Here’s the thing about marrying a guy like that—a guy like Don Adler, back then. You’re saying to him, “This beautiful thing you’ve been happy to simply appreciate, well, now it’s yours to own.” Don and I partied the night away at the Mocambo. It was a real scene. Crowds outside, packed tight as sardines trying to get in. Inside, a celebrity playground. Tables upon tables filled with famous people, high ceilings, incredible stage acts, and birds everywhere. Actual live birds in glass aviaries. Don introduced me to a few actors from MGM and Warner Brothers. I met Bonnie Lakeland, who had just gone freelance and made it big with Money, Honey. I heard, more than once, someone refer to Don as the prince of Hollywood, and I found it charming when he turned to me after the third time someone said it and whispered, “They are underestimating me. I'll be king one of these days.” Don and I stayed at Mocambo well past midnight, dancing together until our feet hurt. Every time a song ended, we said we were going to sit down, but once a new one started, we refused to leave the floor. He drove me home, the streets quiet at the late hour, the lights dim all over town. When we got to my apartment, he walked me to my door. He didn’t ask to come in. He just said, “When can I see you again?” “Call Harry and make a date,” I said. Don put his hand on the door. “No,” he said. “Really. Me and you.” “And the cameras?” I said. “If you want them there, fine,” he said. “If you don’t, neither do I.” He smiled, a sweet, teasing smile. I laughed. “OK,” I said. “How about next Friday?” Don thought about it a second. “Can I tell you the truth about something?” “Tf you must.” “I’m scheduled to go to the Trocadero with Natalie Ember next Friday night.” “Oh.” “It's the name. The Adler name. Sunset’s trying to squeeze all the fame out of me that they can.”