Similar messages continued for another week. Seriously concerned now, my boyfriend suggested we should call the police. We did so, and a policeman came to the flat and questioned us both. He took it very seriously and told us, ‘You’re right to report these incidents. People who behave in this way – write threatening letters – are often very disturbed, unpredictable individuals.’ Of course, this only made us feel worse. What on earth was going on and what should we do?
The next day, we were out in the car with a friend who lived in another flat in the house.
‘Isn’t this poison-pen business awful? It’s really getting us down,’ said my boyfriend.
‘So, what are you going to do about it?’ asked the friend.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied, ‘but I don’t think it’s a good idea for Sherrie to continue staying with me.’
‘Right, but how are you going to protect her if she moves out?’ said the friend.
‘I don’t know,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll start by going to the police again and see what they suggest.’
That night at my boyfriend’s suggestion I went back to Islington.
A few days later my friend said: ‘Oh, Sherrie, the police think they’ve got the man.’
‘Oh, thank God!’ I said, genuinely relieved after ringing my boyfriend back. ‘Who is it?’
‘Just some nutter,’ he told me, before adding, ‘As the police know you’re not living with me now, it’s not necessary for you to do anything.’
Perhaps partly due to the pressure of the letters and the accompanying drama of it all, he seemed rather distant afterwards and I was utterly confused as to why it had happened – it felt as if we’d been in an episode of a police drama. And so we both kept our distance and let our romance slowly fizzle out, never knowing the identity of the letter writer.
That particular relationship might not have been a great love story but he did take me to one of the famous May Balls at Cambridge. He bought me the most beautiful gown to wear and took me punting. Perhaps more importantly, he did me a huge favour in introducing me to Peter Eade, the renowned theatrical agent. One of the best in the business, Peter represented – among others – Kenneth Williams, Ronnie Barker and Joan Sims. Actors everywhere held him in awe because, if he took you on, this was guaranteed success.
In those days any agent of Peter’s calibre had what was known as ‘stables’, and his was reputed to be one of the finest. The agents took on few clients, only the ones they believed in, whose careers they could then nurture and steer in the right direction. When Peter invited me to come and see him at his London office in Cork Street, I really should have been a bag of nerves but, completely unaware of just what an honour this was, I was quite relaxed. Instead it was Mum who came with me, who was the one on edge.
The building where Peter had his office was elegant and luxurious: the staircase was of polished wood, heavy doors with large brass handles swung silently open and there were thick carpets throughout. Lawrena, his assistant, met us at the door and brought us tea in china cups while we waited in an anteroom. When we were shown into his stunning office, Peter stood up and shook hands, then invited us to sit down. He was a true gentleman in every sense of the word: his lineage, upbringing and demeanour. What’s more, he lived on a country estate with his elderly father and had the kind of cut-glass accent that we were all trying to cultivate at RADA, as was expected in those days. His manners were impeccable and he expected the same from his clients: he was an amazing man and a truly exceptional agent.
The first thing Peter told us was, ‘I do not take on new clients any more. I only ever have fifteen on my books at any one time and at the moment I have my full quota. Having said that, I am interested in you, Sherrie: you have a raw talent and that is very rare. If I take you on, you will be guided by me and understand that I have your best interests at heart – you will never let me or the reputation of this agency down – I will mould your career and teach you all about the business.’
The next thing he said was: ‘We must do something about your name. Sherrie Hutchinson is too long – we need something shorter, snappier and easier to recall.’
Before I knew what was happening, I had been re-christened Sherrie Hewson. At the time a change of name seemed a small price to pay for getting onto Peter’s list, but in truth I always wished I had kept my own name (Sherrie Hutchinson has a far better ring to it than Sherrie Hewson, I think).
But it didn’t take long for me to realise just how lucky I had been to be taken under Peter’s wing. Not only was he extremely prestigious and highly respected but he also seemed to know absolutely everybody in the business. And everyone I knew was equally impressed that he had become my agent.
‘Peter Eade!’ they kept on exclaiming. ‘You lucky little devil – you don’t know how fortunate you are.’
But I did: right from the start I realised that Peter was a very special man with a true vocation. His family was wealthy and so he was certainly not in the job for the money – he found it creative, completely absorbing and thoroughly exciting. He loved the world of theatre and genuinely cared about the actors he looked after.
As far as any of his clients knew, Peter had never married. It seemed the only thing he really cared about was his work. While I was with him – and I can’t emphasise enough just how unusual this was – I only rarely had to audition for jobs. Everybody in the business of films, stage and TV seemed to know and respect Peter, and if he suggested one of his actors for a part the producers and directors trusted his judgement. And when I did audition I was treated with respect because Peter had sent me.
As part of my ‘grooming’, Peter used to pick me up in his limousine and take me to the first nights of West End shows. He instilled in me that the way you learn your trade is by watching other actors, and you can never know enough. I still do that today: whether the actors are young or older, you can always learn from watching them. Peter also took me to showbiz parties, where he would present me to famous actors, and to the best restaurants and clubs; also garden parties and Glynde-bourne, where he would introduce me to influential entrepreneurs. For all these magical occasions he would buy me beautiful ball gowns and evening dresses to wear.
I know it all sounds too good to be true but that’s just the way it was: we lived in a different time with different values. Peter always used to say, ‘This is a vocation, Sherrie – it’s for the rest of your life, not five minutes of fame.’ Sadly, a lot has changed now and many youngsters are indeed seeking instant fame, often through making a splash with a bit of topless modelling or reality TV rather than developing their talent. I’m thankful that I arrived in a different time and had such a good teacher.
I have so many warm memories of those special occasions with Peter. In particular, some of our most wonderful evenings were spent at Rules, the oldest eating-house in London, which is in Covent Garden. Often there would be superb private functions and parties upstairs, with everyone who was anyone in attendance. I remember one particular party there, when Peter and I walked into one of the upstairs dining rooms as a young Wayne Sleep proceeded to jump on the long dining table, kick everything off and do a dance routine, much to the delight of everyone present. The party became very giddy as lots of people clambered onto the table, trying to join in. As it groaned with the weight of them, we feared the worst, but the maître d’ burst into the room and somehow managed to throw everyone out. Frequently, the parties would become quite wild, but Peter was always very protective of me.
Like most students, I was hoping to go into repertory theatre as soon as I left RADA. ‘Rep’, as it was (and still is) known, meant joining the company of a local theatre for at least a season and performing in lots of different plays, from classics to new productions. The idea was to play a whole range of roles. One week you might be a 20-year-old ingénue in a Bernard Shaw play, then the following week you’d play a 50-year-old mother in a heavy-duty Chekhov production. Drama graduates would hope to work in a number of rep theatres in towns and cities around the country, thereby honing