David Niven
The young publicity woman on the film that Niven was making on a disused airfield in Lincolnshire told me I had five minutes during the lunch break to take his picture. I chose a location that had side lighting from a small window set high up on the wall of a what was once a store room. 

By the time we got there, three minutes had already gone, and the publicist said I had two minutes more. Mr. Niven was in full swing telling stories, as he loved to do. When he paused to draw a breath, I said, “Please Mr. Niven, we have one minute to take this photograph, could you give me your undivided attention so that we can get it done?” He obliged and I got what I wanted.

I sent him a print and he wrote back, “Oh what a brute! What a brute!