Dear Cary: My Life With Cary Grant by Dyan Cannon Page A

said. “When I was a young fellow, I started hanging out with a bunch of dandies. What a bunch of fops we were! Jazz suits, hideous plaids, silly scarves. But we thought we were the cat’s kimono. One day, my father took me aside and told me something I’ll never forget. He said, ‘Archibald, when you’re walking down the street, it’s you walking down the street, not that ridiculous, garish shirt, which incidentally makes you look like a poof. People should notice you first, then the clothes. The best clothes are always graciously understated. Good clothes never call attention to themselves.’
    â€œFor once in my life, I knew good advice when I heard it. I took that as my guiding principle. You know, I don’t think it’s so much knowing how to dress. It’s how not to dress that matters.”
    A week later, Cary left for London for a script conference on Charade, and three days after that I was packed and ready to follow. The night before my flight, I went to bed excited and, yes, a little nervous about the trip. I soothed myself with visions of what a fine, wholesome impression I would make on Mrs. Leach. My dear, I am so happy that Archie has found such a healthy, lively girl, she would say, extending her hand, which I would take in both of mine. And she would compliment me on my wardrobe, which would be perfect for the occasion: And you’re dressed like a fine English gentlewoman! What exquisite taste. And I would reply, Thank you, ma’am, and thank you for bringing Cary Grant into the world.
    That was my conscious mind talking. My subconscious, though, was up to no good.
    Nerves. That’s the only explanation. Nerves. It couldn’t have been anything I ate. It wasn’t natural. I never in my whole life even had a pimple. But when I awoke the next morning, my face felt funny. I touched it. I rushed to the mirror.
    I had hives.
    Big, huge, red, blotchy welts, running from my forehead, down along my face, along my neck, even my ears.
    I called Cary.
    â€œWhat do you mean you can’t come?”
    â€œI’ve got hives. Big old blistery, nasty hives, the color of red velvet. I look like a leper!”
    Cary laughed heartily. He thought I was joking. “Just like Doris in A Touch of Mink !”
    â€œYes!” I wailed. “Just like Doris in A Touch of Mink !”
    There was a pause. “Dyan, you’re not joking?”
    â€œNo I’m not joking!”
    â€œWell, if this isn’t life imitating art . . .”
    â€œCary, I can’t go. They’ll take one look at me at the airport and put me in quarantine for a year.”
    â€œCan’t you put some cream on it?”
    â€œCary—it’s all over my face!”
    â€œPut on a hat, put on a scarf. I miss you, I want you here.”
    â€œCary, I cannot do this. I can’t. I won’t. No. I’m not going anywhere.”

CHAPTER TEN
    Time Flies
    I and my red blotches took the red-eye to London as scheduled. I wore a hat pulled down low over my face, which was so swollen I could barely crack a smile even if I’d wanted to. As I checked my luggage, I thought the flight attendants must have wondered if I were a spy.
    The flight wasn’t crowded, probably because it left at midnight, and I had a row to myself. Across the aisle from me was a guy about my age, with dark tousled hair and circles under his eyes that suggested sleep deprivation. As a stewardess came toward us, he signaled her for a drink.
    â€œWe’ll be taking off in just a moment, sir, but I’ll take your order just as soon as we reach altitude,” she said. He forced a smile. He seemed to really want that drink.
    Soon it was time to buckle up, and the young man moved to the window seat right in front of me. “Might as well have a last look at this wretched place,” he said. His accent was distinctly English. I nodded beneath my hat.
    The plane started moving, then gained