My Week with Marilyn by Colin Clark Page A

o’clock, and went straight into conference with Olivier. He looked grim and tired, and I don’t suppose any conclusion was reached. I was convinced that the crew must be thinking of me as an upstart, someone who had had the cheek to fly too high, and had got his wings burned as a result. But I could not take my mind off what might be going on at Parkside House. Marilyn was certainly dreadfully confused, and probably desperately unhappy. I knew she liked to work, if she could. She wanted to finish the film. What could she be doing all afternoon? That house was like a prison, like an asylum. I should never have let her go back there. By lunchtime, I was really worried.
    â€˜Colin is really worried!’
    Dicky Wattis always seemed to know exactly what I was thinking. He is old – at least he seems old to me 2 – and thin and
very perspicacious. ‘Frankly, my dear, I couldn’t care less if Marilyn Monroe dropped dead,’ he said sniffily. ‘She’s giving the rest of us actors a simply dreadful time, keeping us waiting for hours in these stuffy costumes.’ Dicky had to wear a uniform with gold braid up to his throat. The only things he seemed to like were the white silk stockings and patent leather slippers that went with it. ‘If the film can’t be finished, the insurance company will pay us off and we can all go home.’
    â€˜She’s trying her best, Dicky,’ I said. It was dangerous to show any support for Marilyn on that set, but I couldn’t resist it. Thank goodness, no one seemed to know about our excursion on Saturday. Olivier must have sworn Tony to secrecy, because he had been literally bursting to tell someone last night.
    â€˜It’s all those people around her,’ I went on. ‘Roger tells me she was fine yesterday. They scare her to death, and then she thinks she needs those pills.’
    â€˜She’s Marilyn Monroe, dear,’ said Dicky. ‘That’s her life. Pills, booze, sex, publicity. What a way to carry on. I only wish I could be the same.’
    â€˜Oh, Dicky. How can you say that? She’s really very confused. It’s like the script of this film. She doesn’t have enough love in her life.’
    â€˜Nor do I, dear,’ said Dicky, laughing. ‘Nor do we all. Don’t you worry, Colin. Marilyn will survive. She’s tougher than you think.’
    But the life of the studio, which normally made me feel so excited and important, seemed unbearably tedious now. I could hardly wait for the day to end. At five o’clock I rang Roger again, but he made it clear that I was not allowed to come over to Parkside House that night.
    â€˜Sorry, no can do. No visitors allowed. She’s gone into hibernation. Maria’s left two trays of food outside her room, but she hasn’t touched them. Milton and Paula have both had long conversations with her keyhole, but the door stays locked. But she’s in there, all right. I’ve just been up to check, and I think I can hear her snoring.’
    â€˜I’m getting worried, Roger. You said she was so well yesterday.
Maybe she’s ill. Maybe she’s dying in there. Shouldn’t you call a doctor?’
    â€˜I’m not in charge, Colin. Milton thinks she’s OK. Evidently she’s done this before, and she doesn’t like her bedroom door being broken down by the fire brigade. Milton says let her sleep, so that’s what I do.’
    â€˜But Roger . . .’
    â€˜Don’t fret, Colin. I’ll go up and check again this evening, I promise.’
    Olivier was not at all sympathetic when I went to his dressing room after filming stopped.
    â€˜She’s the stupidest, most self-indulgent little tart I’ve ever come across. What the hell’s she playing at now? Tony says you took her out for the day on Saturday. What went wrong? Why can’t she turn up for work? I don’t want the details. I don’t care if