“No. I come from New England.”
“I thought I was gonna live on that ranch for life. C’mere . . .” She dragged Anne into the bedroom. “See that bed? It’s eight feet wide. That was the bed I had custom made when I married Frank. He was the only man I ever loved. I had that fucking thing shipped all the way to Omaha when I married Red, and I had it shipped back here again. I bet I paid more for shipping that bed around than it cost to begin with. That’s Frank.” She pointed to a photograph on her night table.
“He’s very attractive,” Anne mumbled.
“He’s dead.” Tears came to Helen’s eyes. “He got killed in an auto accident two years after we were divorced. It was that bitch he married that drove him to it.” Helen’s sigh went through her entire body.
Anne glanced at the clock on the night table. It was six-thirty. “Do you mind if I use your phone?”
“Come on in the den and use it there. You’ll be more comfortable.”
Helen poured some more champagne while Anne called Allen.
“Where are you?” he asked. “I’ve called you three times and got Neely every time. She was getting pretty tired of me, especially since she’s dressing for a date with her big love. Which reminds me, I’m with Gino. He wants to know if you mind his horning in on our dinner date tonight.”
“I’d love it, Allen. You know that.”
“Fine. We’ll pick you up in half an hour.”
“Okay, but I’m not at home. I’m at Helen Lawson’s.”
There was a fractional pause, then Allen said, “You can tell me about that at dinner. Want me to call for you there?”
He wrote down the address. “She’s at Helen Lawson’s,” she heard him tell Gino. “What? You’re kidding!” This was also to Gino. Then he returned to her. “Anne, believe it or not, Gino says to bring Helen Lawson along for dinner.”
“Oh. . . do they know one another?” Anne asked.
“No, but what difference does that make?”
“Allen, I couldn’t—”
“Ask her!”
Anne hesitated. You just didn’t ask a woman of Helen’s stature to come along on a blind date. And with Gino, of all people! Allen noticed the pause. “Anne, are you still on?”
She turned to Helen. “Allen would like to know if you would care to join us. His father is coming along.”
“As his father’s date?”
“Well. . . there’d be just the four of us.”
“Sure!” Helen shouted. “I’ve seen him at El Morocco. He’s kinda sexy looking.”
“She’d like to very much,” Anne said coolly into the receiver. Then she hung up. “They’ll call for us in half an hour.”
“Half an hour? How can you go home and get dressed up in that time?”
“I won’t. I’ll go this way.”
“But you’re wearing a polo coat. And a tweed suit.”
“Allen’s taken me out like this before. He won’t mind.”
Helen’s face puckered into a pout, causing her to look like a bloated baby. “Aw gee, Annie, I wanted to get all gussied up. Now I can’t. I’d look like a Christmas tree with you dressed like that. And I wanna make a good impression on Gino. He’s a live one.”
This couldn’t be happening. Helen Lawson acting like a high school girl over a date with Gino. And this sudden attack of coyness did not fit Helen’s personality, which drew its strength from a certain roughneck dignity. She found herself hoping this baby pout was a rare side of Helen’s nature.
“Call them back and tell them to make it a little later,” Helen suggested. “That way you’ll be able to run home and change.”
Anne shook her head. “I’m too tired. I’ve been working all day.”
“What the hell do you think I’ve been doing?” Helen’s tone was that of a child who has been left out of a game. “I was up at nine this morning. I worked for three hours on a dance routine with those slobs The Gaucheros. I fell on my ass at least six times. I went through that stinking song a hundred times. And I’m still raring to go. And I’m a little older than you. I’m. . . thirty-four.”
“I haven’t got that kind of energy,” Anne said, managing to cover her surprise. Thirty-four! George Bellows had been right.
“How old are you, Anne?”
“Twenty.”
“Stop with the bullshit! I read that in the papers. How old are you really?” The expression in Anne’s eyes made Helen change her tone. She broke into a little-girl smile. “Hey, are you one of those broads who faints at four-letter words? My old lady gets so mad when I use them. Tell you what, I’m gonna try and stop. Any time tonight I use bad language, you just give me one of those icy looks of yours.”
