Adam Friedman: How did you come to reconnect with Joan Crawford?
Pauline Jameson: I ran into her at LaGuardia. She was wearing a Pepto pink dress and a mask of chalk-white foundation, being wheeled through the airport with broken ankles, drunk. Alone. And for all our past difficulties, when I touched her arm, she cried. She called me "old friend" and asked me to visit her in Manhattan. She seemed very much tossed away.
Joan Crawford: Have you talked to your sister?
Cathy Crawford: Cindy and I speak all the time.
Joan Crawford: Oh, no, darling. I know you and Cindy do. Of course you do. No, I ... I was referring to your elder sister. To Christina.
Cathy Crawford: No, not recently.
Joan Crawford: My editor tells me she's been writing a book. It's about me, evidently. Alleging the most vile things. You have to understand I was at the height of my career when she was little. We never enjoyed the quality time together like I had with you and Cindy. The little time that I did have, I worked so hard at instilling the proper values in her. I only wanted her to appreciate her advantages.
Cathy Crawford: Of course, Mommie, of course.
Joan Crawford: My editor asked if I wanted to read an advance copy of the galleys, but why spend the days of your life reading something that could only hurt you?
Mamacita: It made me sad.
Adam Friedman: To say goodbye to her?
Mamacita: No, because they all showed up to say goodbye. But when she was alive, when she needed them most, no one was there.