IN OCTOBER OF that first year of My Fair Lady, I celebrated my twenty-first birthday. Charlie Tucker flew over for it, as did my mother and also my girlfriend Susan Barker.

Charlie hosted an after-theater birthday supper upstairs at the famous 21 Club. Lou Wilson was there, and Rex and Kay, “Cooter,” and Cathleen. Stanley and his wife were invited, of course, as it was his birthday, too.

There was a large U-shaped table so that we all sat facing each other. I was next to my mother. It was her second visit to the States, and for some reason, she was in a foul mood. I do not know what caused it. She certainly drank a lot that night, and single-handedly, she made my twenty-first birthday an absolute misery. All through supper she scowled and barely spoke. It was embarrassing and sad to see her so disturbed.

Trying to engage her in conversation, I whispered, “Doesn’t Cathleen look beautiful tonight?”

“Yes,” she replied in an icy tone, “and she’s such a lady, with such good manners,” implying that I had none.

When we finally returned to the Hotel Park Chambers, Tony felt moved to say something. As he said good night, he added, “Please, Barbara, try not to hurt Julie any more.”

It was the first time I had ever heard him speak to her that way. It was a brave thing to do because he was not in her good books—nobody was.

As she and Charlie were preparing to depart for Britain, he said, “Julie, your contract with me has expired. I’d like to renew it.”

I was miserable that my mother was leaving with so much unresolved. I knew she was probably miserable, too. I replied, absently, “That’s fine.”

“No need to look at it. It’s the same as it’s always been,” he said. “Just sign.”

Later, when I went over the document with Lou Wilson, I discovered that Charlie had raised his already large commission by a considerable amount. Lou was appalled, and I felt betrayed. I had signed the paper, so the damage was done, but unfortunately that incident changed forever the tenor of Charlie’s and my relationship.

After they departed, Tony and I settled into a quieter way of life. Technically, he wasn’t allowed to work since he had to wait to take the United Scenic Artists of America exam in order to join the union, and that exam was offered just once a year. He began looking for a job anyway.

His passion was the theater, and Oliver Smith, our brilliant set designer, was exceedingly kind to him. Impressed by Tony’s portfolio, he invited him to his house in Brooklyn Heights and counseled him regarding the theater, the union, and how to proceed.

The same was true of our lighting designer, Abe Feder. He was a short, stocky fellow, built like a tank. He nearly always walked around with a good Cuban cigar clenched between his teeth. He, too, was a legend on Broadway, a larger-than-life personality, wonderfully charismatic, chockfull of ideas and good humor. In addition to his theatrical experience, Abe was a renowned architectural lighting designer and had illuminated vast projects like the World’s Fair, Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, and the United Nations, among others.

Abe provided Tony with introductions to several major magazines, including Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and Playbill. Tony’s very first assignment in the U.S. was to design caricatures for Long Day’s Journey into Night starring Fredric March and Florence Eldridge.

TONY AND I attended some wonderful parties.

Moss and Kitty Hart were the best hosts in New York. Their evenings were charming and sophisticated, their guests extraordinary, the dialogue sparkling. There were trays heaped with food and the champagne flowed. At the height of the festivities, someone played the piano and Moss and Kitty would entertain us, singing witty duets. They were marvelous together, and seemed really to enjoy the fun.

Stephen Sondheim was a young, up-and-coming talent. His lyrics for Candide and West Side Story had earned him instant recognition. I met him for the first time at a luncheon party. Despite his celebrity, he was sitting alone at one side of the room—terribly shy, but innately intelligent and charismatic. We struck up a conversation and my heart instantly went out to him.

Just around the block from the Mark Hellinger was the Alvin Theater, and a play called No Time for Sergeants was playing there. A group of us were coming out of our theater one day, and we stopped to chat with members of the play’s cast. Someone said to me, “Do you know Roddy McDowall?,” indicating one of the actors.

My knees practically buckled. Here was my fantasy hero from My Friend Flicka! I had never imagined that one day I might meet him.

“You don’t know it,” I said to him, “but we’re sort of married.”

He looked at me, puzzled, and I explained my girlhood fantasies about him, the ranches, and the horses. He loved my story. I told him that if I could find one of the original deeds that I had made, I would send it to him. I did find one—and he kept it in a beautiful lacquered box on his desk.

Roddy was a devoted friend to a great many people, and he was loyal to a fault. I always hoped he would write a book about his life and the people he knew. When asked why he didn’t, Roddy replied, “I have too many friends. I know too much. I couldn’t.”

Tony and I began to entertain a little. We had moved out of the Park Chambers, and Lou had found for us a tiny ground-floor apartment on East 65th Street. We thought it must once have belonged to a high-class call girl, because we kept getting phone calls at all hours of the night asking for this particular woman. The flat certainly had all the trappings: purple and gold curtains, speckled mirrors, comfortable but over-decorated furnishings.

We sometimes made weekend trips to a lovely little inn by a lake on the west side of the Hudson River. It got us out of the city, and I was grateful for the rest and relaxation. We’d walk in the woods or take a boat on the lake.

