My Week With Marilyn. Colin Clark

at 12.30 they both went out together for lunch. By this time I had already rushed out to the pub and got Mr P’s two cheese rolls and Guinness. If Gilman had turned up I would have explained, but luckily he didn’t, so I was alone as usual. Vanessa and her companion regard me with complete indifference and don’t seem to be bothered by Mr P either. They chattered away all morning as if he hardly mattered, except for phone calls and typing. I think he is scared of them. When I took his lunch in at 12.45 he didn’t even look up. ‘War of nerves’. However, by 1 p.m. he needed help.

      ‘I need to find the telephone number of someone called Noël Coward.’

      He pronounced the name very carefully as if I was an idiot.

      ‘It won’t be in the telephone book. You will have to call X, and he will know the number of Y, and Y should know Mr Coward’s number. He will give it to you if you say you are calling for me.’

      ‘Yes, Mr Perceval.’

      I rang Saltwood.

      ‘Oh Col, how lovely to hear you.’ (I had only been gone 14 hours.)

      ‘Mama, this is urgent. I need Noël Coward’s phone number in England, right away.’

      ‘How exciting.’ I could hear Mama looking at her voluminous card index. ‘Here it is.’

      Straight into Mr P’s office with the number on a piece of paper. No time to check it. I put it on his desk: noël coward and the number.

      ‘Hmph.’ Dark look. ‘That was very quick.’ Grudgingly: ‘Good.’

      Ah, these tiny triumphs! And it must have been the right number or he would certainly have complained.

      I stayed late to savour my success and try to glean something from the girls’ gossip. Absolutely nothing.

      But Mr P said ‘Goodnight Colin’ as he went out.

      TUESDAY, 12 JUNE

      At 11 o’clock, a boring morning was interrupted by much kerfuffle outside.

      Then in strode Larry. He was taken aback to see me (probably couldn’t recognise me at first) but managed ‘Hello, dear boy’ before disappearing into Mr P’s office. I expect his first question was ‘Who the hell’s that?’ and the second ‘What the hell’s he doing here?’

      A few seconds later in comes Vivien, followed by a grinning Gilman. (He will have briefed her after Larry left the car. Vivien is never caught off guard!)

      ‘Colin, darling.’

      Vivien comes up so close to me that our noses are almost touching. She gives a pleading look: ‘Please look after my darling Larry for me, will you?’

      She flutters her eyelids, gives a small quick confidential smile and sweeps off into Mr P’s office, ignoring the two girls. I am left standing in the middle of the reception room, as if struck by lightning. Vivien does pack about 100,000 volts, and she completely stuns me. The two secretaries are equally dumbfounded.

      After 10 minutes, Vivien reappears, kisses me on both cheeks, with her lips pointing at my ears, and goes off with Gilman. Larry stays about an hour. As he goes out he says: ‘Do find this dear boy something to do, Hughie.’

      Then a very charming and sincere goodbye to each secretary before he and Mr P go off for lunch at the Ivy.

      After five minutes, the girls had recovered their composure and went out to lunch, again together, leaving me to answer the phones and take messages. They now regard me as a convenient fixture, but I wonder what they would have done if I didn’t exist. The same I expect.

      When Mr P comes back he says: ‘I might have a job for you tomorrow, Colin. (Colin!!) Just one day’s work, mind. Nothing permanent, you hear. No chance of that. So be in early in the morning.’

      Hasn’t he noticed that I am always here first? Maybe it’s part of his ‘Keep Colin in his place’ strategy. Anyway I’ve refused a really good party tonight. I hope my virtue is rewarded.

      WEDNESDAY, 13 JUNE

      Work at last.

      I arrived at 8.30 and Mr P came in almost immediately. Vanessa too. (She must have been warned!)

      ‘Come straight in, Colin.’

      Mr P had a problem.

      MM’s publicity man is coming to London tomorrow. He wants to see the house MM is going to stay in while she is in England for the filming. Mr P hates publicity men and thinks this one is fussing much too early. Naturally no one has started to look at houses yet.

      Mr P wants me to find a suitable house today. It must be no more than 40 minutes’ drive from Pinewood Studios and no more than 40 minutes’ drive from central London. Minimum three double bedrooms and three bathrooms plus ample servants’ quarters. It must be surrounded by gardens and well off a main road. It must be ultra-luxurious. Price no object.

      ‘Check the estate agents. You can have one of these phone lines all morning. Report back to me by 5 p.m. I’m putting my trust in you. Don’t let me down.’

      My mind was racing. I walked out of the offices and went and sat in the car. 40 minutes was about 20 miles. I didn’t even know where Pinewood Studios were. I got out the AA map, found Pinewood and made a rough 20-mile arc around it. Ah-hah. Ascot. I walked down Piccadilly to the St James’s Club.

      ‘Morning Mr Colin.’

      ‘Morning Lockhart. Mr Cotes-Preedy in yet?’

      ‘Not yet, but he’s always in by noon.’

      ‘Good.’

      Enough time for a hearty breakfast. Last year Tim R⁶ and I had rented a tiny cottage from Mr Cotes-Preedy’s wife. They lived in the big house, Tibbs Farm, opposite Ascot Racecourse. It was up a long drive and was exactly what Mr P had specified. Mrs C-P is a splendid lady – much older than her husband and looking like a macaw, but somehow attractive and even sexy. They were both very fond of money, like all the Ascot crowd.

      After breakfast, I still had a long wait, and I made a lot more phone calls. I’m going to try to pull off a stunt. If I don’t do something to surprise Mr P I’ll be sitting in that waiting room forever.

      By the time Mr C-P arrived I was all fired up. Mr C-P is a lawyer. He was surprised to see me but he did remember me – he’s seen me occasionally in the bar. I put the proposition to him in stages.

      ‘Rent the main house? Out of the question. Mrs C-P would never agree . . . £100 per week!!! For 18 weeks? Famous film star?’ He simply shot to the phone to call Mrs C-P and came back all smiles.

      Copious drinks bought for everyone in the bar. (Only one for me.) Some more frantic phone calls, lunch, and back to Mr P by 3 p.m.

      Raised eyebrows. ‘Hmph. Hmph. Hmph.’ But he didn’t dare call my bluff.

      ‘Have you got a car?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You are to be at the Savoy Hotel at 9 a.m. tomorrow and ask for Mr Arthur P. Jacobs.⁷ He’s MM’s publicity man and he has to approve the house. Take him to see it in your car and then bring him back here to me.’

      I left and came straight home. I rang Mr C-P to confirm that Mrs C-P would be ready for us, and then washed the car, inside and out.

      Now I can’t sleep because of my gamble, but, to be honest, I haven’t that much to lose. Just an awful lot to gain.

      THURSDAY, 14 JUNE

      I got to the Savoy at 8.45 a.m. At nine I went in and told the concierge. He looked up Jacobs and said he had a wake-up call booked for 10 a.m. (!) so I went back and sat in the car until eleven, then checked again. ‘Yes, he had been called at 10 a.m.,’ and ‘Don’t bother me again, you serf,’ implied.

      At