At right, Hal Prince, Stephen Sondheim, and Mary Rodgers at the Rodgers-Guettel Christmas party in 1965.
But if Marshall was too blitzed to notice my engagement, Steve wasn’t. For him, no one I got involved with was ever good enough. Paul was too dumb or too square or too old or too unambitious or too this or too that—I don’t remember which. He never used the M-word and neither did I. But that’s what it was intended to be: a marriage, at least of the trial variety. We gave ourselves a year, to start when I got back from London again, after Mattress opened. I know what you are saying: Mary, don’t!
His plan was that I should haul myself to Manhattan. There I was to join him at a party being given for Antonio de Almeida, a conductor he knew. Can one beg an answer? He wasn’t in love with me, certainly, and I wasn’t really physically attracted to him. I just loved him, thoroughly enough for nothing else to matter. Do you not believe in that? Have you never seen Carousel?
He replied that it was often impossible to reach me — which was true; that’s why he bought me for my 30th birthday, that same winter, an additional phone line. Not only that, but he wrote — and performed at my birthday party in January — a song called “Mommy on the Telephone” whose tune included the touch-tone pitches of the new number: LEhigh 5–5539. The lyric made me seem more like a zookeeper than a mother: “Tod has hidden Mommy’s Frigidaire. / Nina hid her extra hair.
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