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22-05-2009
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Marie Helvin
As there doesn't seem to be a thread for this fantastic model, I'll start it off with the exquisite cover shot of UK Vogue June 1974 and one image from the editorial inside, both shot by David Bailey (image source - ebay.com).
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Some background information on Marie from wikipedia:

Quote:
Marie Helvin (born August 13, 1952 in Tokyo, Japan) was one of the first supermodels. She was one of the best-known faces of the 1970s and 1980s and was married to photographer David Bailey in the 1970s.
Quote:
Helvin was born in 1952, in Tokyo, Japan, where her American GI father of Norwegian American and French American descent, had married a local interpreter of Japanese descent, and was brought up in Hawaii from the age of four. She was approached by a model scout on a visit to Japan with her mother and signed up as the face of Kanebo cosmetics at 15. She moved to London, where she worked for designers such as Yves Saint Laurent, Versace and Valentino, and married photographer David Bailey when she was 19, having met him when he chose her for a photographic session for Vogue. Together Bailey and Helvin produced a memorable book of nudes titled Trouble and Strife in 1980. The marriage lasted ten years.

In the 1980s, Helvin left mainstream modelling to broaden her career, working for television and radio, covering subjects from books to travel, which in turn led to major television, radio and advertising campaigns, such as for Yves Saint Laurent and Olympus cameras, built around her personality and lifestyle. She launched her own collection of body/swimwear range in 1990 and went on to produce seasonal collections which sold worldwide. She published two books, made a health and fitness video, appeared on television and presented several programmes including GMTV's series Helvin on Hawaii, which featured her philosophies on health and beauty.

Helvin remains in the forefront of the fashion industry, appearing as a judge in Britain's Next Top Model, and with appearances in British Vogue and the US W magazine, features in Sunday Times Style and You magazine, and a retrospective in Harper's Bazaar. She recently appeared on her 7th British Vogue cover.

Most recently, Helvin returned to Japan to present a look at fashion and innovation in modern Japan in "Marie Helvin's Tokyo", part of the Luxury Life series on CNBC.

Currently, Helvin is the face of Marks & Spencer's new Portfolio fashion range for women over 50.

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Marie has published several books - Catwalk : the art of model style (1984) and Bodypure (1995), and has recently released her autobiography, which is a great read (image source - amazon.co.uk).
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Trouble And Strife was a book published in 1980 by David Bailey, containing a series of 81 photos in Duotone of Marie, which caused a stir when published, owing to the nudity and S/M overtones of some of the shots. The phrase 'trouble and strife' is cockney rhyming slang for 'wife'. (image source - ebay.co.uk).
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Another image from Trouble And Strife (image source - pdngallery.com).
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Another one of Marie's many UK Vogue covers, this one from December 1975, shot by David Bailey (image source - www.vogue.co.uk).

UK Vogue reports that this issue is also notable for Iman's first Vogue appearance: "A 20-year-old Somali girl discovered by photographer Peter Beard when he was filming on the Northern Frontier of Kenya. Now in New York on her first journey out of Africa, she's been snapped up as a model but intends to study languages too."
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A shot of Marie and David together (image source - leninimports.com).
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More images, no further information available at the moment (image source - leninimports.com)
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Quite possibly from French Vogue, year unknown (image source - leninimports.com).
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Another UK Vogue cover, February 1976 (image source - leninimports.com).
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And she didn't have a thread!!!!!!!???????

One os the most gloriously exotic women I've ever laid eyes on and still beautiful now.
Thank-you tigerrouge for starting her thead I will try to contribute.

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The Daily Mail reports on Marie's beauty regime (image source - www.dailymail.co.uk):

Quote:
Botox? What Botox, says Marie Helvin, still an all natural beauty at 56

By Liz Jones, 22nd May 2009

She has a body to make women half her age green with envy. Yet unlike so many of her contemporaries, Marie Helvin's youthful looks owe nothing to the cosmetic surgeon's knife - or even to the wonders of Botox. Instead, the 56-year-old says the secrets of her success are simply soap, water and lashings of moisturiser.

The supermodel, who is single, said: 'Whatever I use on my face I take right down [to my cleavage]. They're my best asset. Not that anyone really sees them any more. But I do.'

