The Prince, the Showgirl and Me

The Prince, The Showgirl and Me | Monday, 4 June

Colin Clark

Monday, 4 June

Mr P is a tall, thin, gloomy man with black-rim spectacles. His sparse black hair is brushed back and he has a black moustache. He puffs a pipe continually.

‘Yes. What do you want?’ (No introductions whatever.)

‘I want a job on the Marilyn Monroe film.’

‘Oh, ho, you do? What as?’

‘Anything.’

I suppose he could see that I was a complete fool and he softened a little.

‘Well. We don’t start filming for eight weeks. You really should come back then. At the moment we have no more offices than you can see here, and no jobs. I only have my chauffeur and my secretary. I am afraid I misunderstood Laurence. I thought you were coming to interview me about the film.’

Blind panic set in. I must say something.

‘Can I wait here until there is a job?’

‘For eight weeks??’

‘In the waiting room – in case something comes up?’

‘Grmph.’ Very gloomy, and bored now. ‘It’s a free country, I suppose. But I’m telling you, it’s going to be eight weeks. And then I can’t promise anything.’

Gets up and opens door.

‘Good day.’

I went out and sat down on one of the sofas in the waiting room. The secretary gave me a very cold look. She’s quite pretty but is certainly not flirtatious.

I just didn’t know what to do. I had expected huge offices, even studios, lots of work going on – willing hands needed in every department, and a bit like the London Zoo when I turned up there and asked for a job as a keeper in ’53 (and got one!).

So I just sat and waited.

At lunchtime I was saved by a friendly face. Gilman, Larry and Vivien’s chauffeur came in, brash and Cockney as ever.

‘’Ullo Colin. What you doin’ ’ere?’

I explained.

‘Hmm. There’s no work here. I’ve got to get his nibs’ lunch. Come and have a drink in the pub.’

I went gratefully (but only ½ of bitter). Gilman told me what was going on. He was on loan to Perceval. Every morning he did errands, for Perceval or for Larry, and then came back here to get Perceval’s lunch. This never varied: two cheese rolls and a Guinness.

‘You won’t get work from him, Colin. Miserable bugger.’

‘Well, I’ve got nothing else in the world to do but wait, so I might as well wait.’

‘OK. Good luck. We can always have a pint together at lunchtime.’

We went back with Mr P’s sandwiches and drink and Gilman sped off in the Bentley. I waited until 6 p.m., when they all packed up and left.

‘Night all,’ said Mr P gloomily, without a glance at me. I had a large brandy and water in the pub. I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.

Wednesday, 6 June

Yes. There is a pattern, and it should be possible to exploit it.

I am completely ignored all morning, but as there is no door between the waiting room and the secretary’s office, I hear quite a lot. Also, she often leaves Mr P’s door open when she is in there with him.

Today I didn’t go to the pub with Gillers. I just gave him a wink which he picked up immediately. This meant Mr P was alone for 45 minutes. During this time, he keeps on working and the phones keep ringing.

He has three lines. I just ignored them, but after five minutes he opened his door and glared at the empty secretary’s desk. Then he slammed his door shut again. Two minutes of phone ringing later, he opened it again and glared some more, this time at me.

‘You still here? Well you might as well answer the phone. Don’t think you’ve got a job, though. There’s no chance of that at all.’

He slammed out.

Phone rings. Mr P answers. Next phone rings.

‘Hello. Is that Laurence Olivier Productions?’

‘Yes. Can I help you?’

‘Is Sir Laurence there?’

‘No, I’m afraid he’s in America until the end of the week.’

‘Oh. Thank you. I’ll ring next week.’

‘Any message?’

‘No thank you.’

Click. Mr P’s door opens.

‘How did you know that Sir Laurence is in America until the end of the week?’

‘I heard him tell my mother.’

‘Hmph. Why didn’t you put the call through to me?’ (There is a buzzer on each phone.)

‘There didn’t seem to be a need to bother you. But if you want every single call . . .’ ‘

Hmph.’

Door slams again. Phone rings.

‘Laurence Olivier Productions.’ I’m chirpy now!

‘Is Mr Perceval there?’

‘Certainly. Whom shall I say is calling?’

‘The Daily Mirror.’

‘Hold on please.’ Click. Bzzz. ‘Yes?’

‘The Daily Mirror for you.’

‘Hmph.’

I put through about eight calls, and I was beginning to enjoy it when the secretary (Vanessa) came back at 1.30. She didn’t look very happy at first, but I had left her a note of all calls and messages, so she began to smile again.

Finally Gillers returned with Mr P’s rolls and Guinness. He was 20 minutes late and he gave me another terrific wink, which I was frightened that Mr P saw, but he gave no sign. I had hoped to go back to the pub for my lunch with Gillers, but Mr P sent him straight down to Notley[1]. So I had to go alone. I had a large pink gin with my sandwich, and sure enough no one addressed a word to me all afternoon.

But it doesn’t matter. At least I have a role to play from 12.30 to 1.30. I must make the most of it.

[1] Notley Abbey, Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh’s home in Buckinghamshire.