Starry, starry frights

Watching the recent telecast of this year’s Academy Awards brought back some wonderful memories for me.
Regular readers of my column will be familiar with my role as a trade commissioner in Los Angeles in the mid-1950s.
By way of background, then Prime Minister Menzies appointed me as his personal troubleshooter in Hollywood, with a brief to open doors in the US to more Australian films.
I must say I enjoyed my stay in Hollywood – even if it meant living apart from my good lady wife Devon for some considerable period of time.
Memories of the time I spent in “Tinsel Town” came flooding back as I watched the Oscars.
I remembered sailing off Catalina island in Errol Flynn’s yatch the Zaca - just Errol and I and his young niece.
I remembered playing croquet on Darryl F Zanuck’s backyard green – and letting him win so as to not spoil my chances of securing co-production agreements.
So many memories – playing chess with Bogart, teaching Grace Kelly to drive and getting a massage – free of charge – from Rock Hudson.
But, I digress.
One memory that did resurrect itself the other night as the stars collected their statuettes was a most painful – almost shameful – one.
It is one I have always refrained from disclosing. Until now.
It concerns an episode in my life of which I am neither proud, nor ashamed.
Fate can take a person on some strange journeys.
For me, one such journey began on a Saturday night at a typical Hollywood party.
I had been invited in my official capacity to a party at the Bel-Air home of a major movie studio executive.
When I arrived the house was filled with guests and some were already spilling out onto a terrace overlooking a huge, floodlit, swimming pool.
I collected a drink from the bar and stood at the open French doors leading out to the terrace.
It was there that I saw her, standing alone, leaning on the terrace railing, and seemingly lost in the crowd.
Elizabeth Taylor looked somewhat smaller than I had imagined her to be.
To this day I do not know what propelled me towards her and gave me the courage to strike up a conversation.
Actually, I tell a lie. I made a bee-line for her after seeing Rock Hudson waving at me from across the room. I raised my glass to him and sped through the crowd on the terrace. I couldn’t have stood another one of his massages.
Elizabeth Taylor seemed genuinely interested in me and my job on behalf of the Australian film industry.
She spoke quietly, leaning back on the railing, fixing me with her gorgeous eyes and occasionally looking past me and over my shoulder - as people do in Hollywood.
I had already learnt not to interpret such action as bad manners. It was all part of the modus operandi of a town that thrives and survives on personal contacts - keeping an eye out for the rich and powerful who may help your next step up the ladder of success.
Elizabeth soon entranced me with her lively anecdotes of fellow actors and the intimate details to which she was privy about some of Hollywood’s biggest movers and shakers.
I frankly admit to being besotted by her extraordinary charms and complete lack of pretence - something rarely found in Hollywood at that time, or even today I imagine.
The last thing I remember clearly of that evening was agreeing to accompany her home in her chauffer-driven limousine.
I had said that I would only do so in the interests of seeing her to her door safely, after which I would return to my own rented bungalow.
She told me she admired my chivalry and that she would have her chauffer drive me home after dropping her off.
It was then that Robert Mitchum appeared out of the crowd and, after introductions by Elizabeth and some small talk, offered us each a hand-rolled cigarette.
These days it is something of a social no-no to admit to being a smoker. But back then I - like many other Australians - was unaware of the dangers of smoking and readily and regularly consumed up to a packet of unfiltered Capstans in a day and, on special occasions, luxuriated in a Grosvenor Club cigar - the same brand Menzies smoked.
Even the big, athletic stars smoked cigarettes or cigars in those days.
I well recall Rock Hudson telling me he enjoyed nothing better than sucking on a Cuban – an act which was then still legal in the US in the pre-Castro days.
The roll-your-owns Mitchum provided certainly had a kick.
The remainder of that night is a complete blank.
I woke up hundreds of miles away in a Las Vegas hotel bed, naked except for a thin covering of confetti from head to toe.
Beside me, under the bedsheets, was a still-sleeping and snoring Elizabeth, wearing a white lace veil - and nothing else.
I could tell by the state of the bed linen, and the soreness of my most intimate extremities, that physical congress had occurred between us - possibly many times - during the night.
My watch showed it was late morning, but the drawn curtains made the room almost pitch black.
In the dark, I stared at the ceiling for some time, trying to make sense of it all.
My head pounded and I was sweating profusely. I felt drained and unable to move.
Finally, when I summoned enough energy to get out of bed, I was horrified to find on the bedside table a long, crisp, white envelope with two intertwined hearts and the greeting, “Congratulations from La Chapelle d’Amour, Las Vegas”, embossed in gold on its front.
With shaking hands I opened it. After doing so it seemed I had opened my own Pandora’s Box, such was the mixture of panic, terror, disgust and repulsion that spread over me.
I slumped back on the bed.
My movements must have woken Elizabeth, for she reached out in the dark with one hand and stroked my back before running her hand down to a region of my body which, in the interest of modesty, I shall refrain from specifying.
Suddenly she stopped.
“Bob?” she said.
Suddenly she opened her eyes and sat bolt upright.
“Jesus, you’re not Bob Mitchum,” she said, covering herself with the bedsheets.
By mid morning we were in Reno, thanks to some high speed driving by her chauffer.
I had decided not to mention my existing marriage to Devon – not to be dishonest, but to avoid any delays.
As it was the divorce was processed in less than an hour.
It would have been quicker but in the days before photocopiers, roneo machines were not known for their reliability.
I remember the clerk of the court handing us our papers with ink-covered hands and how the ink rubbed off on to ours.
On that afternoon I didn’t care. I was just happy to be putting an end to a brief, and perhaps the most unfortunate, event in my life to date.
Outside the Reno court house - trotting beside her car and talking through the partially opened back window - I asked Elizabeth if she would keep our shortlived marriage a secret.
She readily agreed, before her limousine sped off.
I, too have done so - until now.
On my return to Australia I agonised for weeks about whether I should tell Devon of my fleeting union with one of the world’s most beautiful and admired women.
I finally could not carry the burden of guilt any longer and, shaking with remorse and fear, told her all.
To spare Devon - as much as possible - further pain, I had intended to refrain from detailing the intensely physical nature of my fleeting liaison with Elizabeth. But, always a stickler for minutia, my wife insisted on being told every aspect of the illicit interlude, even down to the most graphic of carnal technicalities.
Although it was unpleasant for me to do so, I bowed to her wishes and was surprised at how understanding and accepting she was about the whole sordid episode.
She comforted me somewhat by readily admitting that, had she been in my position, she would have done the same.

Rufus Badinage MBE, now retired, is one of Australia’s leading
experts on politics and public administration having worked as a
senior bureaucrat for various state and federal governments.