ANGIE DICKINSON Names The LESBIAN ACTRESS Of Old Hollywood She Dated In Secret 

Um, have a joy about me or an an effervescence or something, but it isn’t it is not um, it’s genuine. >> Angie Dickinson reveals the seven lesbian actresses she hates the most who secretly dated her. I’ve loved seven famous women. Each one is a wound. I don’t regret loving them, but I regret trusting them.

 This isn’t a line from a movie, but a genuine confession from Angie Dickinson, the once iconic sex symbol during a rare interview with CBS Sunday Morning in 2025. At 93, Angie no longer chooses to avoid the truth. In front of the camera, she named the seven stars who secretly dated her. But what made Hollywood go silent wasn’t the love affairs, it was how she ended with a chilling statement.

I hate them. So, who are the women that Angie both loved and hated until the end of her life? What did they do to make her bitter enough to say, “I have no hesitation exposing each one of them.” And the first name she mentioned was Joan Crawford. One, Barbara Stanwyck, the anonymous accuser who killed a decade of Angie’s career.

In 1956, when Senator Joseph McCarthy’s witch hunts were still far from over, Hollywood was engulfed in fear and suspicion. A single accusation, even anonymous, was enough to cost an actor their job, their contract, and everything. In this environment, Angie Dickinson entered into a relationship that she would later describe as a deadly calm with Barbara Stanwyck, the queen of black and white cinema, a four-time Oscar nominee, and a veteran with nearly three decades in Hollywood.

 They met for the first time backstage at CBS’s Climax television show. Angie was a guest and Barbara was the lead in the episode Nightmare at Ground Zero. The first glance lasted longer than usual. A casual touch of hands when exchanging lines. And from there everything began as light as a strand of hair caught on a sleeve but impossible to untangle.

 They frequently visited Barbara’s apartment in Westwood Village which had an old piano and a wine rack full of burgundy imported from Lyon. On rainy nights Barbara would play the piano while Angie sat with her feet propped up on the sofa. Eyes closed listening to the music blend with her erratic heartbeat. One night Angie asked, “Were you ever scared if people knew?” Barbara just smiled faintly.

 Her fingers still gliding over the keys. “Hollywood doesn’t fear love, Angie. It only fears the truth.” But the truth was like a snake curled up under the couch already beginning to slither out. At first Angie thought she was loved. Until one spring evening when she accidentally caught Barbara talking in a car with a strange man not even 500 m from the set.

They exchanged a thick envelope. Barbara glanced back at her just for a second, said nothing, and then silently drove away. Just two weeks later a three-page anonymous typewritten letter was sent directly to the MPAA. The letter accused Angie of having deviant sexual tendencies, frequenting left-wing intellectual gatherings in Laurel Canyon, and questioning loyalty to the United States.

Attached were three blurry photos of Angie in the backyard of Barbara’s house wearing a bathrobe holding a white Persian cat. One of the photos even had Barbara’s shadow in the window. Angie was summoned on March 21st, 1957. The interrogation lasted nearly 4 hours with no lawyer and no official record. Only one man kept repeating the same question in a monotone.

“Did you have a physical relationship with Barbara Stanwyck?” She didn’t answer. But from that day on, every film offer disappeared as if they had never existed. Her contract with Columbia was canceled. Paramount ceased negotiations. A local radio station refused to air an interview she had pre-recorded.

 Angie fell into a state of crisis. She didn’t leave the house for 4 months, but the bitterest part was that she realized Barbara had set the trap. Because there was only one person who knew she had visited Laurel Canyon every Wednesday. And that person had been the one playing the piano for her on rainy nights.

 But Angie didn’t remain silent. One night in late 1957, she returned the piano that Barbara had gifted her along with a short note, “I’ve learned not to sing when they set a trap around my voice. Thank you for teaching me when to stay silent.” The story was never mentioned in the press. But years later, at an Oscar post-party in 1964, veteran reporter Robert E.

 Morrison of the Los Angeles Times accidentally revealed that the handwriting on the envelope of the letter accusing Angie was identical to how Barbara made internal notes at CBS. And no one argued. No one was surprised. Angie still remembered. Every time she passed by the studio where Barbara had filmed, she would stop her car for a moment, lower the window, look at the trees along the walkway, and mumble, “Some people love you just to kill you from the inside.

” And Barbara was the first. But if Barbara was the one who caused Angie’s career to crash, the next woman, made her pay to forget. A $100,000 contract just to exchange one thing, silence. Two, Joan Crawford. A kiss in the dark and a fake marriage contract. I once thought she loved me, but no. Joan just wanted a doll who would keep silent and always be ready to go to bed whenever she wanted.

