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Back in 1961, I met Marilyn Monroe at a small supper party in California. I still remember the almost palpable wave of awe and adulation that rippled round the room as she teetered in on black, peep-toe sandals, wearing raspberry-pink Capri pants and a cream silk sweater that showed off her famous bosom to full advantage. Marilyn was an hour-and-a-half late; not because she was exercising a starry prerogative to keep the rest of us waiting, but because she actually lacked self-confidence.