Not Cukor’s, rather that of one of the two cinematographers (one camera was going poolside, this other up top) yelling down, echoingly, “I’m sorry, darling-but the lines in the swimsuit are showing up!”

This was a stilted reading, obviously planned, but Marilyn quickly, and deftly, slipped off the suit. That left only the very sheer bra and panties beneath, and those soon followed, deposited at the edge of the pool as if put out to dry.

Sam’s mouth was hanging open. I started to laugh, then realized mine was yawning, too.

She was a vision, a nymph, if a nymph was as womanly as that, a pink ghost flickering beneath the turquoise glimmer, occasionally exposing more than just a limb, a delicious rump, a pert breast-even the amber pubic triangle made its presence known, if fleetingly.

Pat Newcomb, at my side, said softly, “Having fun?”

“I guess she’s showing the Fox boys she isn’t over the hill.”

The publicist grunted a little laugh. “She had to get Black Bart’s blessing, you know.”

“Who?”

She nodded toward the stout woman in the black muumuu, just beyond the big camera. “Had to have Paula’s blessing. Had to be approved ‘Method’ technique for Marilyn to swim in the nude.”

“Yeah? What’s the scene about?”

“Tempting her husband out of Cyd Charisse’s bed.”

“This is the method that would do that.”

Cukor would occasionally call “Cut,” mostly for a camera reload, and during one such break, Pat called an assistant director over and said, “Now.”

Soon a couple of photographers came in, and the publicist walked them to their respective spots and said, “You have half an hour, fellas. Don’t waste it.”

They didn’t. They had those new motor-driven Nikons that could snap half a dozen frames per second.