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Come Over . . . I’m Having A Party—Kim Novak

It wasn’t the first time I’d come to New York in a lavender blouse with a precious address and a crazy idea that I’d meet Kim Novak. As president of The Lavender Flames, her biggest fan club in the East, I’d managed to pry the address from her sister Arlene at National Headquarters in Chicago. Then, at the last minute, I’d lost my nerve. . . . But there I was again, unpacking the same blouse in the same hotel with the same old dream, when all of a sudden her voice on the phone said it wouldn’t be a dream anymore.

Me! Invited to a party at Kim’s!

The minute I opened her door I felt at home. Even if it is a penthouse, it’s not too fancy; just gracious and comfortable—like something I knew Kim would want. There must’ve been fifty fans of all ages buzzing about with cameras, drinking lavender punch as fast as Ella Mae—in a lavender organdy apron—could serve it.

“If you don’t stop stuffing yourselves,” I teased, “you’ll be sick when Kim comes out.”

A small girl wearing big white gloves looked up suspiciously: “What kind of sick?”

“Nervous sick,” said I.

The small girl giggled and popped another cookie into her mouth. How could she? I was so excited I couldn’t touch a thing.

Finally she appeared, a vision in violet on a wave of sighs. Mary Anne Warzecha, a cute brunette from Brooklyn broke the spell with a “Hi, Kim!” Then we all talked at once: “How do you do your hair?” “How do you choose your clothes?” “How do you do everything!

Then the most wonderful thing happened. By some miracle there was an empty space on the couch, and she came straight over and sat next to me. The first thing she did was look at my name-tag, where, for lack of space, I’d only been able to scribble “Florence T.”

“Florence T . . .” She paused for a fraction of a second, then added, “Why, you must be Florence Toutkoushian. Are you wearing it?”

“It” is a pearl ring I once sent her as a gift. She’d returned it with a note explaining that, since the studio chose all her jewelry during the making of a picture, she’d hate to have to just drop it, neglected, at the bottom of her ring box. “Will you do me a favor,” she’d written, “and wear it for me?”

As if Id ever take it off again! To be recognized and appreciated and encouraged like that was almost more than I could bear. It made up for all the disappointment I’d felt the other time, the first time I’d come to New York for a weekend, determined to meet Kim . . .

I’d asked the hotel desk to bring my breakfast at six o’clock, and an hour later I was standing across from her building, looking for a set of windows with lavender drapes. I just stood there with a bunch of birthday violets in my hand.

Finally, I noticed the doorman sizing me up, and, with all the dignity I could muster, I strode across the street.

“Would you take these up to Miss Novak, please?” I blurted, handing him the violets before he could question me.

“Sure thing. Want to bring them up in person?”

“No!” I almost shouted, suddenly afraid. That would be a nervy thing to do, I thought. Gee, she might even be in the bathtub or something.

After he had delivered the bouquet, the doorman came down to find me warming myself in the lobby.

“I’m afraid you can’t stay there, Miss . . .”

. . . Can’t stay there. And there I was—sitting right next to her then, and she made me feel as if I could’ve stayed as long as I’d wanted to.

That’s the special thing about Kim, making you feel welcome and being really interested in what you say to her. When she talks to you, you know she’s doing it because she wants to, not because she’s supposed to. And the funny thing is, I’ll bet she made every girl in that room, at one time or another, feel she was talking to her personally—privately.

“Guess what?” she announced with sudden gayety. “Arlene’s just had a baby girl, at last!”

This was great news, for we all know as much about Kim’s sister as we do about Kim. Operating Fan Headquarters hadn’t always been easy for her, what with two husky little boys running her ragged all day. A girl—at last!

Then, as if to complete the picture, at that very moment the telephone rang . . . Chicago calling . . . It was Arlene, just home from the hospital with little Kristy Ilene Malmborg (K.I.M.!). A hush fell on the room as the two sisters talked.

“Better watch out for your job,” joked Kim. “If those kids get to be too much for you, Florence is liable to take over!”

I nearly died . . . my very secret dream, to work for Kim. Everyone was so absorbed, I don’t think anyone noticed how I blushed. We all felt like “family” sharing a tender moment.

For everyone, then, let me thank you, Kim. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.





1 Comment
  • vorbelutr ioperbir
    17 Temmuz 2023

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