Jeannie Out Of The Bottle by Barbara Eden Page B

where I waited with her in the shadows for Marilyn to appear. Judging by the tension on the set and Marilyn’s reputation for tardiness, everyone had been waiting for her for an inordinately long time. But no one complained. In fact, no one said a word. The air was electric with expectation, the stage quiet as a crypt.
    Then Marilyn made her entrance: elegant, beautiful, vulnerable, wearing a black suit (the same one she wore in Let’s Make Love, which costume designer Jean Louis thought might be suitable for her to wear in Something’s Got to Give as well) and black pumps (which I knew were Ferragamo because afterward Evie nagged, “Barbara, you gotta buy them, they’re perfect for you”).
    To me that day, everything about Marilyn was perfect, and for a moment I was rooted to the spot, almost paralyzed by anticipation.
    She floated toward me, breathed the words, “Oh, oh, Barbara, it’s so nice to meet you,” and took my hand.
    She really did talk like that. All air.
    “Oh, Barbara, oh, Evie has told me so much,” she breathed again.
    Almost tongue-tied, I eventually managed to blurt out, “Yes, Evie babysits me.”
    Marilyn completely misunderstood and, to my embarrassment, said, “Oh, you have to come to the set again. And next time, do bring the kids.”
    I said I would.
    There had been a wistful note in her voice when she said “kids,” which is why I didn’t explain or contradict her. Later, Evie told me how much Marilyn had longed to have kids, and how tragic it was that she never could.
    That day, as I left the Something’s Got to Give set, dazzled as I was by Marilyn and glad to have met her, however briefly, I also felt profoundly sad for her.
    A few weeks later, she was dead.
    Evie called me up in tears.
    “She was so frightened, Barbara,” she sobbed. “The hang-up calls. The man in the green Mercedes following her all the time. She knew who was behind it all, and why. She told me so. And now they’re saying she killed herself. She would never have done that. Never, never, never. She may have been afraid, but she liked life, she liked life.”
    I have no doubt whatsoever that Evie was right on all counts.
    After Flaming Star (which wasn’t a big success, primarily because Elvis only sang one song in it, and that was recorded only after feedback from preview audiences who were scandalized that their idol wasn’t singing in the movie) and the other movies that followed, I became unhappy at Fox. I tried to get the studio to loan me out to other studios, but they refused. So I remained at Fox, at the studio’s beck and call, just waiting for someone to give me work.
    When Mark Robson, the director to whom I owed my Fox contract in the first place, approached me and asked me to do a part in From the Terrace, I read the script and initially refused because my character—good-time girl Clemmie Shreve—only appeared in the film for one minute and eighteen seconds.
    My scene, short as it was, took place at a party, where, as “You Make Me Feel So Young” played in the background, Clemmie sees Alfred Eaton (played by Paul Newman) across a crowded room, goes straight up to him, and says coquettishly, “Are you looking for me?”
    “I am, if your name is Lex Porter,” Paul says wryly.
    “Well, my name is Clemmie Shreve, but I’ll change it if it’ll stop you from looking further,” I say.
    “How far am I allowed to look?” Paul says with a flirtatious glance.
    Then I laugh a tinkling laugh and say, “I like you,” and put my arms around him. “Sam?” I say.
    “No, Alfred,” Paul says.
    I give him a flirtatious look.
    “Are you going to make a pass at me, Alfred?”
    “You believe in long courtships, don’t you!” Paul says sardonically.
    “Who’s got the time? I’m crowding nineteen,” I say.
    “What, years or guys?” Paul cracks.
    “Nasty,” I say, and mash up to him. “Come on, let’s dance and crowd each other.”
    Paul pulls away from me.
    “I’ve got a wooden leg.