Читать книгу Journey of a Lifetime - Alan Whicker - Страница 5

Flying home from Australia is never a happy undertaking; I’ve tried it every which way—thirty hours non-stop, or peeling off for a night in Singapore or Bangkok, Hong Kong or LA. However you approach it, you face a long haul, rattling with pills. Jet lag always wins.

I’d recommend travel on Christmas Day. Planes are empty, service is great—the stewards have no one else to talk to. Champagne and Anton Mosimann’s best puddings seem to taste even better at 32,000 feet—but this time, flying from Haiti, I had been invited to break the journey in Los Angeles and spend the holiday with Cubby Broccoli, granddaddy of James Bond, and his wife Dana—who took an instant dislike to Fagin, as played by Ron Moody.

We had a Californian Christmas: bright sunshine, extravagant presents, interesting company. One day we flew to Las Vegas with that splendid old actor Bruce Cabot—a relative of Cubby’s—who had been the lead in King Kong. Not much to do with snow and reindeer, but he fitted in beautifully—and the monkey was great.

The day before we left for London, there was a party at the home of Harold Robbins; I’d made a Whicker’s World around him a few months earlier. Harold could behave very much like a character in one of his novels, but I found him oddly likeable. He could be boorish and boastful—which seems to happen to bestsellers—but then in a complex blend he was courteous and charming in a rather old-fashioned way. He was married at the time to Grace, a darkly attractive woman who seemed able to cope with his erratic lifestyle.

While writing in New York he liked to stay at the Elysée Hotel, a quiet place off Madison Avenue favoured by Tennessee Williams and other authors. We left the Plaza to join him and quickly slipped into the Robbins routine, meeting his stable of available ladies in the evening and drinking good Californian burgundy served at precisely 64 degrees.

“Guess what she does?” he demanded, after introducing a leggy blonde in hot pants. I had a pretty good idea what she might do, but suggested instead a model, an actress, beauty consultant, hair designer, nail technician…“No,” he cried, triumphantly. “She’s a store detective.”

Her in-store career came to an abrupt end when Harold’s publishers conveniently noticed that his latest novel was way behind schedule. She was dispatched to a Spanish holiday on a one-way ticket.

I had been pleased with our programme around Harold, I’m the World’s Best Writer—There’s Nothing More to Say. It had a good story—Hell’s Kitchen to Côte d’Azur yachts, by way of one portable typewriter. Interesting locations and an articulate subject who, it later transpired, had a slight problem separating fact from passing fantasy.

Harold’s editor Simon was a splendid, articulate man and I was anxious that he should be included in our programme. I broached the subject during a jolly lunch with them both, but to my surprise he refused point blank: “Didn’t you notice how he started breaking up all those table matches while you were talking to me?” Simon was not about to risk upsetting his golden goose for a few minutes’ exposure on Whicker’s World.

Sitting around the Robbins’s Beverly Hills pool on that bright December afternoon were old friends from London and the Côte d’Azur, Leslie and Evie Bricusse. Leslie was responsible for some of the great standards of the Sixties and Seventies, often with Anthony Newley. If you hear something familiar, plaintive and lyrical, it’s usually Leslie asking “What kind of fool am I?” or somesuch. At the peak of his career he was now hard at work in Hollywood, hitting high notes for friends Sammy Davis Jr and Frank Sinatra, and “Talking to the Animals.”

We had not met for months, and were anxious to catch up. He had been writing the music for Dr Doolittle, so we swapped the usual “Rex Harrison as Producer” horror stories. I told him of my excitement at finally buying a house in Jersey—my first permanent home. He looked alarmed. “I wouldn’t set foot on that island,” he said. “We’ll never visit you there.” This seemed surprising, and odd. Jersey is peaceful and off the beaten track for globe-trotting Hollywood winners. How come that fierce reaction?

Leslie had quite rightly become hugely successful. He had a cute wife, Evie, and homes in Mexico, France, London, Malta and Beverly Hills. His income had grown so much that he had been told to restructure his finances. An international lawyer living in the Channel Islands was recommended as his saviour, and a hugely complicated scheme had been hatched with law offices around the world which the Jersey lawyer would administer, and in return for this legal expertise Leslie would pay him 10 per cent of his earnings over a period of ten years. It was that kind of nightmare financial complication that you wish was keeping you alive.

A few months after signing that contract the Bricusses began to regret their involvement with this pedantic little Jerseyman. Pages of notes would arrive on a weekly basis suggesting changes to score and libretto. Not unnaturally, Leslie did not take kindly to such improbable interference from an insufferable musical know-all. Stressed out and working hard, he decided he must break the agreement—but found his new legal partner had no intention of releasing him.

Expensive law firms on both sides of the Atlantic were once again consulted. The contract was found to be binding and watertight. To fight it would have taken years and sapped Leslie’s creative energy while he was still on his winning streak. He was forced to capitulate. A settlement was reached whereby the Jersey lawyer would instead take 90 per cent of his earnings for one year—and then release him. This was expected to be the year of his greatest successes when all his projects were hits, but he was cleaned out. Frustrated after signing away the fortune he’d spent a lifetime building, the mild and gentle Leslie went home and trashed every breakable object in his house.

Smiling and soft-spoken, he was popular at the studios. Soon everyone had heard of his fury and despair that he had been strangled by the small print. Several friendly groups generously offered to “sort out” the villain of the piece—that Jersey lawyer. The agreement might have been watertight, but these friends were not smiling all the time.

The local Mafia boss made it known that he would be only too happy to do Leslie a favour and remove any financial blockage, as between men of honour you understand.

The Las Vegas backstage fraternity also offered help in his hour of crisis, which sounded seriously final. As a last graphic decision, there was a group of friendly stunt men from Pinewood who spent their lives being thrown off bridges and fighting each other. They knew the island well, so also hatched a detailed plot to rescue poor Leslie.

The house where the Jersey lawyer lived was on a hilltop above a secluded bay with a perfect view of France, 14 miles away. A forest path snaked up from the sea through the garden and right up to his front door. They could arrive at night by a boat with padded oars, do whatever deed was required while the island—and the lawyer—slept, and steal away. Piece of cake.

I don’t think the people at that Beverly Hills party realized life-and-death decisions were being discussed and agreed. While I listened, some of Leslie’s friends explained the lie of the land to each other, and I began to realize they were not merely talking about the house—“Lovely position, lovely!”—but my future.

It was my new home they were planning to visit that night. “Perfect for the getaway, that coastline.”

“Listen,” I said, when I got my voice back, “I’ve just bought that house. I’m planning to live in it for years. Now you’re going to kill the guy in the main bedroom! That’s me. Please tell all your friends there’s been a change of management.”