She tried to blink back the tears. But they choked through her words. “When people love one another they get married.”
“In Lawrenceville perhaps—where things are settled at birth and futures are all in place.”
“Your future is very much in place. Henry believes in you. . . .”
“I’m not sure I want to stay with Henry. I suddenly don’t seem to be sure of anything—but I am sure I don’t want Henry’s kind of life.” He looked thoughtful. “You see, I had decided after the war that I wasn’t coming back to Henry, and to the old way of life. But I did come back, and Henry’s enthusiasm got to me. I almost slipped into the old pattern. And then we had lunch in the Barberry Room. You gave me quite a jolt that day—started me thinking. Then the weekend in New Haven—and the Terry King business.” He shook his head. “Then the smashing blow when you disappeared. I started to evaluate things carefully—and I made a decision. I’m going to have a go at writing that book.”
“That’s wonderful, Lyon. But how would marriage change things?”
“Let’s say I still have a few old-fashioned ideas. I do think a husband should support his wife. If I married you, I’d throw myself into the action at Henry’s one hundred per cent. I’d make a lot of money, but we’d have a bad marriage.”
“Are you going to leave Henry?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t. I have enough money saved to take a few months off, but it’s too big a risk. I’ll stay with Henry and write the book on the side. A few snatched hours at night . . . weekends . . . It’s not the ideal way, but unfortunately at the moment it’s the only way—there is no country home to retreat to. And I’m aware of the hazards ahead. Even if it’s accepted, the advance for an unknown writer is small. It takes six or eight months to come out, and sometimes, even with a good book, an author makes very little money. The runaway best sellers are the rare exceptions. So I have two alternatives—remain with Henry and work in my free time, or find a rich old woman to subsidize me.”
“I’m not old or rich, but I have some money, and I could go on working.”
He ran his hand through her hair, watching the heavy silk fall between his fingers. “With your marvelous stipend from Henry and my savings, we still couldn’t swing this apartment.”
“But I told you, I have money. I have five thousand that my father left me and I just inherited seven thousand from my aunt. That’s twelve thousand, Lyon—it’s more than enough.”
He whistled. “Good Lord, I’ve found me an heiress.” He kissed her warmly. “Anne, I’m truly touched. But it couldn’t work. Right now I’m not sure if I can write. I’m not sure the book will even be good. At this very moment there must be half a million ex-GI’s sitting at typewriters and hammering out their personal versions of Normandy, Okinawa or the London Blitz. And each of us—we really have something to say. It’s just a matter of who says it first—and who says it best.”
“I’m sure you can write,” she insisted. “I just know it.”
“Then you know more than I. Which is delightful, devoted—and I love you for it.”
“Lyon . . . after the book is finished, will you marry me?”
“I shall be delighted to—if the book turns out to be a good one.”
She was silent for a moment. “But you said yourself . . . even a good book doesn’t always make money.”
“I didn’t say money was the barometer. If the book was good, even if it didn’t make a dime, I’d continue to write. I’d work even harder, because then I’d know it was more than a dream. And we’d make out somehow. But if it turns out to be unacceptable to any publisher, then I would go at my job with Henry on the double. I’d haul out the old Lyon Burke and make up for the wasted years—and I’m not sure that you would care very much for me.”
“What was the old Lyon Burke like?”
He thought for a moment. “No wasted moments. Yes, I guess that would be appropriate. I never made a move without a premeditated reason. Not even this—” His hand stroked her breast.
The memory of Helen’s shrill voice filled her ears. Then it was true—the old Lyon would have had an affair with Helen. He had practically admitted it.
He took her in his arms. “But that Lyon Burke was killed in action, or perhaps he died the night the boy talked about the peach trees. If so—perhaps he didn’t spend his last night in vain.”
She put her arms around him. “You could never go back. Not when you talk like this. If this book doesn’t make it, then you’ll work on another and another. You are what you are now, and nothing will ever change that again. If you want to stay with Henry and write, I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever, if it takes a dozen books. Just stay being you.”
“I don’t know whether me is that great to be. But it is better than being Henry Bellamy. And that’s where I was heading. In fact, I’d have been even bigger than Henry, because I wasn’t as nice. Henry vacillates, takes time out to care. I have a one-track mind. I’d have been a king-sized Henry—a large success and a personal failure.”
