Saturday, 8 October 2011
My Husband Cary Grant Force-Fed Me LSD And It Nearly Killed Me
On that balmy night in 1962, I was 25, an innocent young actress trying to work her way up in Hollywood.
I still couldn’t believe that I was being wooed by a man who, though 33 years my senior, was the greatest matinee idol of the day.
Our dates so far had been on neutral ground, — meals together in restaurants around Los Angeles.
Now Cary put an arm around my shoulders as he gave me a tour of his beautiful, ranch-style house in the hills above the city.
From the large patio, overlooking a panorama of twinkling lights that seemed to go on for ever, we watched the rose-tinged sun slide peacefully into the haze of the Pacific.
In the living room, where logs burned softly in a cavernous fireplace, Cary sat at his grand piano and serenaded me with the song You’re The Top.
Suddenly he stood up and told me to follow him into his bedroom. Before I could object, he flopped onto the bed, turned on the TV and motioned for me to lie alongside him.
‘Come on, I won’t bite,’ he said and at that moment his housekeeper Helen stepped into the room with a giant silver tray in her arms, laden with our dinner.
‘Just relax and stretch your legs out, dear,’ she instructed me, as if she was about to perform surgery and, with the TV show Dr Kildare burbling in the background, I began eating my way through the strangest date of my life.