Living With Miss G by Jordan Mearene

Author:Jordan, Mearene [Jordan, Mearene]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The Ava Gardner Museum
Published: 2012-08-24T00:00:00+00:00

20 SPANISH FLAMENCO!

“Rene,” said Miss G thoughtfully, “Why don’t we go and live in Madrid? Really live there, permanently.” I knew she had been playing with the idea for a long time now. She’d been indoctrinated during her first trip to Spain with Pandora and the Flying Dutchman, heavily influenced by her love affair with Luis Miguel Dominguin and by all the holidays she had spent there during her months filming The Barefoot Contessa.

“Why don’t we take the plunge? We are both getting old anyway.” “Old?” I protested. “We’re both thirty-three next birthday. That is the prime of life.”

“Let’s enjoy the prime of life then unencumbered by any male. We can pick and choose as we want.” I knew she was remembering Bhowani Junction.

“What about Walter Chiari?” I said.

“What about him?” said Miss G bellicosely, “He’s just a friend.”

I didn’t know an awful lot about Walter Chiari at this time except that he was a friend of Luis Miguel. I knew he was young and good-looking and Italian. Miss G was into the dark Latin types at this time. He was also a very well known Italian film star and musical hall performer, hardly spoke a word of English, but then neither had Luis Miguel.

“What about MGM?” I said.

Miss G said forcefully, “MGM made enough out of me with Bhowani Junction. All the big companies are making money overseas now. It’s cheaper. It’s not like the old contract days when you had to get a permit from old Father Mayer to even leave Los Angeles. We can live where we like.”

MGM was already setting up a future picture, The Little Hut, which would be shot in the Cinecitta studios in Rome, and the only reason Miss G thought she could bear it was because of Rome and the fact that Stewart Granger and David Niven were in the cast. We could commute between Rome and Madrid with no trouble.

We flew into Madrid, and Miss G began her hopeful metamorphosis from healthy, radio-blasting, martini-fortified, Hollywood girl into her idea of a Spanish mantilla-hung, Mona Lisa-smile, Castilian lady. I’ve got to admit she was worth looking at.

She booked a suite at the Hilton Hotel, and Miss G was on her way. She looked around the huge suite saying, “Well, first of all, we’ve got to learn the language.” I did not feel it my place to suggest that no Spanish senorita of any quality would make a statement like that. Instead I said, “That shouldn’t take us more than ten minutes if we work hard.”

Miss G gave me one of her quick “now don’t be cute, Rene” looks and went on. “And you got to tell room service that we don’t want three cubes of melting ice once a week. We need fresh ice three times a day.”

“Miss G,” I said, “the gin and vermouth can’t wait to freshen up.”

Miss G eyed herself in the mirror and then spun around. “Don’t you think I look Spanish, Rene?”

“Sure,” I said.

Miss G walked across

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