New York
Back in the summer of 1960, a married Hollywood actress and her friend, a Hollywood wife, came to the south of France and met a randy 23-year-old who showed them around the place. The actress was the sexy Janet Leigh, then married to Tony Curtis, and her beautiful friend was Jean Martin, whose hubby was Dean Martin, while the randy one was the poor little Greek boy. We had a very good time boating around the various beaches during the day, dancing in Monte Carlo in the evening, Monaco being not only Russian- and vulgarian-free back then, but also looking like Ruritania-sur-mer rather than Las Vegas-on-the-sea. Both ladies were guests of ambassador Joe Kennedy, whose son Jack would be elected President later that year. Kennedy was a regular visitor to Hotel du Cap d’Antibes throughout the postwar years, and although quite busy on the telephone all day and night — it took hours to get through to America and Joe Kennedy was a very impatient man — he nevertheless found time to scold both blondes for wasting their time with ‘that Greek tennis player who I gather is a fascist’.
Janet Leigh died some years ago, but I often see her old flicks and remember that wonderful summer week she and I spent together. Janet Martin and I also stayed in touch, writing to each other for the next 25 years, especially after she suffered the greatest tragedy of all, losing her son in an aeroplane accident. (Actually, it was the young man’s death that drove Dean Martin to drink himself to death.) I’m bringing all this up because last weekend I drove up to Connecticut and spent the weekend with my old friends Oscar and Annette de la Renta in their grand but cosy-as-hell house, and, like most people of our age, talked about the good old days and the fun we had before the Gulf Bedouins and the Russian mafia turned billionaires overnight.
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