EVERY YEAR, EACH show on Broadway gives one extra performance for the Actors’ Fund of America. This benefit is usually done on the actors’ day off. When it is your company’s turn, you perform seventeen performances in two weeks without a break. Every actor, every gypsy on Broadway comes to see the show, especially if it is a hit, since it is the one night that working colleagues can catch up with what is currently playing. These are simply electric evenings, the kind one never forgets.

Our Actors’ Benefit was a knockout success. We could not progress smoothly through the show because of the constant ovations. Our entrances were greeted with roars and applause, screams, whistles, shouts. Practically every number stopped the show. It was phenomenal.

I discovered that on important nights such as these, my nerves would take over and my heart would beat as if it were about to jump out of my chest. I would also feel somewhat light-headed.

Many years later, I discovered that I suffered from very low blood sugar—thus, when under stress, the only thing supporting me was adrenaline. I was eventually able to compensate for this by having high-protein meals and occasionally sipping liquid protein during the show. It made all the difference to my stability and energy, and I wish I had known more about it in those early days.

Tony and I went to see the Actors’ Fund Benefit of West Side Story, which was our closest and biggest rival. It was a miracle of a show, from the first downbeat of the overture to the last note of the evening. As My Fair Lady was to song and book, West Side Story was to song and dance. The two shows were equal titans. I became friends with Chita Rivera, who played Anita, and her boyfriend, Tony Mordente (who later became her husband), as well as with Carol Lawrence, who played Maria.

REX’S CONTRACT WAS up at the end of November, and Edward Mulhare (who had subbed when Rex took vacation time earlier in the year) was brought in to take over the role of Higgins. Mulhare was almost the spitting image of Leslie Howard, who had played the role in the film version of Pygmalion.

In spite of the difficulties I’d had with Rex, he was so charismatic, such a brilliantly faceted diamond, and so fascinating to watch, that when he left the company, I missed him very much.

He lived his life in the grand manner; he oozed style. I missed his power, his presence, and of course, he always kept me on my toes. I can’t remember who said this, but someone made a cogent remark: “No matter how big a shit Rex was, the truth is he cut the mustard—and for that, one forgave him everything.”

Suddenly, though, there was a new dynamic. Once Rex departed, the weight of the show seemed to fall on me.

Mulhare certainly looked the part, and he did a good job playing Henry Higgins, but I don’t think I ever really got to know him. Rex had been so flamboyant; Mulhare was more guarded and private.

TONY PASSED HIS union exam and got a job designing the sets and costumes for Noël Coward’s Conversation Piece. He came home with hilarious tales about Noël and the auditions.

Two Noël Coward productions were being prepared simultaneously, and auditions for both were held in the same theater at the same time. The great master would sit in the center of the auditorium, one production company on the left of him, the other on the right. The manager for the auditions would come onstage and say, “This gentleman is auditioning for…”

One day a man rushed onto the stage and said, “I understand that there’s a gigolo in your play, Mr. Coward,” and before anyone could reply, he continued, “so I thought I’d show you my physique.” He stripped naked, except for his bright red socks, and just stood there. Both production teams were stunned. There were a few stifled giggles but otherwise total silence, and the stage manager hesitated, wondering what to do. Everyone glanced at Coward for his reaction.

Suddenly his immaculate English voice called from the auditorium, “Er…turn a little to the left please!”

I LEARNED SO much about the theater from Tony. I would complain about the enormous hats Beaton had designed, and the forced perspective of the sets that made it difficult to pass through doorways and narrow spaces. Tony would gently point out that there is only so much room on a stage, and that false perspective is utterly essential, indeed part of almost every theatrical design. Stages are often raked, couches and beds are foreshortened, doorways and rooftops have proportions much smaller than audiences might imagine watching from the auditorium. As I observed Tony at work through the years, I learned to respect very much the designer’s craft.

I said to him one day, “I wish my nose wasn’t so big. I’d like a small, retroussé nose like, say, Vivien Leigh.”

“Nonsense,” he replied. “You have a lovely nose. It doesn’t disappear into the scenery. Gertrude Lawrence had a large nose—and look what it did for her!”

I never complained about it again.

As I have mentioned, Tony often watched our show, and he helped me resolve something that had been puzzling me. There were times when I felt that I had given a pretty good performance, yet Tony would indicate that it was merely average.

There were nights when I didn’t think I was good at all, but Tony felt I had done a terrific show. What made it more difficult to understand were the special nights when I “threaded the needle,” so to speak: I felt good, I was good, and the audience hung on every word.

When I spoke to Tony about this, he said, “I think in the first instance you are sometimes too busy watching yourself and saying ‘Aren’t I doing this well?’ Your focus is turned inward. In the second instance, when you don’t feel up to par, you are concentrating so much on getting through to your audience that you lose the awareness of self and your focus is on sending it out to them instead. That’s the night when you think you’re bad, but in fact you’re very good. The third case is when you have found the exact level of health, generosity, and technique.”

Is it ever perfect? Hardly. But that rare magical performance, when one “threads the needle,” is nourishment for the soul. It is the reason, ultimately, why one strives over and over to capture the feeling again.