Of course, good genes are also important, as Miss Helvin - who had a Japanese mother and American father - readily admits. 'My mother always said that Japanese women look youthful for years and then one morning they wake up and they've aged like 100 years,' she said in an interview with The Times. 'And she's right. It happened to her when she was 79.'

Miss Helvin, who is the face of a Marks & Spencer clothing range for over-45s, said her regime means there is no need for images of her to be airbrushed, either. 'I don't like it when I see magazine photographs of me that have been retouched because I think I look better now than I did when I was in my 40s.'
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz...beauty-56.html

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Another Daily Mail piece, about one piece of surgery that Marie has had (image source - www.dailymail.co.uk):

Quote:
Jerry Hall fainted ... and that was before the neck op that left me looking like the Bride of Frankenstein

11th October 2008

To the outside world, model Marie Helvin has always exuded the sort of confidence associated with a beauty whose face and body have amassed her a small fortune. Yet behind her exotic good looks is an incredible story of a woman who was left distraught after an emergency operation to remove her thyroid gland at the age of 41. So radical was the procedure that Marie was left with a prominent scar running from one side of her neck to the other.

It was a scar that Marie thought so disfiguring that she even made the drastic decision to turn down modelling work. Indeed, the emotional and physical scars left by the operation ran so deep that for 15 years, Marie, now 56, has not felt brave enough to reveal her health problem - and even omitted it from her recent autobiography. Now, thanks to a strict health regime of supplements and that inevitable healer, time, she feels ready to talk about her ordeal.

Marie had been enjoying a successful modelling career and believed she was in good health when she had a routine dental check-up and was told that something might be terribly wrong with her. 'My dentist [the late Lionel Bryer, model Tania Bryer's father] said, "Marie, there's a big lump in your neck." I said, "Don't be silly," but then he handed me a mirror and I could quite clearly see this lump on the left side of my neck pushing against the larynx. 'I hadn't spotted it before because it was only when I leaned my head back that it showed.'

...

[A doctor] referred Marie to an endocrinologist who confirmed that she had a large polyp on the thyroid gland. 'It didn't occur to me that this growth could be cancerous and no one mentioned the C-word,' she continues. 'But I was sent to have a fine needle aspiration that would help with the diagnosis. 'My friend Jerry Hall went with me to hold my hand. The needle was very long so I kept my eyes closed - but when they put it in my neck, Jerry fainted. We needed a good champagne lunch after that to recover.'

...

Her first experience of hospital is something she describes as being like a horror film. 'I still remember screaming when I came round from the anaesthetic because I thought there was a dead man on the trolley next to me. In fact, I was in the recovery room and the man was very much alive and also coming round from surgery, but I was in such a state and being sick.'

More shocking though, was the first glimpse Marie had of her neck. 'I looked as though I'd been garrotted,' she says. 'I kept thinking of that Hollywood actress Elsa Lanchester in The Bride Of Frankenstein whose head was put on someone else's body and there was a bloody red scar across her neck. Mine was livid red with staples all the way along it. I was trying not to move my head because looking at that scar and the staples I was beginning to seriously think it might fall off.

'But once I'd fully come round I calmed down. I had to learn to sleep upright because my neck hurt like hell while lying down. I still do but these days it's more to do with avoiding wrinkles. I felt so embarrassed and thought people might think I'd had a facelift from the neck upwards - something I'd heard Jackie Onassis once had.'

...

For about six months after the operation, however, Marie remained self-conscious about her neck. 'I felt as if people were staring at my scar,' she says. 'My model agency were sympathetic and didn't say anything about how I looked, but they can't have been best pleased that I turned down jobs for the glossies and advertising because of it. I've had a largeish mole on my breast since I was born and the agency wanted me to have that removed but I insisted it was an important part of me. I feel that way now about the scar on my neck. I've finally accepted it's part of who I am, although I always ask make-up artists to conceal it.'
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/ar...ie-Helvin.html

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Her autobiography was also serialised in the Daily Mail (image source - as before):

Quote:
How I bewitched lothario photographer David Bailey

08 September 2007

Mick Jagger, Jack Nicholson, Warren Beatty... Marie Helvin bewitched them all with her simmmering sexuality. But when society snapper David Bailey fell under her spell the fireworks really began.

