could have decided to go out after all. In the end, though, it’s no use speculating on what might have happened, because what did happen is that during the commercial break, an ad for Maxwell House coffee came on and there, right in front of me, was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I threw the broomstick aside and crouched next to the screen, trying to get a closer look. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Paul. ‘You gone mad or something?’ ‘That girl,’ I said hoarsely. ‘That girl is the most beautiful girl in the world. I have to meet her.’ ‘Now look, Michael,’ Paul said kindly. ‘That ad’s been shot in Brazil. What are you going to do? Fly to fucking Brazil?’ ‘Yes,’ I said simply. He looked at me sympathetically, but I could tell he thought I’d really lost it.
I paced around the flat for a bit, desperate for time to pass so I could ring up Maxwell House headquarters the next morning and find out who had shot the commercial. Eventually I could bear it no longer and Paul and I grabbed our coats and headed down to Tramp to find Johnny Gold, who could always be relied on for a sympathetic ear. Johnny pointed out beautiful girl after beautiful girl to me on the dance floor, but it was no good, I was in love. Eventually, emotionally wrung out, I decided to call it a night and just as I was leaving, I ran into Nigel Politzer, a guy I vaguely knew. ‘Going so soon?’ he asked. ‘And alone?’ ‘I’m in love!’ I declared dramatically. ‘And it’s hopeless. I saw this beautiful Brazilian girl on television tonight and I may never see her again.’ Nigel patted my shoulder. ‘Which show?’ he asked. ‘It wasn’t a show,’ I replied mournfully. ‘It was an ad for Maxwell House.’ He burst out laughing. ‘The girl with the maracas?’ he asked. ‘Yes!’ I howled. ‘How did you know?’ ‘Because I work for the company that made the ad,’ he said. ‘Then you can help me!’ I clawed at his jacket. ‘Paul and I are going to Brazil tomorrow to find her. Do you know how we can get in touch with her when we arrive?’ Nigel roared with laughter again. ‘No need, mate! She’s not in Brazil and she’s not Brazilian. Her name is Shakira Baksh, she’s Indian and she lives off the Fulham Road.’
I spent the rest of the night alternating between bliss and despair. The Fulham Road – only a mile or so from my flat! So near – and, yet, what if she already had a boyfriend? What if she was married? What if – the final irony – she was a lesbian? Nigel had promised to give her a call the next morning and ask her if she would let me have her phone number – what if he forgot? Eventually I dropped off into a fitful sleep only to be shaken awake by Paul at around noon. ‘Nigel’s on the phone,’ he said. I grabbed the receiver. ‘She’s agreed to give you her number,’ said Nigel. He sounded a long way away. Grabbing a pen, I took the number down in a shaking hand.
It took two