B00C4I7LJE EBOK (9 page)

The famous singer shook my hand and smiled. “Welcome to my show.”

When he glanced away, Phyllis nudged me and winked. I blushed all the way to my toes.

What impressed me most was that he was having a great time and his attitude affected everyone. It seemed more like fun than work. No audience appeared that day, so I settled in a front-row seat, clutching the Gucci note pad I always carried. One of Phyllis’s favorite expressions was, “Robin, make a note of that.”

The taping went smoothly and quickly. The longest pauses were for resetting the cameras. It didn’t go as fast as I’d thought, however, because when we left the studio, unlike the day before, the sun had already set, and we drove back to the hotel in the dark.

At the Connaught, Phyllis scrambled out of the Rolls. “Warde and I are having dinner with friends tonight,” she said. “Be here tomorrow at nine. Have a good night.” She smiled and went inside. It had been a good day.

I’d enjoyed the taping. Things there seemed a bit more relaxed than the tapings I’d been to in L.A. Perhaps it was because of Tom Jones, or just that there seemed far fewer people on the set. I smiled as I went into the restaurant, where I ordered a dinner of fish and chips. On the one hand, I felt like I should be making the most of the brief time I had in London, but on the other hand, I had already seen and done a lot.

I knew we would have all day free on Friday and Saturday, so I could do my shopping then. I’d already made plans for Friday night to get together with an American friend, Peggy, who lived in London. Saturday night I was going back to The Troubadour, the folk club near my flat that I’d often visited when I lived there.
This week is working out very well indeed.

On day three, Phyllis had two more skits. I’d awakened incredibly refreshed and felt energized and ready to take on the world. I didn’t have a lot to do, and in between helping her with her costumes, I sat on the edge of the set with some of the makeup ladies. We had fallen into conversation between takes and every one of them told me how much they loved working on the show.

“Tom is such a sweetheart,” one of the girls said, and the others all nodded or murmured their agreement.

“He’s such a kind person, not stuck-up at all,” one added. “He’s sort of like the boy next door.”

“Wouldn’t I like to have someone like that living next door to me!” another of the girls hooted.

The audience, which had returned, seemed to agree as well. The people again laughed and loudly applauded each scene. After Phyllis finished taping her first bit with Tom, she headed back to the dressing room with Warde, who had joined her that day.

“You don’t need to come up,” Phyllis told me. “Why don’t you stay and watch the taping awhile. I’ve got a break until they finish this next scene.”

Tom and Tony Bennett had a number where they played pool. The crew was just getting out a billiards table, so I settled back down with the makeup girls as Tom Jones strolled across the set. He chatted with several of the production people, then wandered over to the audience.

“How are you today?” he asked the group.

They all answered pleasantly, although somewhat subdued. They probably hadn’t been expecting anything quite that up close and personal.

“Has anyone got any questions about the show?”

One or two people asked timid questions, then the director yelled, “Places please, everybody.”

With a wave of his hand, Tom Jones strolled to his mark and the cameras began to roll. Between takes, Tom stood around chatting with whoever happened to be there, and several more times stopped to talk to the audience. In the scene they played pool, drank from brandy snifters, and smoked big cigars. They also sang, of course. They’d barely started when the director shouted for the cameras to stop.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said. “You can’t be playing pool while you’re singing. I’m getting too much interference from the clicking of the balls.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Tom shot back. “I can’t ever hit the balls anyway.”

Everyone laughed. They discussed it for a moment. “How about this,” the director finally offered. “We’ll shoot you singing and walking around the pool table, and you can set up like you’re going to hit the balls, but then we’ll cut away. We’ll take some scenes later where you’re actually playing pool and intercut them.”

“Sounds good to me,” somebody said, and everyone else agreed. They taped a bit more, then took a break to reset the cameras. While they were doing that, Tom Jones came over to the area where we were sitting. He greeted the girls all by name.

No wonder they like working here
.
He really does act like the boy next door
.