My marriage to David Bailey ended one morning in 1983, while he was away on a photo-shoot. I'd woken up happy that I had the house to myself, for once. Revelling in the silence, I climbed out of our bed and went downstairs. Usually, our home in North London was teeming with models and make-up artists, hairdressers and assistants and assistants' assistants. Rock 'n' roll would be blaring and the doorbell ringing incessantly. It was exactly how a photographer's house is meant to be - after all, it was Bailey who provided inspiration for his fictional counterpart in the film Blow-Up.

But today - ah! - silence. I cut up a grapefruit and started thinking about what my best friend, model Jerry Hall, had said to me the day before. She'd asked me to lunch at the St James's Hotel, where she and Mick Jagger were staying at the time. After a feast of caviar and champagne, she made sure I was sitting down before saying: "Marie darling, I've been racking my brains over how to tell you this, but Bailey's seeing someone else."

"So what if he is!" I told her. I truly didn't believe that men expressed their love through monogamy. Of course he slept around. He was David Bailey, the big, untameable beast of the Sixties' jungle and world-famous photographer. He'd never flaunted his lovers in front of me, so they didn't hurt me. Anyway, a fleeting sexual encounter wasn't the same as an affair - or so I always told myself.

But Jerry was looking at me with great concern. "This time, it's serious," she said. "This time, you've got to do something." I realised that she was probably talking about her own situation with Mick Jagger. But I listened. Mick, she said, was anxious about my relationship with Bailey; the photographer Helmut Newton was worried about us - all our friends, according to Jerry, were freaking out about Catherine, a young English model they'd seen with Bailey in Paris.

I knew whom she meant. I'd noticed Catherine appearing regularly in Bailey's photos, and my intuition had told me there was something going on, but my head had refused to accept it. Sitting in the kitchen, I brooded. I'm not proud of what I did next and I'd certainly never done anything like it before.

And just maybe, if I hadn't done it, this fling might have fizzled out like all the rest. I went into Bailey's private sanctum, his dark room, and started leafing through his photographs. I didn't even know what I was looking for, but my hands were shaking as I went through the piles of modelling shots, the sheaves of portraits. Finally, I opened a drawer, and there they were: photos of Catherine that were so intimate, they made me gasp.

Jagger was furious when he found out what Jerry had told me. As for Bailey, well, although I knew that our ten-year marriage was over, I never ever confronted him about the pictures. I didn't know how. Even in the early Eighties, when I was one of the most successful models in Britain, I didn't really have a voice. Time after time, when I should have spoken up, I simply walked away. Whenever I was about to open my mouth, Bailey would say: "Please don't be one of those awful American women who is constantly whining: 'We need to talk about our feelings!' " I didn't want to be one of those women either.

My mistake was wanting to please him, and his mistake was not listening to me. Unable to express my anger, I'd sometimes resort to mischief. After popping down to see my rabbits - Bailey had bought me two, which used to hop around his former dining-room - I'd put one or two of their doo-doos in his bowl of peanuts. "How were your peanuts, Bailey?" I'd ask, clearing away the empty bowl. "Delicious, thanks."

An incident in Milan just about sums up what I was like during my years with Bailey. At the end of a day's shoot, we'd gone to the lobby of our hotel for a drink with his Italian assistant and his girlfriend. Feeling bored after a while, I went up to our room with the assistant's girlfriend and we chatted. Eventually, I said I was going to bed and then pretended to be asleep - hoping she'd get the hint. Instead, she hung around, looking at my clothes. Then I heard a knock at the door: it was Bailey coming up to bed. I sneaked a look up from the bed and clearly saw him making out with the girl in the doorway. All arms and tongues. But I was paralysed. I couldn't call out, so I pretended to be asleep again. Afterwards, I refused to say what had upset me: I just blanked Bailey for about five days, giving a tight-lipped "no" to every question and refusing to look him in the eye.