“Is that what you think of Henry?”
“Henry’s struggled for thirty years to get where he is—the top, I guess you’d call it. It’s a trite word. He calls it Mount Everest. And that’s where he is, financially and professionally. But what about his personal life? If one were to write up Henry’s Who’s Who, there would be several paragraphs devoted to his theatrical and business achievements. To his personal life, one line—unmarried, no living relatives. In short, no life aside from the business. Alone on the summit of Mount Everest.”
“But you’re only proving my point, Lyon. Henry kept waiting to get married. You’re doing the same thing.”
“No. Because a marriage is meaningless on Mount Everest. There are men like Henry who marry and have children and families, but their personal life is the same. After all, let’s suppose Henry had gotten married. To a nice girl—out of the business. The children would be married now, attending to their children. The wife would be spending the winter in Florida. She’d have given up nagging at Henry for his erratic hours, and by now she would be accustomed to living without his companionship—a thing she never had. She would have settled for the nice things that came out of Henry’s dedication—the large apartment or town house, the furs, the style of living. There are many Henrys who are married and who wind up on top alone. They have to be alone, because they’ve alienated everyone along the way. In this rat race you whore, lie, cheat and use every trick you can employ to get up there where Henry is. This business demands it. And that’s what I’m ranting against. Not Henry personally, but what everyone turns into if he sticks in it long enough.”
They were both quiet for a few moments. Lyon spoke first. “Sorry I sounded off like this.”
“No, I’m glad. I understand you better. I’m just worried about one thing.”
He looked at her warmly. “What?”
“When are you going to marry me?”
He laughed out loud. She wondered if he knew how wonderful he looked when he did that. She had never known anyone who laughed like that—who threw his head back and let go. His laugh had a wonderful ring to it.
“I’ll tell you what—you shall be the first to read the completed manuscript, and then you can tell me.”
She snuggled against him. “I’d better go to sleep,” she whispered. “I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”
“Oh yes, the annulment business.”
“Mmm . . . and Lyon . . . have you an extra key to your apartment?”
He held her tight. “I’ll have one made. Then you are moving in?”
“No, but I’m moving in a typewriter and plenty of blank paper first thing tomorrow. A bright shiny new typewriter. It’ll be my pre-wedding gift to you.”
“I’ll accept it . . . on one condition. You move in with it.”
“No. I’ll come and stay like this whenever you want me. I’ll spend weekends with you and type up your pages. But I won’t live with you. I’ll live for you . . . and w
ait.”
He kissed her brow. “As a lawyer I should tell you that you’re getting the short end of the deal. But as your lover, I promise I shall try very hard not to let you down.”
The court appearance was brief. Any fears Anne might have had were immediately dismissed as she watched the cut-and-dried procedure. Henry handed some papers to the judge. The judge made a pretense of reading them, a few questions were exchanged, Jennifer testified with her rehearsed speech, Anne chanted her lines. In less than ten minutes Jennifer had her annulment.
Henry took both girls to lunch. He ate quickly. “I have work waiting,” he explained, “but you two girls can sit and rehash all the events. Anne, take the rest of the afternoon off.”
The moment Henry left, Jennifer turned to Anne and asked, “Now tell me, how did it work out with you and Lyon?”
Jennifer listened while Anne told her everything that had happened. It surprised Anne how quickly and easily she confided in Jennifer. There was something about Jennifer that invited trust.
Jennifer shook her head. “He sounds rough. You’ll never be able to control him.”
“But I don’t want to control Lyon. . .”
“I don’t mean that way. A man must feel he runs things, but as long as you control yourself, you control him. Get him to put a ring on your finger, then be the slave girl if you wish.”
Anne looked at her ringless hand. “That’s not important. I have the biggest ring you ever saw lying in a safe-deposit box.”
Jennifer stared at her with new respect. “You mean you managed to get rid of Allen and keep the ring?”
“He didn’t want it back.”
Jennifer shook her head. “You must really do something special in bed. I thought I had all the answers.”
“I never went to bed with Allen.”