Anne smiled. There was something appealing in Helen’s swift changes of mood. She was guileless in her honesty and so vulnerable in spite of her position.
“Are you really only twenty, Anne?” Then she added quickly, “It’s just so fantastic that you made it so fast, catching someone like Allen Cooper. I’ll wear a black dress and just a little jewelry.” She started for the bedroom to change, talking all the while. “Hey, c’mon in with me. I may have the biggest voice on Broadway, but I can’t make it from there.”
Helen kept up a running stream of conversation while she dressed. Most of it concerned her husbands and how badly they had treated her. “All I ever wanted was love,” she kept repeating mournfully. “Frank loved me—he was an artist. God, if he could only see me with a real Renoir. Not that Frank painted like that. He was an illustrator, but on the side he used to paint what he called serious. His dream was the day he could afford to give up illustrating and paint like he wanted to.”
“Oh, were you just beginning then?”
“Hell, no! I was starring in Sadie’s Place when we got married. It was my third starring show. I was making three thousand a week and he was only making a hundred bucks, so you can see I really married for love.”
“Then why couldn’t he paint as he liked?”
“I should support him? Are you kidding? If I did, how would I know if a man was marrying me for love and not my loot? I put it to him square on the line. I had a big apartment then, and I like to live good. I said, ‘Frankie, you can move in. I’ll pay the rent. I’ve been paying it anyway. I’ll also pay for the maid, my clothes, the bar and the food. But when we go out, you pick up the tabs.’ He used to complain that two nights on the town took up his whole week’s salary. With the free rent and all. God, I loved him. I even tried to have a baby with him, and that woulda meant blowing a whole season. So you can see how much I loved him. But I just never got knocked up. Here, zip me. How do I look?”
Helen looked good. Anne thought she had a little too much jewelry on, but after all, she was Helen Lawson. She could get away with it.
The buzzer sounded. Helen reached for a flaming red silk coat, trimmed with sequins. She looked at Anne. “Too flashy?”
“Why not wear the mink you wore this afternoon?” Anne asked.
“How conservative could I be? A black dress and a brown coat. Look, I believe if you got ’em, wear ’em. I’m not one of those blue-book fancy broads.”
The buzzer sounded again. “All right, all right!” Helen yelled. She hesitated for a second, picked up the mink coat and smiled. “You win, angel. I know you got taste.”
The meeting between Gino and Helen went off like a Roman candle. They decided on El Morocco, a place they both adored. They ordered the same food, howled incessantly over each other’s jokes, consumed endless champagne. Columnists stopped by the table to pay their respects to Helen; the orchestra played and replayed the scores from Helen’s past hits. Anne quickly caught the mood of hilarity and even found herself laughing at some of Helen’s off-color jokes. It was impossible not to like Helen.
Gino roared in approval. “I love this girl!” he shouted, slapping her on the back. “She says what she means. No phoniness with her. Tell you what, Helen. We’ll make up a big party to celebrate your opening night.”
Helen’s entire personality changed. Her smile was shy, and in a small, girlish voice she said, “Oh, Gino, that’s wonderful! I’d love to have you as my date at the opening.”
Gino was taken off guard. Anne knew he had meant Adele to be along. He naturally assumed Helen would have her own escort.
“When is the exact date?” Gino asked slowly.
“January sixteenth. We leave for New Haven in two weeks. Then we do three weeks in Philadelphia.”
“We’ll come to New Haven,” Gino said quickly. “Anne, Allen and I—”
“No!” Helen wailed. “New Haven’s a mess. We only have three performances there to iron things out before Philadelphia.”
“We’ll make allowances,” Gino said easily.
“It isn’t that,” Helen pouted, her face contorting into the unflattering babyish pucker. “But we open on Friday night and have a matinee the next day and often a rehearsal the morning before, to stick in new things. If you come, I’ll want to stay up late and hoot. And I can’t hoot the night before a matinee.”
