Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant by Dyan Cannon

said, “I’m completely enamored of you, Dyan.” And that was almost as good a feeling as finding Bangs.
    M y sense that our relationship was deepening into something quite serious got a real boost a few days later. Cary called me from New York, where he was finalizing the agreement to star in Charade . He started out by grousing about the “obscene age difference” between himself and his costar, Audrey Hepburn, which was the only thing that had him wavering about the film.
    â€œI don’t want to come off looking like some lecherous old cradle robber,” he said, sighing.
    â€œBut, Cary,” I pointed out, a touch perplexed, “Audrey is nearly ten years older than me. How come it bothers you in movies but not in real life?”
    â€œSilly girl,” he clucked. “Real life, my real life, isn’t anybody’s business but my own—except for the parts I choose to make public. But my image on the screen is bound by the shackles of social convention. A certain degree of wholesomeness is required of me. Or what most people consider wholesomeness, which doesn’t really have much to do with true wholesomeness.”
    â€œCary, I don’t think it’ll take a big leap of imagination for women to see why Audrey’s character would be attracted to you.” To say the least, I thought.
    â€œStill . . .”
    Then he dropped the bomb.
    â€œDear girl, I’m going to make a visit to England in a couple of weeks, and I’d like very much for you to come along.”
    â€œEngland?”
    â€œFamily visit, mostly.”
    â€œFamily visit?”
    â€œYes. I’d like to introduce you to my mother.”
    That, of course, is what every girl wants to hear. And now I was hearing it.
    From Cary Grant.
    â€œM ake way! Make way!” Cary swept his arms out, dispersing an imaginary crowd from my living room. Victor was right behind him, pushing a trolley stacked high with glossy boxes and hanging garment bags. My eyes nearly popped out of my head. It looked like a caravan of Arab merchants had wandered off the Silk Road and into my apartment.
    â€œI took the liberty of picking up a few things for you while I was in New York,” Cary said. “England isn’t known for its balmy weather, you know.”
    â€œMy goodness, Cary. I don’t know what to say.”
    â€œI just want to make sure you keep warm,” he said.
    Cary was just off the plane from New York, and he’d come straight from the airport.
    â€œI dropped in on a few designer friends, some of the best in the business,” Cary said, holding a cashmere sweater to my shoulders and checking the color against my eyes. “They’re like shamans. I described you to them and they just went to town.”
    For the next hour, Cary appraised each outfit with the keen eye of a professional wardrobist. The clothes were exquisitely tailored. Skirts, suits, and dresses in silk, wool, and cashmere. Even shoes and handbags. I sprinted in and out of the bedroom, trying on each outfit and making a grand entrance with every change of clothes. Cary sat back and smiled approvingly, enjoying my remaking. So did I. But at one point I hesitated in front of the mirror and wondered, who was the girl looking back at me? She had my face and my body, but she was dressed like a stranger. The new wardrobe was beautiful. It was a totally different look. It was a great look. It just wasn’t my look. Maybe that was a good thing. I wasn’t quite sure how I felt about it.
    â€œHow do you like your new look?” Cary asked.
    â€œHow do you like it?”
    â€œIt’s smart, elegant, and sophisticated. I love it.”
    â€œThen I love it,” I said. “You’ve got the most amazing taste of anyone I’ve ever known. Did someone teach you like you’re teaching me?”
    â€œIf I’ve got any sense of style at all, the credit goes to my father,” he