The pitcher of Pimm’s, the white lace robe, bare feet on a coffee table—and Eddie. That was the pattern. Eddie had latched onto Mike. “You’re just like a son to me,” Mike used to say, sincerely attached to the hero from Philadelphia, happy that Liz had company during her pregnancy.
The first time I’d ever seen Eddie he’d come sauntering into Romanoff’s, Beverly Hills, for luncheon surrounded by ten characters who seemed more familiar with punching bags than pianos. “Who in the name of God is that?” I asked my table mate. “And who are those terrible-looking men with him?”
“That’s Eddie Fisher; they’re his handlers.”
“Handlers?” said I. “Is he a prize fighter? I’d heard he was a singer.”
I took him to the Fourth of July garden party at the United States Embassy in London a few days after Mike’s opening. Jock Whitney, our ambassador then, sent the invitation, and I invited Mike. But he was too busy and suggested his protégé, who was standing by, as usual. We were offered a glass of champagne before leaving, but Eddie declined. “You know I never drink,” he told Mike blandly. “Nothing but Coca-Cola.”
In my rented Rolls we drove to the embassy. Making our way through the crowds, I introduced Eddie to Jock and Betsy Whitney, who was looking very frail after a recent operation. She and I sat for a few minutes chatting, while Eddie hung around. As we walked away he asked: “Who’d you say those people were?”
“I introduced you to Mr. and Mrs. Jock Whitney.”
“Who are they?”
“He just happens to be our Ambassador to the Court of St. James’s.”
“Oh,” said Eddie, “oh.”