And I foolishly believed in that gaze. The first time Angie Dickinson met Joan Crawford wasn’t on a movie set, but at a private party hosted by MGM, where the young actress was invited as a luxurious decoration for the big producers. At that time, Angie was just a 22-year-old girl who had signed a short-term contract with the studio, never having been featured on a poster, only hoping for a chance to play a scene with dialogue.

But then, Joan appeared. Her hair was styled high, wearing black silk gloves with cold, stone-like eyes. She stared at Angie the whole night, and when the party was over, she pulled her into a hallway corner and said in a soft, yet sharp voice, “If you want to survive in Hollywood, you need a benefactor. I choose you, and you don’t have the right to refuse.

” Just a few days later, Angie was invited to audition for a supporting role in a film Joan was involved in. But no one cared about the role. The only thing left in Angie’s memory was that evening when, after everyone had left the set, Joan asked her to stay behind for a close scene rehearsal. I stood still like a lifeless corpse, letting her touch me wherever she wanted.

I remember her hands were freezing cold, but her breath was hot like fire burning right against my neck. Angie quietly said, “For more than a year, Angie didn’t get a single lead role.” But she was present at every private party of Joan’s, every secluded holiday at Santa Barbara, and every creative meeting that took place in hotel rooms rather than on set.

No one at MGM asked questions because everyone knew Joan had chosen her. And once Joan chose, no one was allowed to touch. Everything started to unravel when Joan suddenly announced her marriage to Alfred Steele, the Pepsi-Cola mogul in May 1955. The press called it a modern fairy-tale romance.

 But, for Angie, that was when the real hell began because after the marriage, Joan started to cut off contact. The phone call stopped. The nights at the hotel disappeared. And Angie, in a moment of weakness, wrote her a letter. A letter full of longing and reproach. She didn’t expect that letter would be read aloud at one of Joan’s parties.

Some people laughed. Some felt embarrassed. Joan just shrugged [music] and told her friends, “Young girls nowadays think a glance is eternal love. It’s so annoying.” Soon after, rumors about Angie started to leak. That she was chasing after older women. That she couldn’t control her emotions. That she had psychological abnormalities.

None of it was confirmed, but no one denied it, either. Alfred Steele, after noticing his wife sneaking around, hired a private investigator. On August 11th, 1955, he received a photo of Joan and Angie leaving a private house in Laurel Canyon just before midnight. Confidential magazine offered to buy the photo for $30,000.

MGM immediately held an emergency meeting, silencing the press with a $50,000 payout, a huge sum back then. But, the damage was irreparable. Angie had her contract cut the same week. Her personal secretary was instructed to erase all files related to her from the studio’s internal records. And even more painfully, Joan suggested that MGM send Angie to Europe to study physical and acting skills as a way of quietly exiling her.

 But what hurt Angie the most wasn’t her shattered career. It was the harsh truth she later discovered Joan didn’t just have her. In an old notebook from a former MGM employee, Angie found at least five other names who had been treated exactly the same. Nancy Kwan, Deborah Paget, Vera Miles, Jane Greer, and one unnamed person.

 And from that wound, Angie began to turn to stone. In her next relationship, she no longer believed in tears, but fate pushed her into the arms of a woman who seemed as cold as steel. But the betrayal she caused was even more terrifying than anything [music] she’d ever experienced. Three, Katharine Hepburn, the Oscar role bought with love.

 The fourth woman in the list of those who entered Angie Dickinson’s life didn’t need to shout to hurt anyone. She wasn’t rude, didn’t curse, and certainly didn’t betray openly. But it was precisely because of this that she became the most dangerous. Katharine didn’t need words to bring me down. A single glance from her was enough to make me feel inferior, unnecessary, and completely invisible.

Angie whispered in an interview with CBS Sunday Mornings’ Rita Braver in 2025. Their first encounter took place at a private script reading party hosted by director Edward Myrick in Bel Air at the end of 1961. The film was Reflections in a Golden Eye. And although the final role went to Elizabeth Taylor, Angie still vividly remembers the cold gaze exchanged between her and Katherine that [music] night.

 Though Hepburn didn’t speak much, her eyes seemed to be casting for a play in which no one invited Angie to perform. And then, a few days later, Angie received an invitation to dinner at Coldwater Canyon, a villa once home to Spencer Tracy, now Katherine’s private space filled with war books, wooden statues, and a Steinway piano by the window.