Another time, when we were in Los Angeles, I witnessed the kind of debauchery and bad behaviour that would have loosened the tongue of almost any woman on the planet. Not mine... We'd met up with Alana Hamilton - by then divorced from actor George Hamilton and dating the singer Rod Stewart - and Helmut Berger, an Austrian actor known as "the most beautiful man in the world". That night, we headed for the house of that old Rat Packer, Sammy Davis Jr - which was behind huge security gates and patrolled by armed guards. Inside, there was quite a party going on: I could see 15 members of the American Football team Oakland Raiders all surrounded by sexy women. There was something unsettling about the way the men were evidently guests, and the women had clearly been "laid on" for them. As background entertainment, a huge TV screen set in a sunken area in the living room was playing Sam Peckinpah's most violent movie, The Wild Bunch. Sammy Davis Jr welcomed us.

"I must show you my collection," he said. This turned out to be pornography through the ages: ancient phalluses, Japanese sketches, priapic Greek figurines. When we returned to the living room, the atmosphere was rowdier. In the sunken area, some of the girls were on their knees in front of a few reclining Oakland Raiders, clearly performing oral sex. Then one of the sexy girls circulating with drinks started chatting Bailey up. He flirted with her in return, and I suddenly lost it. Instead of confronting Bailey, I simply walked out, heading straight into the LA night. The door slammed behind me and I was left looking at ranks of smart cars in the private parking lot.

Remembering that we'd arrived in Alana's Rolls-Royce Corniche, I found what I thought was her car and climbed in. I was sitting in the front seat, stressed out and unhappy, when two huge guys suddenly got in on either side of me. One of them was a football manager, and they were both in high spirits. They were teasing and prodding me. When I tried to make a quick exit, the men just laughed and wouldn't move. Desperate, I crawled over one of them, made it through the door and ran to the house. By now panicky and tearstained, I was about to ring the bell when a security guard with a gun appeared and asked me what I was doing. He obviously assumed that I was a hooker. "Once you're out of the house, you're out," he said menacingly.

All I could do was sit and wait on the steps, feeling vulnerable and frightened. It felt like ages until Alana, Helmut and Bailey came out, saying: "There you are! We'd been wondering where you'd got to." The next morning, I sulked in silence. Again, I never expressed why I'd been so upset, and the incident was soon forgotten. But resentment festered deep down inside. No wonder, bit by bit, our marriage decayed: there was no communication.

How did it all start? Well, the catalyst was the editor of British Vogue, who decided that I should do a photo shoot with a Brazilian theme. The photographer she wanted was Bailey - but first he'd have to check me out. When I arrived at his studio, he was sitting on the floor, studying a magazine layout, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He browsed through my portfolio in a very off-hand manner, as if it bored him intensely. My heart fell. "Yeah, I've heard of you. I've heard of every model who's any good. And I can see you've worked with the best," he said flatly. "See you around."

Soon after that meeting, my agent, Eileen Green, called me. "OK, Marie, my love, you're booked on a job with Bailey. This could be great for your portfolio. "But please, by Mary, Jesus and all the saints, don't sleep with him. I'm telling you, my dear - keep your knickers on. If you do, you'd be the first and probably the last. Good luck now, angel."

I'd grown up in Hawaii, the daughter of a Japanese mother and American father, but I'd been in London long enough to know of Bailey's status as an arch-seducer. More to the point, I'd heard some of the wild stories. One of them had it that, during an evening at La Coupole - a fashionable restaurant in Paris - Bailey had bet film director Roman Polanski the cost of their meal that he could seduce one of the women in the room. Then and there. Apparently, Bailey got up, picked out a fashion editor from among the diners - and she proved willing to be hauled off to his Rolls-Royce. Polanski paid the bill.

Another story concerned a night at Mr Chow's in London, when Bailey was out with fellow photographer Terry Donovan and film producer David Puttnam. Bailey was convinced that a beautiful woman across the restaurant was directing flirtatious glances at him. Urged on by his companions, he went over to chat her up. She seemed to know his name, so he asked her if they'd met before - and she had to remind him that they had, in fact, once been married. The mysterious stranger was his first wife, Rosemary Bramble. "She'd changed her hairstyle or something," said Bailey weakly.

Apocryphal stories, you might think. But no - Bailey confirmed them all to me, with many a wicked chuckle. It was probably just as well I didn't know they were true when I turned up for our Vogue shoot early in the morning, my stomach eaten away with nerves. I was then a jobbing high-fashion model, and this was my first cover shoot: an exotic 'holiday getaway' photographic story that was actually shot in a chilly studio in Parsons Green, West London. On the first day, as I posed in bikinis with flowers in my hair, Bailey and I barely spoke. On the second, as well as his regular "Stay like that, pussycat!" I got the odd "fantastic!" - and he offered to drive me home.