“January is too far off for me to plan anything,” Gino said firmly. “With my business, I could be out of the country by then. New Haven is possible—unless you don’t want us to come.”
Helen moved closer to Gino, put her arm through his and winked coyly. “Aw no . . . I’m not letting you off the hook. I’ll settle for New Haven. And if you’re in town, you’ll come opening night in New York too.”
“You mean see it twice?”
“Listen, you sonofabitch, people come to see my shows five times,” Helen said good-naturedly. “Come on, Annie,” she said. “Let’s go to the little girls’ room and fix our faces.”
The attendant in the powder room threw her arms around Helen. “She was my first dresser,” Helen told Anne.
“You shoulda seen her,” the woman said affectionately. “She was all legs and as friendly as a puppy.”
“I still got good legs,” Helen said. “But I gotta knock off a few pounds. Ah, that’ll happen on the road.” Helen sat down and powdered her face. When the attendant turned to assist a new arrival, Helen said, “Anne, I like Gino.”
She said it quietly, and the lack of expression on her face seemed to intensify the feeling behind the words. Helen played with her hair and kept her eyes on her own image. “I mean really like him, Anne. Do you think he likes me?”
“I’m sure he does,” Anne said, trying to keep her voice light.
Helen turned to her urgently. “I need a fella. Honest, Anne, that’s all I want—someone to love.”
Anne’s heart went out to the battered, pathetic face, the eyes pleading for reassurance. She thought of all the violent stories she had heard about Helen Lawson, stories undoubtedly spread by the legions of lesser people, jealous of her success or shocked by her coarseness. But it was hard to see how anyone could honestly dislike this woman whose ribald personality was a mask for a sensitive nature and a desperate longing for affection.
“Gee I like you, Annie. We’ll be buddy-buddy. And we’ll double-date a lot. I don’t get a chance to have many girl friends. Hey, Amelia”—Helen’s voice boomed out to the attendant—”gimme a pencil and a piece of paper.”
The attendant brought a pad. “Miss Lawson . . . while you’re at it, will you write your autograph for my niece?”
“I wrote three of them for you last week,” Helen grumbled as she scribbled her name. “Whaddaya do, sell ’em?” She handed the attendant the paper, then scribbled a number and handed it to Anne. “This is my phone number. Don’t lose it, it’s unlisted. And for Chrissake don’t give it to anyone—except Gino. Tattoo it on him if you can. Here, write down your number.”
“You can always reach me at Henry Bellamy’s office.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know—but in case I want you at home.”
Anne wrote down the number of the hall telephone on West Fifty-second Street. “But I’m at the office from nine-thirty to five,” she repeated. “And I’m usually out with Allen every night.”
“Okay.” Helen stuffed the paper into her purse. “We better be getting back. They’ll think we fell in.”
It was close to three when the black car drove up to Anne’s rooming house. They had dropped Helen first. Gino was almost asleep and Allen seemed tired, but Anne felt keyed up after the exciting evening. There was a light showing under Neely’s door, so she tapped lightly.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Neely said. “Have I had an evening! I told Mel the truth, that I was only seventeen. And he doesn’t care. He says I’ve seen more of life than most girls of twenty. I also told him I was a virgin.” Then she added, “Where’ve you been so late?”
Anne told Neely about her evening with Helen Lawson, starting with the meeting at rehearsal. When she finished, Neely shook her head in disbelief. “You act like you had a great time. Next thing, you’re gonna tell me you like Helen Lawson.”
“I do. I like her very much, Neely. All those stories about her—they’re told by people who don’t even know her. Once you know her, really know her, you have to like her. Confess—now that you’re over the idea that she tossed you out of the show the first day—and now that you’ve worked with her—don’t you really like her?”
“Oh sure, she’s adorable.”
“I mean it.”
“Are you sick?” Neely reached out and touched Anne’s head. “She’s a horrible woman. No one likes her.”
“That’s not true. Anyone who talks against her just doesn’t really know her.”