 That evening, no script was read. They simply played Brahms, drank Martel XO, and sat silently across from each other. Close to midnight, Katherine walked over, placed her hand on Angie’s shoulder, and whispered, “I’ve played the role of a man for so many years that I’ve forgotten I could also be a woman if the person opposite is weak enough.

” Then, she kissed Angie. A kiss that wasn’t rushed, wasn’t passionate. It felt like a claim, calculated and controlling. Afterward, Katherine looked directly into her eyes and said, “If you think this is love, you shouldn’t come to Hollywood. This is a battleground. And anyone who believes in emotions is the first loser.

” Three days later, Angie was removed from the casting list. Hepburn was given the lead role in Long Day’s Journey into Night. Rumors spread quickly that Katherine had locked herself in director Joseph L. Mankiewicz’s office for over an hour. And after that, everything changed. Angie couldn’t accept it. She wrote a four-page accusation letter sent directly to Warner Brothers detailing how she had been emotionally manipulated and exploited, including a handwritten note she secretly photographed in it.

Hepburn wrote, “I’m not sure that girl has the courage to play a wounded character, but I’m sure she’s been hurt before.” The studio’s response, a cold legal statement, “Insufficient evidence for the allegations. Any subsequent media actions may violate industry ethical clauses.” Soon after, Angie’s name was erased from two TV projects she had signed drafts for, and the NBC fall showcase removed her from the guest list just before the show aired citing scheduling issues.

Katherine continued to shine. She won an Oscar for The Lion in Winter in 1968 and another for On Golden Pond in 1981. Meanwhile, Angie fell into obscurity with anonymous roles as female officers in policewoman lackluster perfume ads at midnight and last-minute talk show cancellations. And then Angie stopped her hand tightening around the teacup.

 I thought I’d hit rock bottom after Bette Davis. But Katherine showed me, “Sometimes the bottom is even deeper than hell, especially when the one who pushes you down kisses you before doing it. It seemed like it couldn’t get any lower, couldn’t feel any weaker.” But then another woman entered, a woman with eyes as sweet as honey and a Parisian smile.

A woman who had held Angie’s hand all night at the Ritz, but behind her back sent a damaging photo of her directly to Paramount’s office. And from that point on, what Angie lost wasn’t just roles, fame, or love, but the belief that any woman in this industry could love without calculation. That woman was Ava Gardner.

And Paris, instead of being an escape, became the place that sealed the last remnants of Angie’s soul. For Bette Davis, the $100,000 silence contract. “I once thought that Bette Davis would be the only one brave enough to stand by me in the spotlight. Turns out she was just good at playing the role of a brave person, when in reality she was the first to put me on the scales to bargain with her fame.

 In March 1960, at director Howard Hawks’ villa on Benedict Canyon Drive, a private party with A-list filmmakers was held. Angie Dickinson, who had recently attracted attention with her role as Feathers in Rio Bravo, was invited as a new face to watch. But she didn’t expect the first person to take an interest in her to be Bette Davis, the legendary actress who, at 52, had already won two Oscars and was someone no one in the industry dared to say no to.

 Bette approached Angie not with her fame, but with surprising tenderness. The way she handed her drink, held her hand, and then softly asked amidst the jazz music, “Do you know that your gaze makes people forget where they are?” That night they left the party together and went to the Bel Air Hotel room 628, where, according to a later account by a housekeeper, the lights stayed on until 5:00 a.m.

 and they only requested a jug of warm water and a bottle of burgundy, nothing else. Their relationship continued quietly, but with passion. Sunday mornings spent having breakfast on the top floor of the Chateau Marmont Hotel, nights when Angie read poetry while Bette sat listening with the gaze of someone calculating something greater than love.

Then one day, Angie expressed a desire to live authentically. Not loudly, just simply not having to play the best friend role whenever they went out in public. Bette looked at her, smiled, and said nothing. Two weeks later, on April 14th of 1960, Angie received a sealed letter from the law firm Lambert and White delivered to her on the set of Ocean’s 11 at Warner Brothers Studios.

Inside was a three-page agreement. The title in bold, confidential agreement between Bette Davis and Angie Dickinson. The contract stated that Angie could not mention any intimate aspects of her relationship with [music] Bette, whether in the media, memoirs, documentaries, or personal accounts. In return, she would receive $100,000 in cash and a lead role in the project Storms of Yesterday, backed by Allied Artists, a film that would never be completed.

