Colin Clark, brother of Alan, is soon to add to the mountain of books about Marilyn Monroe with
My Weekend with Marilyn. It purports to be a memoir of his heroically standoffish encounter with the twentieth century’s sexiest actress.
‘Four hours! Aren’t we going to make love, Colin?’ says Marilyn. ‘Will that give us enough time?’ To which Clark sternly replies, ‘Oh, Marilyn, you are a naughty girl. We are not going to make love, okay?’
This is the English way of doing things. We have better things on our minds than a night of passion with Marilyn Monroe.DR DAVID STARKEY‘Aren’t we going to make love, David?’
she purred cattily, pulling back the bedclothes.
But I had seen these tactics before. ‘A typically fatuous invitation, if I may say so, Miss Monroe,’ I countered with a smirk, buttoning up my blazer and donning a waterproof for added protection. That certainly put her in her place. I was determined to push my advantage home.
‘As a – correction: the
– leading constitutional historian of our age,’ I continued, ‘I must frankly declare I have no interest whatsoever
in accepting your characteristically ill-phrased invitation. Hands off, Monroe! In fact, I put it to you, Miss Monroe, that you are incapable of formulating an invitation commensurate with my status! But that’s Americans all over! Pah! Game, set and match to Starkey, methinks!’Touche
! She never asked me again! And they say she died of a broken heart!SIR TERENCE CONRAN‘Aren’t we going to make love, Terence?’
It was an enormous privilege to be the recipient of such a truly delicious invitation. This sort of thing gives one – and let’s not forget those one works with, we’re very much a team – the most terrific buzz
I had initiated the process of removing, folding, ironing and tidying away my necktie, jacket, shirt, etcetera in preparation for ‘the main event’, as it were, when I glanced over at the bed upon which the naked Marilyn lay.
Something was troubling me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but really one should never ever
allow five pillows on a bed. Two, four or six, yes. But one, three or five – no. Even numbers only. Anything else is so desperately ...uneven
.’ I then embarked on a painstaking rearrangement of the pillows so that they would catch the morning light at an angle of approximately 45 degrees. ‘Aren’t we going to make love, Terence?’
It was an offer no less tempting for being repeated. Alas, while removing my Italian shoes – the leces were woven by a simply marvellous
little man on the harbour at Porto Ercole – I noticed a small scuff just off-centre from the toe of the left one. ‘Patience is a virtue, Marilyn!’ I said, adding, ‘I’ll just deal with this.’ I then got down to French-polishing the shoe, employing the ingredients of a delightful little lime green sachet of my own design.‘Aren’t we going to make love, Terence?’
‘But first let’s keep things simple, Marilyn! How one craves simplicity!’ I exclaimed, removing the busy floral curtains and improvising something rather ingenious with some loose cheesecloth fabric I had managed to find in a bottom drawer. Two and a half hours later, with everything just right, I was all set for a delicious amorous liaison.
I looked at the bed. It was empty. Marilyn all dressed by the door, her case in her hand, looking anxiously at her watch. She wanted me to drop her at the airport.‘Aren’t we going, Terence?’ JEFFREY ARCHER‘Aren’t we going to make love, Jeffrey?’
I looked frankly at the nude screen goddess before me. I had to tell her the honest truth. ‘Oddly enough,’ I said, ‘that is exactly what Mae West asked me when I was invited to the Roosevelt White House to honour my achievement of becoming the first man to cross the Atlantic swimming doggy-paddle. Incidentally, Marilyn, did Winston ever tell you what my good friend the Pope said to me while anointing me Cardinal?’ “Jeffrey, dear boy,” he said, “Jeffrey, you’re worth a million dollars!” “Cash?” I said.‘Aren’t we going to make love, Jeffrey?’
‘First things first, Marilyn,’ I said, frankly. ‘The time’s not 11.00pm, it’s 10.30am, we’re not at your hotel room, we’re at the home of a close friend, we’re not alone, we’re in company, and if anyone asks you if this ever really happened, you’re to tell them it did. Sign here!’TONY BENN‘Aren’t we going to make love, Tony?’
In response, I drew up a request asking her politely but firmly to furnish me with proof of membership of an affiliated trades union. ‘Y’see, Marilyn,? I informed her, ‘we’ve got to stick to the issues here–’
‘B-b-but Tony …’
‘Let’s keep personalities out of it, shall we? Someone had to make the bed, and someone else had to sew those pillowcases. Ye Jenkinses and ye Hattersleys might see fit to disregard the centuries-old struggle of the ordinary working people of this country for a night of passion, but I am not prepared to ride roughshod over a thousand years of organized labour.’
Eventually, we arrived at a compromise. She would remain in bed, while I would read choice passages from my Collected Speeches (1942-56)
out loud to her. Oddly enough, Marilyn was soon fast asleep. Had MI5 been at her cocoa?MICHAEL WINNER‘Aren’t we going to make love, Michael?’
said Miss Monroe.
I was having none of this. Not a please or a thank you, would you believe, and her clothes were spread any old how across the floor. And now she was attempting to coax me into her bed, with no suggestion of payment! To my mind, this was one young lady in urgent need of a lesson in manners.
‘Do you know who I am?’ I said. ‘I’ve never been treated like this in all my life! Don’t you ever expect me to come back here again! I’ll have you know I’m a personal friend of the Prime Minister and I have had the great pleasure of being presented to Her Majesty on three separate occasions! Now, let me see your manager, if you please, young woman! Do you know who I am?’[This is Craig Brown, págs. 165/168]