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seduced was I by his quiet and intelligent pursuit of my inner thoughts. Which of course he hoped was his gateway to my inner thighs. He learned in our conversation that I was residing nearby while apprenticing at the Cape Playhouse. And he casually mentioned the name of the hotel he was then staying at in Boston, preparing his new musical: Sail Away. “Perhaps you can come visit me on your off days,” he said.
    We were joined by Adele Astaire (Fred’s sister), who perched on the armchair, flinging her arm around his shoulder and looking at me with sweet indulgence.
    â€œThe lad wants to be an actor,” Coward said.
    â€œWell of course he does, Noelie. Look at him.”
    They then proceeded to discuss me as if I were an alabaster statue perched on a pedestal and up for sale. My body, my eyes, my mouth; deciding no doubt if I would be worth bidding on.
    â€œI think he must cut his hair, don’t you?” she said.
    â€œI rather like it,” he said, brushing it off my forehead again.
    â€œNow, Noel,” came the motherly response, and she moved away giving me a little squeeze on the shoulder. “You couldn’t have a better teacher,” she said.
    This was, remember, the beginning of the sexual revolution. And it was everything legend would have you believe. To be twenty-three years old in 1961 was tantamount to having a million-dollar lottery ticket blow into your face on a windy day. And most of us were on a twenty-four-hour spending spree.
    I didn’t sign up for Mr. Coward’s class, primarily because I was too busy cashing in my ticket all over Cape Cod. I’d only just begun to realize my sexual potential and when you’re ripe for the picking, you don’t need to travel too far from the tree to enjoy the harvest.
    I would not be in his presence again for seven years. This time we were surrounded by several thousand worshippers on the occasion of his seventieth birthday at the Phoenix Theatre in London. My friend, the great English actress Celia Johnson, would be one of the many luminaries of the English theatre, performing moments from Coward’s illustrious career, and she scored me two tickets in the balcony.
    He sat in a box, his companion the legendary beauty Merle Oberon. For three hours in a perfectly focused flattering amber light he watched, in tears, as his extraordinary gifts were being unwrapped before him.
    It’s difficult to explain the glory that was Coward then, as wit, intelligence, and style have lost ground to stupid, vulgar, and loud. He was, even in his heyday, often dismissed as facile and lightweight. But listen to his songs, read his best plays, and you feel the seductive power of his mind—just as I did on that summer day in 1961.
    I don’t know what Sir Noel would have divined had I traveled to Boston that summer and let him kiss me. He probably would have looked deep into my opportunistic eyes and said:
    â€œTrying to decide which way the wind is blowing, dear?”
    Of one thing I am certain: I would have laughed a great deal. As I often have by the following examples of his legendary wit, told and retold, but which I can’t resist telling again.
    W hen hearing a rather pretty but dumb young man had blown his brains out, Coward said:
    â€œHe must have been a terribly good shot.”
    P eering at a tiny sketch on the wall of a wealthy matron’s luxurious apartment, he asked:
    â€œWho did this?”
    â€œPicasso,” she said.
    â€œHmm! Serves him right.”
    O f a well-endowed dancer who had neglected to wear a supporter under his costume, he said:
    â€œWe must tell Dickie to take the Rockingham Tea Service out of his tights.”
    T o a woman resolutely picking her nose at rehearsal, he called out:
    â€œWhen you get to the bridge, dear—wave!”
    W hen the actress Lily Palmer told him she was madly in love with a certain gentleman, Coward replied: “Don’t be ridiculous,