Never mind JFK, do you remember where you were when Peter Sellers died?
I was sharing a poolside table at the rooftop restaurant Le Méditerranée at the Sofitel le Méditerranée during the 1980 film festival in Cannes with theatrical agent extraordinaire, Theo Cowan.
Theo was well-known for his “Cannes outfit” of army surplus safari jackets over the kind of baggy khaki shorts known to British troops of long-past wars as Bombay Bloomers. His heavily horn-rimmed spectacles were invariably adorned with clip-on, flip-up green shades.
Theo also represented Peter Sellers.
We were well into a salade niçois and about to signal for a second bottle of excellent Domaines Ott Château De Selle Cotes de Provence Rose for the main course. The olive oil drooled over the salad leaves and the pool sparkled watery diamonds around the perfect semi-clad bodies disporting themselves on a perfect Mediterranean day.
A quiet, private lunch with the inimitable Theo was a luxury in the madness of the Cannes Film Festival.
Theo was not expecting to be called to the phone. He apologized and followed the waiter. I sat back, sipped and took in the view.
Yachts jostled cheek-by-jowl at their moorings, stern-in to the pier as is the practice in this part of the world. Beyond the yacht harbour, across the Bay of Cannes, past Palm Beach and its casino can been seen the Île Sainte Marguerite, where, according to Alexandre Dumas, the man in the iron mask was imprisoned for eleven years. The intense luminous blue of the sea leaves no doubt why this is called the Côte d’Azur.
Theo’s voice broke my reverie. “Peter has died. I am so sorry but I have to get back to London right away.”