The next morning, I ordered the kippers.
When I went to a restaurant that night, there was almost nothing edible on the menu.
The following morning I was surprised by a call from Tony Martin. “You didn’t tell us you were in town.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“I want you to come to my show tonight.”
I had no intention of meeting the man who had married the lady I was very fond of. “I can’t—I—”
“I’m leaving a ticket for you at the box office.” He added, “Come backstage after the show,” and hung up.
I had no interest in seeing his show. I would go backstage, tell him how brilliant he was, and leave.
I went to see his performance that evening anyway and he was amazing. The audience loved him. I went backstage to his dressing room to congratulate him and Cyd was there. I got a big hug, and Cyd introduced me to Tony.
“You’re going to have supper with us tonight,” Tony said.
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’ll—”
“Let’s go.”
Tony Martin turned out to be one of the nicest men I had ever met.
Supper was at an exclusive, private club. What I did not know was that the private clubs in London were immune to rationing.
The waiter said, “We have lovely steaks tonight.”
We all ordered steaks.
The waiter said to me, “Would you like an egg on your steak, sir?”
And that was the first egg I had since arriving in London.
I spent every night after that with Cyd and Tony, having a marvelous time on their honeymoon.
One night, Tony said to me, “We’re leaving for Paris in the morning. Get packed. You’re coming with us.”
I did not argue.
We flew to Paris, and it was fabulous. Tony hired a limousine to take us to the usual tourist spots—the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, Napoleon’s Tomb—and we ate delectable meals.
On Sunday morning, Tony had arranged for a limousine to take us to Longchamps to see the races. Unfortunately we had all gotten food poisoning the night before and we were in terrible shape.
Tony phoned. “Cyd and I feel awful. We’re not going to be able to go to the track.”
“Neither am I, Tony. I feel—”
“There’s a limousine downstairs, waiting for you. Take it.”
“Tony—”
“Take it. Put a bet on a horse for us.”
I went to Longchamps alone, semiconscious. There was a long line at the betting window. When I finally got to the head of it, the man behind the counter said, “Oui?”
I spoke no French. I shoved some money across the counter and held up one finger, “Number une,” and I touched my nose. He said something unintelligible and shoved the money back at me.
I tried again. “Number une.” I held up my finger and touched my nose. “On the nose, to win.”
He shoved the money back again. The people in line behind me were getting impatient. A man stepped out of the line and came up to me.
“What’s the problem?” he asked in English.
“I’m trying to bet this money on number one to win.” The man spoke in French to the cashier, then turned to me.
“Number one has been scratched,” he said. “Pick another horse.”
I chose number two, got a handful of tickets, and stumbled out to watch the race.
Number two won, and Tony and Cyd and I split the money.
That trip was something I never forgot and I resolved to go to Europe every year.
That August, Dore Schary resigned as head of RKO after accepting an offer from Louis B. Mayer to become head of production at MGM. My old boss was now my new boss.
I was assigned to write the screenplay for Nancy Goes to Rio, which was to star Ann Sothern, Jane Powell, Barry Sullivan, Carmen Miranda, and Louis Calhern.
The picture was being produced by Joe Pasternak, a middle-aged Hungarian producer with a heavy accent. Before he came to MGM, he produced small pictures at Universal, a studio on the verge of bankruptcy. A young actress named Deanna Durbin was released from her contract at MGM and went to Universal. Joe Pasternak was assigned by Universal to do a picture with Deanna called Three Smart Girls.