 At the bottom of the page was a handwritten note believed to be in Bette’s handwriting. “I don’t want anyone to pity me. I just want to be remembered as a legend, not a weak woman caught up in something irrational.” Angie didn’t sign immediately. She took the contract to the Ivy Cafe, sat alone all afternoon. When television reporter Connie Chung unexpectedly walked in, Angie stood up, hid the contract in her bag, and smiled as if she hadn’t just crumbled. But 2 days later, she signed.

According to a senior executive at Warner Brothers, if she didn’t sign, all ongoing contract negotiations would be indefinitely postponed, including two films that were about to start production. The role in Storms of Yesterday never came. The project was canceled without a clear reason. Angie withdrew from all media events, and by August 1960, she was admitted to Cedars-Sinai Hospital with a diagnosis of severe nervous exhaustion due to professional stress.

 But Davis never called, never sent flowers, never asked about her. But at the Golden Globe after-party in early 1961, when someone asked Bette, “Did you hear that Angie is in the hospital?” She took a sip of wine, pursed her lips, and smiled faintly. I don’t even remember knowing anyone by that name. Angie later answered on Inside Hollywood on NBC saying, I don’t blame her.

I only blame myself for loving someone who saw emotions as a prop to act out a role in this fake life. And then after the $100,000 silence contract, Angie not only lost love, but also lost her last ounce of faith and sincerity in Hollywood. However, fate still wasn’t done with her. Because the next woman, the one who wore the guise of tenderness so painfully, was the one who pushed Angie into her most humiliating tragedy.

And it all began with the name Katharine Hepburn. Five, Ava Gardner, the fateful photos at the Lutetia Hotel. The fifth woman on the list is the only one Angie Dickinson admits to having had unconditional love, no calculation, no defenses. But that very love became the knife that stabbed her heart back cruelly and unexpectedly.

I loved Ava like a fool. I didn’t hide it, didn’t act. I let my heart be exposed in the cold winter of Paris, and she was the only one who ever embraced it only to later let it fall to the floor as though it never existed. They met in November 1964 at a covert party hosted by K A Du Cinema in the basement of the George V Hotel.

Ava, by then a legendary figure, was living in exile in Europe after a tumultuous divorce from Frank Sinatra. Angie had just wrapped up filming for The Killers and was only in Paris for a few days. No paparazzi, no studios, just gin jazz music and women smoking with silver-tipped cigarettes. Ava made the first move.

She walked over, placed a hand on Angie’s shoulder, and smiled. “I hear you once made Bette Davis run off during a shoot. If that’s true, you deserve a cold gin.” Just 3 days later, they moved in together at room 403 of the Lutetia Hotel. Every morning, Angie would wake up to the sight of Ava curled up like a cat in the white bed sheets.

Her lips still tasting of liquor, her gaze as if the entire world had stopped for a moment. On a rainy evening, when the sound of cars passed by Raspail Avenue below, Ava whispered in Angie’s ear, “If you were a man, I would have married you, but you’re not. And this world isn’t kind to people like us.” They didn’t make promises, no love letters, but Angie believed.

For the first time after the wounds from Hepburn, Bette Davis, Barbara Stanwyck, she allowed herself to breathe freely. Until one morning in December, Ava vanished. No note, no goodbye kiss. She only left a Polaroid roll on the table where they had laughed and played a Q&A game the night before. That roll of film, unfortunately, turned out to be the trap.

 Two weeks later, when Angie returned to Los Angeles, an anonymous envelope awaited her at the door. Inside was the Polaroid photo clearly taken from the window opposite the Lutetia. In the photo, Angie was holding Ava, both wrapped in a blanket, their gazes locked in an indescribable emotion. On the back of the photo was a hastily scrawled note, “$15,000 or this photo will be the cover of Confidential next month.

Meet Atlas Select Paris on the 14th.” Angie panicked. Ava did, too. They sold jewelry, even a Degas painting that Ava had received from Man Ray, but it wasn’t enough. And the reporter, believed to be Jules Myerson, a notorious celebrity gossip hound, published another photo on the cover of Scandal Weekly. Who is the woman sleeping in Ava Gardner’s room? The photo was blurry enough that a lawsuit couldn’t be filed, but clear enough for all of Hollywood to understand.

Three days later, Warner Brothers removed Angie from the Hawaii project. Ava was removed from the 1965 Golden Globe nominations list, despite having been internally nominated. Both their careers froze for nearly 2 years. Ava retreated to Marbella, avoiding the press. Angie went to Italy to work on independent films, losing her advertising contract with Helena Rubinstein for lack of a positive public image.