He flopped down into a chair and chatted with us until the director announced they were ready to resume shooting. Far from being thunderstruck or shy, the girls treated the star as one of their own, and I could see why everyone on the show seemed so comfortable with each other.

“We’re going to have to do something about those cigars,” the script girl noted. She had to see that they maintained continuity.

“This is only an eight-minute scene, but you’ve already gone through an entire cigar. That’s going to look funny.”

The prop man produced new cigars, and they were cut down to the size they had been when they interrupted taping.

Tom walked back to where we were sitting and dropped his cigar butt into the ashtray on a nearby table before returning to the set. In all that time, I had not seen anything to suggest he’d be making his trailer move a foot a day, as the chauffeur had told us. He’d been nothing but a gentleman. While he’d chatted with the girls, he was neither flirtatious nor suggestive. I wondered how much of that rumor was publicity—or perhaps he saved his “wanderings” for people he didn’t work with and see every day.

I waited until they had resumed shooting, then at the first break asked the girls as casually as I could, “Does anyone want that?”

“Want what?” one of them asked.

I motioned to the cigar butt.

They looked at me as if I’d lost my mind.

“It’s not for me,” I assured them, as I extracted a wad of tissues from my purse. “It’s for the sister of a friend of mine.”

They all smiled knowingly, and I felt myself blush as I picked up the smelly thing. It seemed a wonderful souvenir.
Tom Jones actually smoked this very cigar!
I could hardly wait to see Kay the next day to give it to her.

Once the segment ended and they prepared for Phyllis’s skit, I hurried to the dressing room. I found a little plastic bag to wrap the cigar in. (Even through the plastic, it smelled up my purse so horribly that I was afraid the purse would be ruined for good. I did, actually, get rid of the purse after we got back to the U.S. That cigar smell just would not go away.) Warde came in while Phyllis was fluffing up her fright wig.

“That guy doesn’t know what he’s doing,” he announced as he pushed through the door.

“What guy, Warde?” Phyllis asked without looking up.

“Tom Jones!”

I hadn’t seen Warde on the set, but obviously he’d stayed to watch some of the scenes being taped. I busied myself with folding more tissues to put in my purse. Phyllis had a deviated septum, which caused her nose to drip frequently, and Karen and I always carried tissues for her.

“What’s he doing?” Phyllis asked as she slipped the wig on.

“Well, he stands around the set just talking to everyone. He even goes over to the audience and talks to them!” His voice dripped scorn. “That’s not the way to be a star!”

“Well, what’s he supposed to do between takes?” Phyllis asked. “He has to go somewhere.”

“That’s just it! You don’t stand around and let the audience look at you. You just give them a little bit here and a little bit there. He should go back to his dressing room between takes.” Warde postured outrageously, strutting up and down, puffing out his chest and tossing his head to demonstrate how he would treat an audience. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

Phyllis looked at him for a moment, then said, “I’m going downstairs. Are you coming?”

As I trailed after them, I couldn’t help thinking,
Well, Mr. Donovan, I guess that’s why you’re such a big star and he’s a nobody.

13

T
he show finished up Thursday evening, and we still had Friday and Saturday before we would leave London. In the Rolls, Phyllis relaxed. Although she liked to work, I knew she was happy to have the show finished.

“I’m going to do some Christmas shopping,” I told her.

“Where do you shop?”

“Harrods sometimes, but I love Marks and Spencer. They have their own brand and it’s not expensive.”

“Do they have pantyhose? I’m wearing my last pair.”

“Marks and Spencer has everything.”

“Take me with you,” she said.

So it happened that Phyllis Diller went to a store usually frequented by working-class folk. I’d been apprehensive, but if anyone noticed a lady wearing an ankle-length mink coat and a white wool hood, they probably marked her down as an eccentric American and let it go at that.

“Look at these sweaters!” she said. “Wouldn’t they be perfect for Stephanie and Susie?” She dropped them into the basket I was holding. In the next aisle, she scooped up an armload of blouses. “I hope we’re going to have room to pack all this.”

You and me both.