“Look. The only people who adore her are those in the audience, and that’s because they’re separated from her by an orchestra and a stage. And they don’t like her, they like the part she plays. Listen, one thing people overlook—Helen is not only a big musical comedy star, she’s also a terrific actress. Because she plays those warm, heart-of-gold gals and makes you believe it. But Helen really—when she’s not acting—she’s cold. She’s a machine.”
“Neely, you don’t know what she’s really like.”
“Oh boy! You kill me, Anne. You go out with Allen for a whole month and know nothing about him. But wham! One night with Helen Lawson and you’re an authority. You’re ready to buck all the people who’ve worked with her and know her and hate and despise her. She’s rough, tough, unfeeling, coarse and rotten. Maybe she had her company manners on with you tonight, or maybe she wants something from you. But let me tell you, if you get in her way, she’ll step on you as if you were a worm.”
“That’s how you see her. You’ve heard the legend so long you won’t even try to see her as she really is. I don’t doubt she can be tough when she’s working. That’s her job. She has to fight for what she wants. But divorce her from her work and you’ll find a sensitive, lonely woman, longing for a real friend. And for someone to love.”
“Love!” Neely screeched. “Anne, the real Helen Lawson is the monster I see at rehearsals. And it has nothing to do with being a star. She was born that way. You don’t get that way. Why, if I was ever a star, I’d be so darned grateful that an audience loved me . . . that people would pay just to see me. . . that writers would write for me. Wow! I’d go around kissing the world. Listen, even Mel, who only met her once at a benefit, calls her Jack the Ripper.”
“I won’t argue any more,” Anne said wearily. “But I don’t want you to knock Helen in front of me, Neely. I like her.”
“Geeeez. . . .”
The phone jangled outside the door.
“Now what nut would call anyone at this hour?” Neely asked. “Must be a wrong number.”
“I’ll get it.” Anne went to the phone.
“Hi, girl . . .” Helen’s happy voice rang over the phone. “Helen! Is anything wrong?”
“Helen!” Neely shouted through the open door. “Gosh, you’re not kidding. You are chummy!”
“I just wanted to call and say good night,” Helen said cheerfully. “I’ve gotten undressed, washed my panties and stockings, creamed my face, set my
hair, and now I’m in bed.”
Anne thought of Helen luxuriating in the eight-foot bed and involuntarily shivered as she stood in the unheated hallway. Then, in spite of Neely hovering at her elbow, her curiosity got the best of her. “Helen, did you say you washed your stockings and pants?”
“Aw, you must be kidding,” Neely whispered.
“Sure I do,” Helen answered. “Honest. It’s a habit my old lady taught me, and even though I have a personal maid, I do this every night before I go to bed. I guess that’s the Irish in me, the O’Leary side.”
“Is that your real name?”
Neely couldn’t stand it. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna put my bathrobe on if we’re gonna chat. It’s freezing out here.” She ran into the room.
“No—my real name is Laughlin,” Helen answered. “That’s Scotch. I’m Scotch, French and Irish. But I changed the Laughlin to Lawson. I figured it would look better in lights.”
“You sound as if you always knew it was going to be in lights.”
“You bet your ass. I was singing at lodge benefits when I was ten. At sixteen I started singing lessons. After two years I started auditioning. I got into a Broadway show with a small part and one song and copped all the notices. Everyone seemed surprised but me. If I didn’t think I was a hell of a singer I wouldn’ta auditioned for the part.”
“Then you never had any trouble, never had to job hunt?”
“She made it right away.” Neely was back, wrapped in a warm bathrobe, nibbling at a Fig Newton. “That’s why she’s so mean to people like me—she doesn’t know what it is to struggle.”
“No, I made it easy,” Helen went on. “I admit it’s not that easy for everyone. But if you’ve got it, you make it. Period! It might take some a little longer, but no one who really has it gets lost in the shuffle. I can’t stand all this hard-luck shit I hear . . . all the talent that never gets a chance. It takes more than just a set of pipes to make it. Hell, lots of girls can sing. I’ve heard plenty of band singers who make seventy-five a week who sound better than me. But they haven’t got it.”
Valley of the Dolls Page 10