They no longer wrote letters, never met again. Only a faint rumor remained that in the spring of 1971, Ava quietly returned the original photo to Angie along with a handwritten note, “I once kept this photo as proof that I had been truly loved, but I made it ugly. I’m so sorry for letting it fall into the hands of another.

” Angie kept that photo in the drawer of her bedside table until the end of her life. No one ever heard her mention Ava again, but those close to her would recall that every time Paris was mentioned, Angie’s eyes would momentarily glaze over for a few seconds. Then, she would laugh and change the subject.

 If Ava Gardner was the most beautiful scar Angie ever had, the next woman was the flame that burned the last remnants of trust she had left. A global sex symbol, the one who once declared her love for Angie in the makeup room at Fox Studios, then herself handed her over to the press like a newsworthy gift. And that name was Marilyn Monroe. Six.

Marilyn Monroe. The cold revenge between two women devoured by Hollywood. Marilyn was like smoke. The more you chase it, the more it vanishes. But when you stand still, she surrounds you, suffocating you. Angie said this during a drunken interview with journalist Liz Smith in 1977 before refusing to elaborate further.

 But the truth lies in the fact that between Angie Dickinson and Marilyn Monroe, there was a brief, captivating, lustful affair that ended in one of the dirtiest media battles Hollywood had ever seen between two women who knew exactly how to bring the world to its knees with just a rumor. In the fall of 1961, while secretly undergoing treatment for depression at the Payne Whitney Psychiatric Clinic after her divorce from Arthur Miller, Marilyn was invited to do a private photo shoot for Life magazine in New York.

Angie was at the studio that day, not for a photo shoot, but to film behind-the-scenes footage for a promotional piece for Jessica. Fate’s cruel twist arranged for the two to sit next to each other in the makeup room on the fourth floor of the Carlyle Hotel. One stared into the mirror, her eyes lingering with the remnants of recent tears, while the other looked through that same mirror seeing herself but weaker.

 Angie spoke first, not knowing she was about to strike the right nerve. “You look into the mirror like that. One day, it will really shatter because mirrors reflect the truth, and the truth no one can bear.” Marilyn laughed softly, but her lips trembled. She turned to Angie and whispered as as questioning herself, “Are you an angel or just a new wound knocking at my door? And that night they slept together on the seventh floor of the Carlyle Hotel.

Yellow lights, the scent of Chanel No. 5 mixed with sleeping pills and the burnt smell of hair from a failed perm. Angie said Marilyn wasn’t as beautiful as on screen, but when she whispered, “You don’t need to save me, just stay until morning.” All logic disappeared, but just 5 days later Marilyn vanished.

 No call, no letter, no goodbye. She left nothing except a Polaroid roll on the table where they had laughed and played a Q&A game the night before. That roll of film, unfortunately, turned out to be the trap. 2 weeks later, when Angie returned to Los Angeles, an anonymous envelope awaited her at the door. Inside was the Polaroid photo clearly taken from the window across from the Lutetia.

In the photo, Angie was holding Marilyn, both wrapped in a blanket, their gazes locked in a complex emotion. On the back of the photo was a hastily scrawled note, “$15,000 or this photo will be the cover of Confidential next month. Meet at Le Select Paris on the 14th.” Angie panicked. Marilyn did, too.

 They sold jewelry, even a Degas painting that Marilyn had received from Man Ray. But it wasn’t enough. And the reporter believed to be Jules Meyerson, a notorious celebrity gossip hound, published another photo on the cover of Scandal Weekly. “Who is the woman sleeping in Ava Gardner’s room?” The photo was blurry enough that a lawsuit couldn’t be filed, but clear enough for all of Hollywood to understand.

3 days later, Warner Brothers removed Angie from the the High Wall project. Marilyn was removed from the 1965 Golden Globe nominations list despite having been internally nominated. Both their careers froze for nearly 2 years. Ava retreated to Marbella avoiding the press. Angie went to Italy to work on independent films losing her advertising contract with Helena Rubenstein for lack of a positive public image.

They no longer wrote letters. Never met again. Only a faint rumor remained that in the spring of 1971 Ava quietly returned the original photo to Angie along with a handwritten note. I once kept this photo as proof that I had been truly loved. But I made it ugly. I’m sorry for letting it fall into the hands of another.

Angie kept that photo in the drawer of her bedside table until the end of her life. No one ever heard her mention Ava again. But those close to her would recall that every time Paris was mentioned Angie’s eyes would momentarily glaze over for a few seconds. Then she would laugh and change the subject.

