The Legs Are the Last to Go by Diahann Carroll Page B

conversation had been icy cold. When I hung up I felt newly betrayed, angry, and, more than anything else, desperately and terribly alone. I was sitting on the floor in the dark, teetering on the edge of confusion and madness. Very dramatic! What was I going to do with the rest of my life? I had not planned to be facing my senior years alone. How did it happen? And why?
    At one time I adored Vic. We had some lovely, romantic moments in our ten years together. How could I not be seduced by a handsome, impeccably dressed man who would call me in the evenings after I had gotten into bed, and softly croon “Let Me Call You Sweetheart,” in an old-world Italian accent? When he first approached me in 1981, we were both performing at the Caribe Hilton in San Juan. Late one night, he sent an extravagant meal to my room, unannounced. It was thoughtful, presumptuous, and funny. I paid it little mind.
    Upon our next meeting, I found I could not ignore him any longer. We were doing a show for a charity in a hotel in Palm Beach. On the flight down there, my manager, Roy, explained I would be on the bill with Damone, and that he was set as the closing act. That put me in a very competitive mood. One never wants to open for someone else. When I saw him at rehearsal, he said to me, “Hello, Diana!”—mispronouncing my name. I said to my assistant, “See, I told you—nothing upstairs.” Then, while I was performing, he stood in the wings to watch me, which was unconventional, to say the least, and somewhere between flattering and unsettling. After the show, Vic’s conductor told me Vic would like to come up for a drink. I thought that would be nice. When he arrived in his tuxedo, I don’t know what happened to me, but suddenly I saw his appeal, as if for the first time. He was tan, and his face was handsome, with a strong jawline, lovely salt-and-pepper hair, and dark eyes that seem to suggest the possibilities of something more. I was enjoying his company. Maybe it was the jokes he made—humor is often an aphrodisiac for me—but I was suddenly seeing him in a totally different way. Later, when everyone else had gone home, my assistant asked if I wanted her to stay. I found myself telling her no.
    We both went up to New York from there, and we had dinner. I had the impression that he was a hardworking professional who had sustained a strong career for a long time, and I had great respect for that. And it was nice to be with someone who was something of a household name. His suits and shirts were bespoke, and I loved seeing his selection of clothing for dinner or a night out. When he first saw my home in Los Angeles, he remarked how elegant it was, and Cancerian that I am, that pleased me tremendously. Watching him cook was every career woman’s dream. On Sundays in New York (I still had my apartment there), we’d go to the markets on Broadway, where he would choose ingredients as obsessively as any chef I’d ever seen. Then, arm in arm, we’d go back to my apartment on Riverside Drive, where he would fly into a happy high gear making the most wonderful pasta. Me? I always took pride in setting a really beautiful table. He loved that. We had a ball. Wherever we’d go, we had fun together.
    Sometimes, when we toured, things got a little awkward. Clearly he was of a generation of men (Rat Pack in attitude, I’d say) for whom having a girl in every port was standard practice. Well into my fifties by then, a lady who’d been around the block herself more than once, I was wise enough not to worry about Vic’s little lothario history.
    When we were performing for a week in Vegas, for instance, this woman would come backstage to see Vic every night after the show with two children. They were dressed forthe occasion, and I was always very polite when introduced to them, but I didn’t quite understand their relationship to Vic, or perhaps I knew I didn’t want to. I