When we reached the Portobello hotel where I was staying in the cheapest, tiniest room, he took me for a glass of wine in the bar. It was all quite innocent, and we both said "goodbye - see you soon". In any case, I knew that Bailey had a live-in girlfriend, and I'd heard wicked rumours that he'd won her as a bet one night, when he thrashed her boyfriend at poker. I didn't question if this was true, or ask anything about her. But when I got up to my room, I felt strangely elated. I had a presentiment that something was beginning.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz...ie-Helvin.html
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Serialisation cont...

Quote:
After that first job, he began to book me two or three times a week. The second shoot we did was - quelle surprise - in his own bedroom. Photographers are cheeky generally, but Bailey had outrageous nerve - one of the things I came to love about him. His house in Primrose Hill, North London, had the high drama of the late Sixties. Outside, it was painted sky-blue and over-run by ivy. Inside, there were black walls, the obligatory 'purple room', a spare bedroom with handpainted pink minarets, even a den-like room stuffed with velvet sofas that had six TVs mounted on one wall. A huge aeroplane propeller hung in the hall (a detail that Antonioni stole for his fictional photographer's studio in Blow-Up).

Upstairs in Bailey's bedroom, I reclined across the black satin sheets on his Jacobean four-poster, wearing long black satin evening gloves, stockings with a suspender belt and black patent high heels. In one of the pictures, I'm caressing one of the heels - very Bailey, that idea. He was so different from anyone I'd ever met: constantly teasing, flirting, then being gruff - so you never quite knew where you were with him. And that was very sexy to me. I knew we were creating erotically-charged photos that were, for their day, very risque.

In one of them, I'm biting the tip of the evening glove; in another a nipple is exposed. But I was ready to push boundaries. I needed Bailey - and if I can be bold enough to say it, he needed me. Shortly after that shoot, he asked me out on a double-date.

Whenever we were alone for just a moment, we started kissing and fumbling. I was ecstatic inside with lust, lust and more lust. "She wears red feathers and a hulahula skirt. She lives on just coconuts and fish from the sea, a rose in her hair, a gleam in her eyes and love in her heart for me..." Bailey would put his arm round me and sing this little ditty. "What is that song? I've never heard it before!" I'd protest. I thought he'd made it up - until I heard it one day on TV.

We slept together really quickly, but I held back in other ways. I wouldn't consider moving in with him, nor would I even stay the night at his house. The mysterious and unwanted girlfriend had by now moved out of his home, but I felt the bed was still warm. Something made me refuse to slot pliantly into his life. Bailey and I would work together in the daytime and then spend our evenings in restaurants - San Lorenzo or Mr Chow's - bantering about the idiocies of the fashion world and taking the mickey out of people we knew.
Nobody was spared. I also began to see his closely-guarded softer side, to realise that the swaggering, bullish photographer was a public caricature. My friends warned me that I'd become just another name on his infamously long list of conquests, but I knew it was more than that. And when Bailey invited me for a weekend away in Paris, what could I say?

"I see you got her first." It was a familiar voice, that London drawl. I turned around and realised it was Mick Jagger, in a fur Parka and shades, verbally slapping Bailey on the back. We were in the lobby of L'Hotel in Paris, where Bailey and I were staying in a suite. Mick, being Mick, had the penthouse. They were major players, those men: kingpins, cocks-of-the-walk. They'd drunk deeply from the heady Sixties brew of new social freedoms, and women were throwing themselves at their feet.

Naturally, Bailey and Mick saw sex as a free-for-all, not a thing of many colours and consequences, as women do. That Mick and Bailey should banter about me in my presence like that enrages the feminist in me now. At the time, it was habitual, this careless arrogance. Men often spoke about women as if they weren't there. But back then, I just stood there like a sour lemon while Bailey grinned at Mick and put his arm round me, saying: "Yeah, tough luck."