She filled a basket with the pantyhose and delighted in finding men’s socks. She grabbed a half dozen pairs in each color for the boys. When Phyllis decided to do something, she did it in a big way.

Some of the things I had planned to buy were going to take up a lot of room, too, such as Bromley bath oil and boxes of scented soap. I hoped I could cram everything into my large Pullman and had already decided I could snug some of the smaller things into the office bag. I had counted on her leaving autographed copies of her books for a lot of people and that would make room. I hoped that same thought hadn’t occurred to Phyllis.

* * *

Saturday afternoon I took the cigar to Kay. “You’re not going to believe this,” I said. “This is a cigar that Tom Jones actually smoked himself!”

She looked at the plastic bag that I held out to her. “It smells,” she said.

“Yeah. It’s a cigar. It’s for your sister.”

“Oh-kay.”

“She’ll love it! I even found out the episode number so she can be sure to watch. She’ll have to check the
TV Guide
to see when it’s on in her city. It’s much better than an autograph. Autographs get lost or torn. Nobody else in the world has a cigar that Tom Jones actually smoked.”

“Uh-huh.” Kay seemed less than enthusiastic about my stinky offering, but she took it.

“Really. She’s going to love it.”

Kay held it gingerly and I wondered if she’d dropped it down the trash chute as soon as I left.

By the time of our departure, I was ready to leave London. Never thought that would be possible. I’d seen all of my friends and partied late and early. I’d done my Christmas shopping, gone back to Harrods, and even had time for a few sentimental journeys.

It took some creative packing, but I managed to get everything stuffed into those two suitcases. Thank goodness Phyllis hadn’t said anything to me about putting her purchases in my office bag. Apparently she’d figured out a way to get them all in her bags. Or Warde’s.

We left London on Sunday afternoon and, after a ten-hour flight, arrived in L.A. the same afternoon, only two hours later by the clock. My dad met me at the airport, and Phyllis’s son, Perry, came to get her and Warde. As she crawled into the Rolls, Phyllis turned and called to me, “Don’t come in tomorrow.”

Thank heaven!

14

C
hristmas came and went with all the attendant parties and get-togethers. Everyone loved the presents I brought from London, and my brother called from Houston to say the soap I’d sent him “smelled delicious.” It’s just not a thing guys would buy for themselves, I knew—sandalwood soap.

 Ingrid called me New Year’s Day. “Happy New Year! Are you ready to start looking for an apartment?”

“Today?”

“Sure. Why not?”

I couldn’t think of any reason not to. Over the next several days we spent every spare moment looking at likely places. Ingrid had more free time than I did, and I was thrilled when she found a place on Beverly Glen Boulevard, just south of San Vicente.

“It’s only a few miles from Phyllis’s,” she told me over the phone.

She gave me the address and I met her there. “What a find! This will drastically cut down my commute from the San Fernando Valley,” I said.

The building sprawled nearly half a block on the side of a hill. It was old, but it featured multilevel courtyards with wrought-iron benches shaded by banana and palm trees. Best of all, it had a swimming pool in the center courtyard. It was right at the top or our price range, but oh so worth it!

I used the Christmas bonus from Phyllis to buy a mattress for my brass bed. I’d gotten the bed in England when I worked at the Embassy. That and a glass-topped coffee table from South Africa were the only furniture I owned.

“I’ve got a couch and a couple of easy chairs,” Ingrid said as we surveyed the place. It would be sparse, but what the heck. Who needed furniture?

We’d just moved in when it came time for Phyllis’s next trip—two weeks at the Riviera Hotel in Las Vegas.

“You’re going to love working Las Vegas,” Karen said. “It’s a piece of cake. No interviews, no promotions, nothing like that. People always come to see the shows on the Strip. There is one thing—make sure our rooms are as far from hers as possible. Out of sight, out of mind.”

When I talked to the agent at William Morris, I felt odd bringing up the subject of hotel rooms, so I didn’t. It turned out that our rooms were on a different floor from Phyllis’s because the suites for the stars and big gamblers were on the top floor. Karen and I were considerably below that.