National Geographic : 1972 Jan
It was now or never; so I walked across the street to a terrace of small row houses and boldly punched the white bell button by Miss Christie's door. It opened and a wispy girl in a flowered muumuu and bare feet let me step into the dimly lit hall. Thinking it strange that the great actress was served by such a careless-looking house maid, I presented my card and besought her to carry it to her mistress. "Oh, Sean told me about you," she said, "but I never give interviews." "Come on now," I said. "You're not Julie Christie. Please, just ask her for me." She was so disconcerted she almost stam mered. "But I am Julie Christie. It is m'self!" Suddenly she broke into that wide, incom parable grin, and it was indeed herself. But not the larger-than-life Lara-only an elfin, surprisingly small creature. "In that case," I said, "you must at least let me shake the lovely Lara's hand." Shyly, she extended tiny fingers. I seized them and held on much too long, while I asked, "Shall I write Sean's story about your coke?" "What was it?" I recounted it, and she said, "Well, it's the kind of story they tell about me. I don't remember, but I suppose it's true." Having lost her fingers, I brashly demand ed, "Now you must let me hold your hand once more, while I say good-bye." She offered it and I took it between my palms. "Next time you're back in London," she said, "let me know and I'll buy you a drink at Sean's." Again, the radiant Julie grin. Well, that's Chelsea. There's always an end of a rainbow there-for any bold soul that dares to chase it. .