Cyd Charisse was under contract to MGM. She was sexy and talented. She had joined the Ballet Russe when she was thirteen, and was a superb dancer. I had taken her out a few times. We had a date for a Saturday night when she called to cancel it.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
Cyd was evasive. “I’ll tell you more about it Monday.”
She did not have to tell me. It was in all the headlines. Over the weekend she had married the popular singer Tony Martin.
Cyd called me. “I guess you heard the news.”
“I did. I hope you and Tony will be very happy.”
I tried to forget Cyd by burying myself in my work. I was ready for another assignment.
Kenneth McKenna, head of the MGM story department, summoned me to his office. McKenna was in his mid-fifties, a ramrod-straight, gray-haired martinet who ran his department like a fief.
No greeting. “I have an assignment for you. Show Boat.”
It was a fantastic assignment. Show Boat was one of the great musicals. It had a brilliant score and a wonderful libretto. I loved it. But I had a problem.
“Kenneth,” I said, “I’ve just done two adaptations. I’d like to work on some original material.”
He got up from his chair. “You’ll work on whatever I tell you to work on. You’re under contract to this studio. You’ll scrub floors if I tell you to.”
I never did write Show Boat. I was much too busy scrubbing floors for the next few weeks.
I had planned a trip to Europe during my three months off that year, and I was very excited about it. I had booked passage on the Liberté, a French ship that I heard was fantastic.
I called Natalie and Marty, and Richard and Joan, to say goodbye, then flew to New York to board the ship.
Among the passengers was Charles MacArthur, whom I had met before. He was a brilliant playwright who, with Ben Hecht, had written The Front Page, Jumbo, and Twentieth Century. With him was his wife, America’s preeminent actress, Helen Hayes.
When Charles had first seen her at a party, he was instantly smitten. He had picked up a bowl of peanuts, offered them to her, and said, “I wish these were diamonds.”
They were married shortly thereafter. The following year, on Helen’s birthday, Charles handed her a small bowl of diamonds and said, “I wish these were peanuts.”
Other passengers included: Rosalind Russell and her husband, producer Fred Brisson, and Elsa Maxwell, the famous party giver.
The first day out to sea, Charles came to me and said, “Elsa Maxwell heard about you winning an Oscar. She wants to invite you to her dinner party tonight. I told her that you did not socialize.”
“Charlie! I’d love to go to her dinner party.”
He smiled. “You have to play hard to get. I’ll tell her you’re thinking about it.”
Later that afternoon, Elsa Maxwell herself came up to me and said, “Mr. Sheldon, I’m giving a small dinner party tonight. I would love to have you join us.”
“I’ll be there.”
Dinner was delightful and the guests seemed to enjoy themselves. At the end of the meal, as I got up to leave, a steward said, “Excuse me, Mr. Sheldon. That will be three dollars for the table.”
I shook my head. “I’m a guest of Miss Maxwell.”
“Yes, sir. That will be three dollars.”
I was furious.
Charlie tried to calm me down.
“I don’t mind the idea of it,” I said, “it’s the money I object to.”
Charlie laughed. “Sidney, her skill lies in bringing people together. She never pays for anything.”
When I got to London, I checked into the storied Savoy Hotel. Though the war was over, England was still feeling the effects of it. Rationing was in effect and there was a shortage of everything.
When the room service waiter came to see me in the morning, I said, “I’ll have grapefruit, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast.”
He looked pained. “I’m terribly sorry, sir. None of that is available. You have a choice of mushrooms or kippers.”
“Oh.” I chose the mushrooms.