bringing back all the worthwhile talent-John Forsythe, Jane Wyman, Mel Ferrer, Luna Turner. Where the hell was our taste?
OK, OK. But we wanted real dish on Bonnie. What about the shooting last fall when she mistook her new husband, "Champagne Flight" producer Marty Moreschi, for a prowler and pumped five bullets into him in their Beverly Hills bedroom? Even I had paid attention to that story in the news. Now, come on, Alex, there's something there, there has to be.
Alex shook his head. Bonnie was blind as a bat, that he could swear to. She and Marty were lovebirds on the set of "Champagne Flight." And that Marty, well, he was director, producer, writer of "Champagne Flight."
Everybody loved him. That's all Alex could tell us. The company line, we grumbled.
No, Alex protested. Besides, the best dish on Bonnie was old dish, the story of how she'd picked a father for her kid while she was still big bucks in the international cinema. Hadn't we heard that one?
Soon as Bonnie decided to have a baby, she'd gone shopping for a perfect male specimen. And the handsomest man she'd ever seen was the blond blue-eyed hairdresser George Gallagher, better known as G.G., six foot four and "breathtaking down to the last detail of his anatomy." (Lots of nods from those who'd seen G.G.'s shampoo commercials. And the New Yorkers knew him. You had to book him three months in advance.) Only trouble was, he was gay, absolutely thoroughly and incurably gay, this guy, and had never been to bed with a female in his life. In fact, his most reliable pattern for sexual release, "if you'll pardon my language," was manipulating himself as he knelt worshipfully at the feet of a leather-clad boot-wearing black stud.
Bonnie moved him into her suite in the Paris Ritz, plied him with vintage wines and gourmet foods, had her limo take him to and from work on the Champs-Elysses, and commiserated with him round the clock about his sexual problems, all to no avail, apparently, until she accidentally stumbled on the key.
The key was dirty talk. Real good and steady dirty talk. Talk dirty to G.G. and he didn't care who you were, he could do it! And whispering in his ear the whole time about handcuffs and leather boots and black whips and black members, Bonnie got him into her bed and "doing it" all night, and then she kept him "doing it" all over Spain while she made her last big hit, Death in the Sun. He did her hair too, by the way, and her makeup and her clothes. And she talked dirty to him. And they slept in her dressing room together. But when she was sure the baby "had took." she slapped a plane ticket back to Paris in his hand with a kiss goodbye and thank you. Nine months later he got a postcard from Dallas, Texas, and a photocopy of the birth certificate with his name on it as the natural father. The baby was gorgeous.
"And what does this kid look like now?"
Don't ask!
But seriously she was a little doll, that baby, just precious. Alex had seen her in Cannes at the film festival last year during the very lunch on the terrace of the Carlton where Marty Moreschi, on the prowl for "Champagne Flight" had "rediscovered" the woman who soon became his wife, the one and only Bonnie.
And as for GG, it turned out he loved being a father to the little dollbaby, he'd chased Bonnie and the kid all over Europe just for five minutes here and there with his little girl to give her a teddy bear and take a couple of pix for the wall of his salon, until finally Bonnie got fed up with it and had her lawyers drive G.G. right out of Europe so that he ended up with his fancy salon in New York. Tell us another one, Alex.
But as the evening wore on, as the stories got racier and funnier and Alex got drunker, an interesting truth emerged: not a single juicy anecdote had been included in Alex's autobiography. Nothing scandalous about Bonnie or about anybody. Alex couldn't hurt his friends like that.
We were hearing a best-seller nobody would ever read. No wonder Jody, my
OK, OK. But we wanted real dish on Bonnie. What about the shooting last fall when she mistook her new husband, "Champagne Flight" producer Marty Moreschi, for a prowler and pumped five bullets into him in their Beverly Hills bedroom? Even I had paid attention to that story in the news. Now, come on, Alex, there's something there, there has to be.
Alex shook his head. Bonnie was blind as a bat, that he could swear to. She and Marty were lovebirds on the set of "Champagne Flight." And that Marty, well, he was director, producer, writer of "Champagne Flight."
Everybody loved him. That's all Alex could tell us. The company line, we grumbled.
No, Alex protested. Besides, the best dish on Bonnie was old dish, the story of how she'd picked a father for her kid while she was still big bucks in the international cinema. Hadn't we heard that one?
Soon as Bonnie decided to have a baby, she'd gone shopping for a perfect male specimen. And the handsomest man she'd ever seen was the blond blue-eyed hairdresser George Gallagher, better known as G.G., six foot four and "breathtaking down to the last detail of his anatomy." (Lots of nods from those who'd seen G.G.'s shampoo commercials. And the New Yorkers knew him. You had to book him three months in advance.) Only trouble was, he was gay, absolutely thoroughly and incurably gay, this guy, and had never been to bed with a female in his life. In fact, his most reliable pattern for sexual release, "if you'll pardon my language," was manipulating himself as he knelt worshipfully at the feet of a leather-clad boot-wearing black stud.
Bonnie moved him into her suite in the Paris Ritz, plied him with vintage wines and gourmet foods, had her limo take him to and from work on the Champs-Elysses, and commiserated with him round the clock about his sexual problems, all to no avail, apparently, until she accidentally stumbled on the key.
The key was dirty talk. Real good and steady dirty talk. Talk dirty to G.G. and he didn't care who you were, he could do it! And whispering in his ear the whole time about handcuffs and leather boots and black whips and black members, Bonnie got him into her bed and "doing it" all night, and then she kept him "doing it" all over Spain while she made her last big hit, Death in the Sun. He did her hair too, by the way, and her makeup and her clothes. And she talked dirty to him. And they slept in her dressing room together. But when she was sure the baby "had took." she slapped a plane ticket back to Paris in his hand with a kiss goodbye and thank you. Nine months later he got a postcard from Dallas, Texas, and a photocopy of the birth certificate with his name on it as the natural father. The baby was gorgeous.
"And what does this kid look like now?"
Don't ask!
But seriously she was a little doll, that baby, just precious. Alex had seen her in Cannes at the film festival last year during the very lunch on the terrace of the Carlton where Marty Moreschi, on the prowl for "Champagne Flight" had "rediscovered" the woman who soon became his wife, the one and only Bonnie.
And as for GG, it turned out he loved being a father to the little dollbaby, he'd chased Bonnie and the kid all over Europe just for five minutes here and there with his little girl to give her a teddy bear and take a couple of pix for the wall of his salon, until finally Bonnie got fed up with it and had her lawyers drive G.G. right out of Europe so that he ended up with his fancy salon in New York. Tell us another one, Alex.
But as the evening wore on, as the stories got racier and funnier and Alex got drunker, an interesting truth emerged: not a single juicy anecdote had been included in Alex's autobiography. Nothing scandalous about Bonnie or about anybody. Alex couldn't hurt his friends like that.
We were hearing a best-seller nobody would ever read. No wonder Jody, my
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