Elisabeth Sladen: The Autobiography

can say anything and they’ll consider it. There are no quick judgements, everyone in that room is on your side.

While I was doing my thing in the main room, I think there were other sessions, like workshops and screenings, going on elsewhere. It really was a packed programme. Sometimes I got to work alongside Ian, which was such a treat. Other times we were separated so they could get as many people involved as possible.

At the end of that first night there was an auction and guess what the top prize was? A dance with yours truly! An awe-struck young boy won, thanks to his father’s generosity, and in fact we still keep in touch now.

The absolute highlight of the weekend for me, however, was the fancy dress competition. Ian and I were the guest stars so we were the obvious choice for judges. Unfortunately, apart from a break for lunch, we’d been sitting there for the whole day – and I have to say we were feeling a bit high by then. Possibly, alcohol may have been involved.

Anyway, they started this contest and all manner of eye-catching shapes and colours were wheeled past us. Honestly, the invention of Who fans will never, ever cease to impress me. Some of the monsters I recognised from my time, others were clearly pre- or post-Sarah Jane. I remember looking at Ian for help and being met with a shrug. Then we’d both nod at the entrant and say, ‘Well done, very realistic.’

Most of the costumes were brilliant – obviously a lot of time and effort had gone into them. The standard had been very high when this kid walked by in what looked like a black bin liner. I just burst out laughing and slid under the table! ‘What on earth is that?’ I called out to Ian but I was giggling so much I didn’t hear his answer. I literally had to dive out of view. It had been such a precious day but this costume brought out the giggles. Now I knew how Keith Barron felt with that bloody train on Stepping Stones – I can’t do this any more.

We raised quite a lot of money that weekend and I’ve still got a photo of us presenting a cheque to the local hospital. My main memory of that convention is the American fans, though. I’d only ever met British fans before. These guys didn’t have the benefit of the same historic relationship with Who because the programme hadn’t been broadcast for as long. It might have been on loop daily but it was still years behind. You’d never have guessed it though from the noise. They were polite, they were informed and respectful – but everything was so much bigger and louder and more extreme. It was truly incredible. I loved it, I really did.

Another significant contrast between UK and US events is the merchandise. Shortly after I arrived, Lucy said, ‘We’ve got a table where you can sell your tapes and photos.’

‘My what?’

‘Your merchandise – whatever you’ve brought to sell.’

‘God, I haven’t brought anything!’

‘OK,’ she beamed. ‘That’s good, too.’

We really missed a trick there. Americans, I soon learned, were so far ahead of Brits in this area.

If Lucy was surprised at my marketing naivety, she was positively staggered by my professional ignorance. It’s not just because she works in PR. Everyone I met in LA couldn’t believe I hadn’t come to the world’s celluloid capital with the aim of finding an American agent.

Honestly, it never occurred to me.

Ian returned to London after the convention but Brian and I had bought Freddie Laker ‘open’ tickets. In other words, we could stay in America for a few weeks and go home when our money ran out. I was really looking forward to that – we’d had such fun in California during our Morley days. While we prepared to have the time of our lives, however, Lucy and Amy set about working on my behalf. They had loads of tapes of me from their own collections and sent these around to local agents. What an honour having people like that working for you! Through them I got an interview at Paramount and the Samuel Goldwyn Studios.

Another agent approached me direct. I’d just finished a Q&A at the convention when this older guy with silver hair shuffled up from the back of the hall. He didn’t look like the usual Who fan, let’s put it that way.

‘I really enjoyed that,’ he said. ‘Can I give you some advice? Write to the William Morris Agency – tell them Abe Lastfogel sent you.’

I thanked him for the compliments and went backstage. When I told my hosts they were ecstatic. ‘Abe’s the agents’ agent,’ Lucy explained. ‘He’s been around since Lana Turner’s day – you have to write to them!’

So I sent the letter, then Brian and I set off on our trip. A few weeks later I got a letter back – forwarded to our hotel in Santa Barbara. It simply said that so-and-so, the head honcho at William Morris, would like to see me the next day. I showed Brian the letter.

‘Well, I can’t go to that,’ I said. ‘We’re on holiday.’

In hindsight, of course, I should have jumped in a cab, on a train or on a plane. Those offers don’t come around every day, not even every year. But I was so naive and nonchalant then. I wrote back, ‘I return on this date and I’ll pop in then.’ So that’s what I did. Of course, sod’s law, on the day I turned up the main man was on vacation. I saw his second-in-command, who looked about twelve years old. There wasn’t the hint of a spark between us and I wasn’t surprised when I never heard from him again.

Why didn’t I rush back when I was asked? I regret that, I actually do, but I didn’t at the time and that was the main thing. My holiday with my husband was more important.

I had one more chance to make an impression on the city. A guy called Dave Rosen, who represented a host of international superstars, had responded to Lucy’s letter. When he invited me to his office on Sunset Boulevard I was determined not to cock it up. An hour later, I was on cloud nine. He was so complimentary.

‘You could achieve incredible things here, Lis,’ he promised me. ‘We can get you as high as you want to go.’

‘What do I have to do?’ I asked.

‘Minimum: you have to move over here. Give me a year and I’ll make you a star.’

A year in Los Angeles? What an amazing offer! With Rosen behind me, I began to believe I had a shot at Hollywood. I knew my answer.

‘I’m sorry, Dave – it’s got to be “no”.’