That night, we went to La Coupole, where the fashionable crowd were drinking champagne, pushing food round plates, waving at each other across the banquettes. Bailey pointed at a table where a gaggle of models were sitting. "See her? The dark one? I've had her. And the blonde as well. And f*** me, the brunette, too. Had her against a wall, actually." He spoke not boastfully but with mock-surprise at his own success. I couldn't help laughing. If anything, I found this openness about his conquests refreshing, even reassuring. They weren't a sordid secret - this was just how it was for him.

Back in London, Bailey helped develop my look. He insisted on stockings, and high heels: if he saw I was wearing flat shoes when he came to collect me in the evening, he'd sulk in the car until I put heels on. "Flats make you look like Minnie Mouse!" he'd holler. When we knew each other better, he'd sometimes tease me about my figure, saying: "You're getting mighty meaty, matey!"

Even at the peak of my modelling career, when I was 27, five feet nine and a size eight, he'd clamp down on me whenever I ate even a little of what I fancied. I called him the "food police". Of course it upset me when he prodded my hips, making critical noises. But I was also grateful - I needed to watch my weight because my face and body were my career. In fact, I found a certain pleasure in being told what to do. "That's it," he said, shortly after we returned from a working trip to Italy, "You're moving in with me." He didn't give me any say - typical Bailey.

People thought that I suffered under some kind of tyranny, that he was a Svengali, but the truth is that I was a product of my happy childhood in Hawaii - a laid-back island girl. I enjoyed being passive and submitting to his will. I could enjoy the inverse power of being cosseted, and I could be blissfully lazy. And there was certainly an element of sexual power-play involved, too. We were also bound together by his camera, which he had with him at all times, ready for action, from the moment he woke up. It wasn't so much that he wanted to photograph me in the throes of passion (for that, we used Polaroids - didn't everyone?); rather, he would get separation anxiety if he was far from a camera for long. I might be shaving my legs in the bath and he'd be there snapping away - which would annoy anyone. But I realised that the creative artist never switches off - and, by extension, neither can his model and partner. He didn't even need to speak when he was photographing me: all it would take was a look, a hand motion - rather like a conductor to a first violinist.

We were in San Lorenzo when Bailey proposed - egged on by Mara, the owner of the restaurant, who stood over our table and said she wouldn't leave until he'd written 'Mrs Bailey' in my passport. This he finally did - in pencil. I was only 19, but never doubted then that I was doing the right thing. The wedding itself was a small, private civil ceremony at St Pancras register office on November 3, 1975 and, a few weeks later, we flew off to Honolulu, where my mother had arranged a wedding party .

Paul and Linda McCartney joined us for a week on their way to Australia, and I got high and happy with them. Bailey always hated me smoking grass - but, for once, I could do it with impunity. After all, he could hardly tell the McCartneys to desist. Back in London, we settled into a kind of routine. Every Friday, Bailey and I would be invited for dinner by the then Vogue editor, Beatrix Miller.

You could always predict who'd be there: Bailey and royal photographer Tony Snowdon would be looking daggers at one another (there wasn't much love lost between them) and I was often seated next to the great comedian Peter Sellers, whom I found a gloomy, intense presence. "Am I going to be next to Peter Sellers again?" I'd complain to Bailey in the car. He was quick to chide me. "Marie, there are thousands who'd love to sit next to that man." So I persevered, and eventually we found some common ground to discuss: hallucinogenic drugs. Perhaps Peter got something else out of our conversations, too - there's a silly photo in which I'm beaming at him and he's ogling my cleavage.

At home, there was a constant stream of famous visitors coming to be photographed by Bailey. One Saturday morning, it was Harrison Ford. After he'd left in a taxi - on his way to film the first Indiana Jones movie - Bailey and I began planning what we'd do with our day. Then the doorbell rang. It was Harrison on the doorstep. "Uh, I'm sorry. I got halfway to the airport and then I, uh, realised I forgot my s***." We went up to the dressing room to look for his dope: no sign. In the studio, we searched on hands and knees: no sign. Finally, Harrison leapt up. "I got it!" He was holding a little brown lump he'd found behind the door. "Great," I said, thinking to myself: that looks familiar... I had to say something. "Harrison, are you sure? We have a lot of dogs, you know. It looks like a piece of dog doo-doo..." He shrugged and said with a handsome grin: "Well, I'll find out when I smoke it."

