Innocent of makeup, her titian ringlets slicked back into a rigid little librarian’s bun, Miss M. and her new husband, Martin von Haselberg, were just two customers toying with their Chicken Panang.
Finally, though, the waiter wised up, ran to his car, and produced a cassette for La Midler to sign. “I love you so.. .you really are divine!” gushed the fan. “I’m glad, so glad that you think so,” returned Bette, whose dinnertime torpor can be explained away by the fact that she was trying to quit smoking.
Only the next night, cigarette firmly clamped between her fingers, Bette was generating considerable heat on the dance floor of a West Hollywood boile. Which only goes to prove that where there’s smoking, there’s fire.