Johnny Mercer was a couple of years older, and not much taller than I. He was a delightful guy with a wonderful sense of humor, and very different — both physically and mentally — from the other men in my life. Our affair was passionate and intense, and we kept it very quiet. One night he asked me what my greatest fantasy was, and I told him it was being made love to on a blanket of gardenias. We had a good laugh. Some months later we scheduled a meeting in New York. Johnny had engaged a suit at the Waldorf-Astoria, and I came up the back way in the service elevator — like Hepburn used to do in London when visiting Tracy — and what do you know? Johnny had covered the bed with gardenias! It was really the epitome. Never again did I think about that particular fantasy — because we acted it out!
These hot affairs always burn themselves out. Plus, we were so busy with our careers we couldn’t spend much time together — which also prolonged the relationship, I suppose, because of that wonderful sense of anticipation. Later, we’d see each other at industry affairs, and he’d always smile and wink at me. One wonderful thing happened, though; he wrote And the Angels Sing for me. It was on the Hit Parade in 1944 for a long, long time. I still think oh him when I see gardenias.
Conversations with Bette Davis
Whitney Stine
