"Sandra, Please Forgive Me!"




This article, written by Mark Goddard, appeared in Movieland & TV Time Magazine January, 1961

I remember when I was a little boy about six or seven and my mother visited me at a boys' camp near Lake Winnepasaki in New Hampshire. The day Mother left, along with the rest of the parents, a whole group of boys, myself included, escorted them to the railroad station, and were to be taken back to camp by bus. All the other boys stayed with their parents until the bus left. But, afraid I would not get a good window seat, I told my mother goodbye 10 minutes early and climbed into the bus.

For days, weeks, and months later--even today--I kept remembering my selfishness, which in the long run probably hurt me a lot more than it did my mother. What made it worse, I was never able to tell her of my remorse.

What does that have to do with Sandra Dee?

In a way--nothing.

In a way--everything.

You see, I had a date with Sandra Dee and, just like the time I behaved wrong with my mother, I felt I behaved wrong with Sandra.

And because I never confessed my guilty feelings to Sandra, I never dared call her again.

Maybe by writing about it, by getting it off my chest, by letting her see in print what I'm unable to tell her in person, she will be able to understand why I acted so strangely that night, and I hope that she will forgive me. So in a way, this article is addressed not only to the readers of MOVIELAND AND TV TIME, but also to Sandra herself.

I had first seen Sandra in person while having lunch with a friend of mine at Universal-International. I knew who she was, not from her movies--none of which I had seen until recently--but from the many fan magazine layouts.

To be quite truthful, I had quite a crush on her. Sandra was having lunch with John Saxon, and I wanted so badly to go over and meet her. My friend offered to make the introductions, but I was too embarrassed and told him not to bother.

It would have been easy for me to get hold of Sandra's phone number and call her, but I felt this would be a bad approach.

I feared she might resent it. In fact, I put her on such a pedestal I was afraid she would resent anything I would say or do!

Three or four weeks went by and no other opportunity arose for us to meet. And then came the night of a big premiere. This time I no longer hesitated, and asked our mutual friend to call Sandra and suggest she let me take her to the premiere. But I urged him to ask in such a way that it would not seem to have come from me, so she could turn it down without embarrassment--to either of us.

To my delight, she accepted, and I was to pick her up six days later at 7:30. It was a formal affair with a dinner at the Cocoanut Grove afterwards--which made me face my first crisis, because I had no tuxedo and no car I considered worthy of Sandra.

The first problem was quickly solved. I went to a tuxedo rental place near the Western Costume Company, and rented a tux and the accessories to go with it.

The car was a bigger headache, because I couldn't afford to simply walk into a store and buy a new Cadillac.

"Why don't you rent one?" my friend Aaron Spelling suggested when I told him my troubles.

"And while you're at it," his wife Carolyn Jones threw in, "get a chauffeur, too. Go all the way."

"Don't you think it would look like I was showing off?"

"You've got a lot of competition, Mark," they insisted. "Play it big."

And so I did. I rented myself a Cadillac and chauffeur and felt like John D. Rockefeller, Jr., when I pulled up in front of Sandra's hillside home at a quarter to eight on the night of the premiere.

All day long I had thought of all sorts of interesting things to talk to her about, because I knew my own inhibitions. I'm all right with a girl if the acquaintance is casual or meaningless, but when I feel more strongly about her, I get tongue-tied.

I rang the doorbell---and nobody answered. Although it was a cool night, I began to feel hot streaks go down my back. This must be the wrong night, I told myself. Or maybe I was too late, I worried. Something was wrong.

Frantically I rang again. This time I could hear footsteps. It was Mary Douvan, Sandra's attractive mother, who opened the door. Only I couldn't believe it was her mother. "I didn't know Sandra had a sister," I gulped in surprise.

"That's the nicest thing I've heard today," Mrs. Douvan smiled. "Come in, please."

I walked into Sandra's living room, with its white carpet and white furniture accented with pillows of red and purple, to wait for Sandra, who wasn't quite ready.

Mrs. Douvan noticed my uneasiness and tried her best to make me feel comfortable. She asked me a few questions about my career and I answered, mostly hesitantly. At last Sandra came in.

She wore a white dress with a white wrap around her shoulders. Pinned to it, I discovered to my delight, was the orchid I had sent her that afternoon. "It's beautiful," she said appreciatively, pointing to the flower. "Thank you so much."

All I could do in return was to flash a smile. I wanted to say so much to her. I wanted to say how beautiful she looked, how much I had wanted to see her--but when I finally found my voice, only "You're welcome" came out.

There was about 60 seconds of silence, until Sandra finally burst out, "Isn't it time to go?"

I expected some sort of reaction from Sandra about the Cadillac and chauffeur, but none came forth. I guess she was used to this kind of transportation, which is usually provided by the studio for such occasions. But I was impressed by the T-Bird parked in front of the house and asked if it was hers. "Not for long," she said. "I expect to get my Chrysler Imperial any moment."