Most of the time, Bailey and I just craved time alone together - not easy when you live in a madhouse. Friends and acquaintances were always coming over uninvited. The doorbell would ring, the 70 parrots Bailey kept in the basement would squawk, and we'd often resort to turning all the lights off and hiding behind the heavy purple velvet curtains in the drawing room. Even in those early days, though, there were problems that I did my best to ignore.

Sweet and generous in his own way, Bailey hardly ever gave me any jewellery, and I never had a credit card or a joint account. Rarely was I ever paid for any of the work I did with him, either; if I needed money, I had to ask for it. Then there was his jealousy, which at times could make him harsh and frightening. The angriest he's ever been with me was after my sister, Naomi, and I went out with Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall in Paris. We'd dined at La Coupole and then piled back to Jerry and Mick's room at the George V for a few drinks. Then Naomi and I went chastely back to our hotel.

Some time after midnight, the phone rang. It was Bailey, in a rage. Where had I been? What had I been doing with Mick? Was I fooling around with him? No matter how many times I explained that Jerry had been with us, too, he couldn't be pacified. Around 3am, I hung up; he rang back; I hung up. When he rang again, Naomi hissed "Don't answer it!" but I did. I desperately wanted to placate my husband. When Naomi and I flew back to London the next morning, my eyes were puffed up from crying. The strange thing was that Bailey had nothing to worry about from Mick. He never made a move on me, and I wouldn't have fooled around with him for the world.

The man Bailey should have really worried about was another of his best friends: the movie star Jack Nicholson. I was always surprised by the way he pursued me, because I assumed that loyalty would prevent a man from making a play for his best friend's partner. Evidently not. Jack would raise the stakes a little when Bailey was away, taking me out for dinner a deux at Langan's, San Lorenzo or Mr Chow's. He was an incorrigible flirt, and I found his attention flattering. Round at the home of mutual friends, he would tell everyone at the dinner table: "You have no idea how crazy I am about Marie!" Everyone would just laugh, but he'd croon: "Ab-so-lute-ly craaazy!" Perhaps he was just doing it for dramatic effect; perhaps the fact that he knew I'd never go behind Bailey's back meant I was perfect material for a flirtation.

When Jack started filming The Shining, I used to go and visit him on set at Elstree. As they shot one particular scene in the huge lobby of the hotel, I was standing silently behind the director Stanley Kubrick, trying not even to breathe. The next day, Jack persuaded me to take a screen test for the film. I leant against the ghostly hotel bar and exchanged some lines of dialogue with Kubrick. Bearded, inscrutable and totally absorbed in looking into the camera, Kubrick simply nodded and said: "Thank you." I didn't get the job - and when I saw the film, I noticed that there was no part that corresponded with the one for which I'd been auditioning.

Jack would throw fabulous dinners in his temporary house on the Embankment for guests including theatre producer Michael White (The Rocky Horror Show), Michael Crichton (far too handsome to be a writer) and tall, cold Sigourney Weaver (brimming with tales about some horror film called Alien). All the prettiest girls in London would come, and sometimes the prettiest girls in Paris, too. But, at the same time, Jack was desperately trying to get back with Anjelica Huston, with whom he'd had a long affair. "Why won't Toots come over?" he'd complain (he always called her Toots). I'd retort: "You don't think it could possibly be because she knows what's going on here?!"

At the time, I must admit that I fantasised about having a fling with Jack - but Bailey was still the one and only man in my life. It was a different story after my marriage ended. Back in London again, Jack was filming Batman and pursuing me with renewed vigour, taking me to lunch at San Lorenzo and dinner at Le Caprice in the course of one day. But now that I was finally attainable, the element of suspense had gone and our flirtation felt flat. We went back to my flat together with a sense of heavy-heartedness. The spark had gone - we had simply waited too long. When he finally left, I didn't care if I never heard from him again. It was too depressing, this feeling of: "Is that it?" What's more, I'm sure the feeling was mutual. In the morning, I received a dozen red roses, and I changed my telephone number. Typical of me, just to run away.

That was how I always dealt with any problems - by leaving the room, leaving the party, leaving the country. Or, indeed, pretending to be asleep.

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