Wondrous, eccentric, talented, larger-than-life Prudence Emery, the co-author of four mystery novels set at the Savoy Hotel where she was press officer in the late 1960s, died Sunday afternoon on Vancouver Island.
Prudencia, as I called her, was as colorful as her short-cropped russet hair (lately with purple hues added) and her big glasses with the purple-and-green frames. Best of all from my selfish point of view, she was the delightful, funny friend on the other end of the phone reminiscing about our adventures together back in the mythical mists of time when we would live and laugh forever.
My memory is of us meeting for the first time in 1974 on the set of a horror movie, Black Christmas. She was the publicist, I was the writer doing a story. Pru would end up doing the on-set publicity for 120 movies over the following years. She would phone me up every so often and say something like, “Basie-kins—I was always Basie-kins—“get on a plane and come to Israel to interview Tony Curtis.” On the plane I would get. The next thing I knew, I was snorkeling in the Red Sea with her.
We ended up in a snowbank in remote Barkerville, B.C. with Rod Steiger. We drank champagne with the legendary British playwright John Osborne in Montreal. She used her wiles to get Oliver Reed to drink with me (not so hard!), and Ann-Margret to kiss me (long story!).
Along the way we became great friends, often—too often perhaps—hearing the chimes at midnight and turning the moon to blood. Prudence was a character. She was fun. And she was fearless. Tony Curtis wouldn’t talk? Most publicists would cower. Not Pru. Tony Curtis talked.
Now I knew that in an earlier life she had worked in the press office at London’s iconic Savoy Hotel but I had no idea of the kind of glamorous existence she had led there until she published her memoir, Nanaimo Girl.
In the five years she was at the Savoy, Pru rubbed shoulders with just about everyone who was anyone. Legendary playwright Noël Coward was a friend (she organized his 70th birthday party at the hotel). She dined with the equally legendary John Huston, got to know another legend, Louis Armstrong, kept still another legend, Elaine Stritch, company late into the night. Pierre Trudeau crossed her path, so did Paul McCartney.
Pru lived the high life. Champagne arrived at the press of what became known as the Waiter Button on her desk. Not surprisingly, that button made her very popular not only with visiting celebrities but also with the Fleet Street reporters who chased them. There was first-class travel on the continent, various affairs and lovers, but eventually, even for Pru, it became too much. She retreated back to her native Canada and began a new career as a publicist.
Reading through her Savoy adventures—the most fascinating section of Nanaimo Girl—I was struck with the notion that this might be the basis for a novel: plucky young heroine in a grand hotel in Swinging London solving a mystery or two. I telephoned Pru and ran the idea by her. “I’ve never written a mystery,” she said. “Well, I have never stayed at the Savoy,” I countered. “Together we make the perfect combination.”
And we did. If nothing else, I thought as we started out, our fledgling collaboration would be a good excuse to rekindle a long-ago friendship. We talked on the phone for hours about old times, people who had come and gone in our lives. Once in awhile we even talked about our book.
I’ve often been asked what it was like collaborating with another writer after a lifetime of going it alone. With Pru it was a joy. I would write a couple of chapters in Milton, Ontario and then send them off to Pru on Vancouver Island. Pru came up with our heroine’s first name, Priscilla. I added her last: Tempest. Thus was Priscilla Tempest born. It was that kind of easy collaboration. If I needed inspiration for Priscilla, I didn’t have to look much further than Prudence.
We wrote what became Death at the Savoy more or less as a lark, with no particular expectation on the part of either of us. Thanks to our agent, Bill Hanna, publishers were found in Canada and France. The film rights were optioned. An audio book deal was made. Prudence and I found ourselves writing not one Priscilla Tempest mystery but four of them. No one was more amazed by this than the two of us.
Back from six weeks in Europe and a meeting with our French publisher, I called Pru Sunday afternoon to bring her up to date. She didn’t answer. I thought she was probably out and would call back. Hours later came the news that Pru, who had been in failing health for the past year or so, was gone at the age of eighty-six.
Devastated, of course, reeling from the sudden shock of losing yet another old friend, but then I was filled with a sudden urge to laugh and shake my head. Somewhere, I was certain, my lovely Prudencia was pressing the Waiter Button. Champagne was on the way…
Ron Base Writes 