Chrysler Imperial, I thought. How can I ever compete with that? I helped her into the car and then sat down beside her and asked the chauffeur to drive us to the theatre.

Sandra knew how ill at ease I was and tried to help me out by talking about her career, although I could tell she didn't like to talk about herself. She started asking me what I had done, and it became a question-and-answer period, more reminiscent of two young people in high school than two adults, which I thought, or hoped, we were.

And then we were in silence again.

As the car turned left onto Sunset Boulevard, again Sandra made an attempt to get the conversation going, by telling me how she'd caught pneumonia in New York a short time before. "I shouldn't have gone to the airport in my pajamas," she told me.

"In your PAJAMAS?" I cried out. The chauffeur must have heard it, for his head swung around, and we almost hit an oncoming car.

And then she told me, or maybe I should say us, because his head was leaning back more and more, how she was in New York on a publicity tour a short while before and was supposed to catch a plane at a certain hour. Because she woke up late, she didn't have a chance to get dressed and just threw her fur coat over her pajamas, raced downstairs into a waiting car---and reached the airport about five minutes after her jet had taken off for Los Angeles! Two-and-a-half hours went by before the next plane was ready to leave, by which time she had caught, a cold which quickly turned to pneumonia.

When she finished telling the story, I knew she was waiting for me to tell an incident of my own. But I couldn't think of a single illness. In fact, I couldn't think of anything that had happened to me. I was just glad I could still remember my name!

After what seemed hours, although it couldn't have been more than 25 or 30 minutes, we reached the theatre. Hundreds of fans closed in on us the moment we got out of the car. Sandra was used to it, with self-assurance and poise, signed autographs and briefly answered questions.

She went even further. She introduced me to every one of the fans and when she got through signing an autograph, handed the paper and pen to me so I could sign my name.

This proved to me that Sandra was one of the most considerate girls I've ever known.

We edged our way into the theatre for a brief respite. When we got to our seats, I breathed easier. I even managed to build up enough nerve to talk to Sandra and attempted to tell her why I had been so quiet before. But just as I turned to her, a good-looking young actor came over to say hello. No sooner had he left than another showed up, and from then on it was a steady stream of actors, agents, producers, photographers paying homage. It didn't stop until the lights went out.

"I guess that's it," Sandra smiled when the title flashed on.

"I guess that's it," I agreed with resignation.

I don't remember what went on on the screen. All I wanted to do was work up enough nerve to hold her hand. I touched it, as if by accident, so she could pull it away in case she resented it. She didn't. I let my hand rest next to hers, and after a while, squeezed it firmly.

From then on the premiere proved a delight, not because of anything on the screen, but because I was sitting next to her. I was sure that when the show was over and we were at the Cocoanut Grove, dancing cheek to cheek, I'd be able to overcome my shyness altogether and tell her how much I had looked forward to meeting her and how much I enjoyed being with her.

When we got back into the waiting car after the show, I told the driver to head for the Cocoanut Grove.

"I'm sorry, Mark," Sandra cut in, "but you'd better take me home."

"She's bored with me," was my first reaction, and then I thought, "I guess I shouldn't have held her hand after all, she must have resented it." I was sure I had done something wrong, but instead of coming right out and asking her, I just muttered, "That's too bad."

"I have an early call tomorrow morning and I need at least seven hours' sleep," she insisted.

I felt that I had lost her before I even had a chance, and so we drove back to her house in complete silence. When we reached her house, I took her to the door and said just about the most formal goodbye I had ever told a girl. I didn't even attempt to kiss her.

And then I made my big mistake.

I still had the car, I still wore my tuxedo. I felt I couldn't go home in the mood I was in. And so I asked the chauffeur to take me to the Cocoanut Grove by myself.

When I got there, I joined a group of friends including Abby Dalton, the very talented and attractive actress who plays Jackie Cooper's girl friend in "Hennessey.' There was never anything between Abby and me, except that I like her, that I enjoy dancing with her, and because there was nothing more between us, felt very much at ease in her company--the way I would have liked to have been with Sandra. We danced together all evening, and as a result a picture of the two of us appeared in a prominent daily newspaper the next day.

I had meant to call Sandra and explain my behavior, but after the picture came out, I was even more afraid of what she must have thought of me, and so I didn't call her then, and still haven't called her.

Don't misunderstand me--I don't want to ask her for another date. You see, since dating Sandra I've become engaged to a very wonderful girl, Marcia Rogers--a girl with whom I was lucky enough to get off on the right foot from the start. No, I just want Sandra to understand about that night so I can feel we're friends.

Maybe if I could tell Sandra what really happened that night, she would understand.

Maybe this article will do the trick. I certainly hope so.



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