The Other Side of Midnight
Guy had rented a beautiful home on Long Island and on weekends Ben and I worked with him there. He was very social and had an interesting group of friends.
At a dinner party there one evening, I was seated next to one of the most beautiful young women I had ever seen.
“Guy tells me that you’re writing a Broadway musical with him,” she said.
“Yes.”
“That’s interesting.”
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m an actress.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
“Wendy Barrie.”
Wendy was British and she had made half a dozen pictures in England. Her godfather was J. M. Barrie, and he had used Wendy’s name in Peter Pan. I found her fascinating, but she seemed to be preoccupied.
When dinner was over I asked, “Are you all right?”
She shook her head. “Let’s go for a walk.”
We went outside and started walking down a moonlit gravel path. Because of the wartime blackout there were no electric lights and the only illumination came from a full moon. As we walked, Wendy began to cry.
I stopped. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing . . . Everything . . . I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s happening?”
“It’s my—my boyfriend. He—he beats me.” She could barely get the words out.
I was filled with indignation. “Why would you let him?” I said. “Nobody should be allowed to behave like that. Why don’t you leave him?”
“I—I—don’t know. It’s—it’s difficult.”
She began sobbing. I put my arm around her.
“Wendy, listen to me. If he’s beating you now, you can be sure it will only get worse. Leave him while you can.”
“I know you’re right,” she said. She took a deep breath. “I’m going to.”
“Good for you.”
“I feel better. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Do you live in New York?”
“Yes.”
“Are you doing anything tomorrow night?”
She looked at me and said, “No.”
“Let’s have dinner.”
“I’d love to.”
The following night, Wendy Barrie and I had dinner at Sardi’s and we enjoyed each other’s company. We were together for the next two weeks.
One Friday morning, I got a telephone call.
“Sidney?”
“Yes.”
“Do you enjoy your life?”
“Very much. Why?”
“If you do, stop seeing Wendy Barrie.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you know who’s paying her rent?”
“No. We never—she never told me.”
“Bugsy Siegel.”
The hit man for the mob.
I never saw Wendy Barrie again.
I met our two Jackpot stars, Allan Jones and Nanette Fabray. Allan Jones was movie star handsome, just under six feet, with a powerful physique and a wry smile. He had a wonderful singing voice and was a recording icon. Nanette Fabray was a real charmer. She was in her early twenties, had a great body, an upbeat personality, and was a natural comedienne—perfect for the part.
I had a good feeling about the show.
After rehearsal one day, Roy Hargrave, the director of Jackpot, said, “You boys are doing a great job on the script.”
I thought of Yolanda Mero-Irion. A disaster. “Thank you, Roy.”
“I have a friend who’s producing a musical and he’s looking for a writer. I told him about you. Would you like to meet him?”
Impossible. Ben and I were already writing two shows, and I was going to be called back to the Air Corps any minute.
“Love to,” I said.
“His name is Richard Kollmar. He’s married to Dorothy Kilgallen.”
I read Dorothy Kilgallen’s popular newspaper column. She and Kollmar were a power couple on the Broadway scene.
“I’m going to call and make an appointment for you with Dick.”
Roy Hargrave made a telephone call and when he finished, he said, “Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Richard Kollmar had produced, directed, and acted in hit Broadway musicals, and he was only in his early thirties. He was slim, enthusiastic, and welcoming.
“Roy told me that you’re a really good writer,” he said. “I’m doing a fantasy musical. It’s going to be a big production with great sets and costumes. It’s about a soap opera writer who falls asleep and dreams that she is Scheherazade and that she must continuously tell stories to the sultan or die.”
“Sounds interesting. Who’s playing Scheherazade?”
“Vera Zorina.”
The world-famous ballet dancer who had become a Broadway star, and who was, incidentally, married to George Balanchine.
“Ronald Graham is playing opposite her. Would you like to write the show with Dorothy?”
“I’d love it,” I said. “By the way, I have a collaborator.”
He nodded. “Ben Roberts. How soon can you start?”
“Right away.”
Ben and I could get some sleep after the war.
I called Ben as soon as I got back to the hotel.
“We’re writing a musical for Richard Kollmar called Dream with Music.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Why did the other shows drop us?”
“They didn’t. We’re still doing those.”
“We’re writing three Broadway shows at once?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”