When Elizabeth was living in Washington, D.C., during the late 70s, her spirits were not great. She spent a lot of time in bed, but not for the usual reasons. She and I joked that her only exercise was changing the TV channels with the remote—I told her she was going to end up with an overdeveloped thumb. Plus, the fried chicken, biscuits, and creamed gravy made by the wonderful chef in the downstairs kitchen were only an intercom call away.

When she would come up to New York, the photographers were always everywhere she went, and some unflattering photographs of her began to appear in the press. As her friend, I knew it was hurtful. So I talked to her about going to a spa to drop a few pounds and clean up a little. In those days, there weren’t rehabs all over the country like there are now—only luxurious “fat farms” where people voluntarily checked in to get in shape and stop drinking, all while being pampered with massages and facials. Not exactly where one went after an “intervention.” At the time, I had been to several of the more high-profile ones for fashion shoots with Glamour and Vogue.

Elizabeth reluctantly agreed to go, if I would go with her. I contacted a friend of mine at Vogue, who told me about a facility in Florida that was low-key and only a short flight from Washington. I flew down from New York, picked Elizabeth up, and off we went. The flight was stormy and terrible. We had one last drink. By the time we landed, we could have used another—but instead we just got into the car provided for us and drove in the dark to our little two-bedroom bungalow on the edge of the spa’s golf course. We toyed with the idea of naming it “Butterball 8,” but decided on “Butterfield Ate”—our home for the next three weeks.

Early the next morning, the director of activities knocked on the door. Since I had been to these kinds of places before, I decided to plan our activities, and let Elizabeth sleep. I sat down with the director and began the discussions about water therapy, mud wraps, hikes, diet preferences, and so on. Each time she asked me a question in her strong southern accent, she would also whisper, “Does your friend want orange juice?” or “Will your friend like acupuncture?”

After getting all of the information, she picked up the telephone and called the dietician. As we sat in silence waiting for the dietician to answer, she smiled and whispered, “So, are you part of her Secret Service?”

I was baffled. I asked, “Do you know who ‘my friend’ is?”

Still holding the phone, waiting for the dietician to answer, she said, “We were just told to expect a V.I.P. coming from Washington last night.”

“Oh,” I said. “‘My friend’ is Elizabeth Taylor.”

Her eyes widened. Before she could speak, the dietician answered the phone. To her, she said, “Eula, you better sit down. It is not Betty Ford!”