 If Ava Gardner was the most beautiful scar Angie ever had the next woman was the flame that burned the last remnants of trust she had left. A global sex symbol. The one who once declared her love for Angie in the makeup room at Fox Studios then herself handed her over to the press like a newsworthy gift. And that name was Marilyn Monroe.

 Seven, Elizabeth Taylor, the purple nightmare and the blood stained letter that quietly killed a love. The last woman on the list was also the only one Angie ever believed would stay. Not just for a few fleeting nights, not just for a few passing frames of film, but forever. And it was because of this that the betrayal was the one thing Angie couldn’t forgive.

 Elizabeth Taylor, the woman glowing in purple light, the one who brought Hollywood to its knees, also once brought Angie Dickinson to her knees. Not with power, but with a whisper in the dark. We don’t need men. We only need each other. And if they know, they will destroy everything. From 1964 to late 1967, the two most famous women in Hollywood secretly lived together in a white mansion deep in Stone Canyon Road, Bel Air.

The media called them the strangely bonded co-stars. But behind the 2-m high iron gates was a common-law marriage filled with tears, blood, strong liquor, and dozens of unsent letters. They met through the MGM film The Sandpiper, directed by Vincente Minnelli. Angie was the stand-in for Elizabeth during difficult shots because Liz frequently threw tantrums and left the set.

During the nights of filming in Big Sur, they would walk along the beach holding hands in the dark, away from the cameras and ears of the studio. Elizabeth once whispered, her voice dissolving in the sea mist, “When I’m with you, I feel like I don’t have to play any role anymore.” You make me feel truly alive, Angie believed, and moved in with her.

But the more she loved, the more she got lost. Elizabeth didn’t just possess Angie, she controlled her. Love became a chain bound by unhealthy jealousy. On the outside, Liz still held hands with Richard Burton on the red carpet, but behind closed doors, she would hug Angie, kiss her breathless, then scream in the bedroom whenever Angie said she wanted to leave.

 The jealousy reached its peak one night in October 1966. Angie returned from a reading at CBS, opened the bedroom door, and found Elizabeth sitting on the bed wearing a silk robe, her leg draped over director Mike Nichols who was casting for Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? The two of them laughed as though Angie never existed.

 Angie didn’t cry, didn’t say a word. She walked into the bathroom, broke the mirror with a horn comb, leaving a long cut on her left cheek. Blood flowed down her nightgown. And that scar would make her refuse any close-up shots for 3 years. But Angie didn’t just bleed, she got her revenge in a way Liz could never have anticipated. At the end of 1967, a six-page anonymous letter was sent to Confidential magazine.

Typed on a Smith Corona typewriter, the words were sharp as a knife. Elizabeth Taylor traded her body for roles. She’s not addicted to men, she’s addicted to power. And every smile is a mask covered in Valium. The article was edited entitled The Truth Behind the Makeup of Liz Taylor and published at the beginning of 1968.

Hollywood was shaken. Richard Burton went mad threatening to sue the entire magazine. But the identity of the writer could not be determined. And only Angie knew she had placed the typewriter in a drawer, locked it with a rusty padlock, and threw the key into the LA River. Elizabeth did not retaliate, did not sue.

But years later in an interview with Vanity Fair, she said a cryptic line, “There are people who loved me, but they couldn’t bear my shadow. And when I leave, they turn to dust.” Angie cried when reading that line, but not because of pain, but because she realized she had never had the right to keep her. She didn’t love me.

She just needed me to love her. When I could no longer do that, she trampled on me like a cracked mirror. Elizabeth later married again, won an Oscar, and became a global humanitarian icon. As for Angie, she withdrew from Hollywood living quietly in Palm Springs, raising a blind dog, and filing away the unsent letters into a wooden box titled “They Once Loved Me or I Thought They Did.

” So, after all the spotlight, silk gowns, perfumes, and secret kisses behind the scenes, Angie Dickinson is left with unsent letters and nameless scars. Seven women, seven chapters of love, but no ending for her. Someone once asked, “Does Angie regret it?” The answer, perhaps, doesn’t matter anymore. Because the truest things are often the ones no one is allowed to know.

 What do you think about these secret love affairs? Who moved you the most or shocked you the most? Leave a comment below to continue this unfinished story with us. Don’t forget to subscribe to the channel because we’ll be sharing more secrets about classic Hollywood that have never been revealed. See you in the next story.