For a moment Jennifer was speechless. Then she grinned. “That’s what was special. You were a challenge to Allen.”
“Well, I’m afraid I’m no challenge to Lyon.”
“Still, I’ll keep my fingers crossed. At least you did one thing right—you refused to move in with him. I’m doing the same thing with Tony Polar. He wants me to quit the show and travel with him. No marriage talk, either. But I’m no camp follower. By the way, how large is your apartment?”
“One room. I live in a boarding house—same place as Neely.”
“I have no place to live when the show comes in,” Jennifer said. “It would be nice if we could find a place to share.”
“Sounds wonderful, but I don’t think I can really afford even half of an apartment.”
“Say!” Jennifer’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve got a great idea. You say Neely has a room. What if the three of us took a place together? Then we could afford it.”
“I’d love it,” Anne said.
“We come back to town in three weeks. Maybe you could swing something by then.”
“I’ll look, but things are pretty tight. I found Lyon’s apartment right away, but Allen did that for me.”
Jennifer’s blue eyes suddenly narrowed. “Anne, what are you planning to do about the ring?”
Anne shrugged. “Leave it in the vault, I guess. I certainly have no desire to wear it.”
“Just leave it there? When it could be working for you?”
“How?”
“Sell it. Invest the money.”
“But it’s not really mine.”
“You offered it back and he refused. It’s yours. And you earned it. Any time you put up with a man’s company when you can’t stand him you should have something to show for it. Sell it.”
Anne thought of Lyon. Perhaps Jennifer was right. At the end of the year, if the book wasn’t successful and she did have some real money . . . “Maybe you’re right. I could sell the ring and put the money in the bank and let the interest pile up.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Jennifer said. “Sell the ring and ask Henry Bellamy to invest your money in the market. You can double your money in a few years. There’s always a bull market after a war.”
“But isn’t that risky?”
“Not now. And not if Henry manages it for you. Henry told me the market is going to boom. I wish I had some money. I haven’t a sou—just what’s on my back and what I make in the show. But the minute I get my hands on some big money I’m letting Henry invest it.”
Jennifer
December, 1945
Hit the Sky had three performances to go in Philadelphia. Henry’s predictions had been correct. They were able to eliminate Boston and bring the show into New York earlier than planned. The cast was eager for the New York opening, confident they had a hit, but the tension was high. New York critics were unpredictable. Nothing could be taken for granted.
Jennifer was oblivious to this pre-opening hysteria. Philadelphia had been a most profitable engagement. She stood in the lobby of her hotel and flashed one of her most glorious smiles at the persistent Philadelphia lawyer who was pleading for one last nightcap.
“It’s three o’clock,” she begged. “And I must get some sleep.”
“You can sleep all day tomorrow. Come on, I know a wonderful after-hours club—it’s right up the street.”
“It’s cold. And I want to get some sleep, Robby, honestly. Besides, I don’t drink, and if I have one more Coke I’ll explode.”
“How can you be cold in that coat?” He looked meaningfully at the new beaver she was wearing.
She patted it affectionately. “You were an angel to give it to me. It’s really warmer than my mink. But I’ve got to get some sleep.”
“Let me come up with you,” he begged.
“You were with me last night, Robby.”
“Is there a rule about two nights?”
“Yes, when I’m working. Call me tomorrow.” Her smile was promising.
“What time?”
“Around six. We’ll have dinner before the show.”
“And after . . .?”
“And after.” She nodded. She blew him a kiss and stepped into the elevator.
There were some messages lying on the floor under her door. One was from a columnist. There were two requests to call Operator 24 in Cleveland. Well, it was too late to call her mother now. She looked at the time on the last Cleveland message—one-thirty. Even her mother wouldn’t have the tenacity to wait this long for a return call. There was also a message from Anne. She had signed the lease for the apartment she had found and everything was fine. Anne was a wonderful girl. Jennifer envied her, the way she felt about Lyon. It must be great to be able to feel that way. But then if you did, you couldn’t do the other. She stroked the beaver coat—one night with Robby. That’s what a great body was for, to get things you wanted. She wondered what it would be like really to care, to love someone like Lyon Burke. Lyon would be easy to love . . . she had thought about it when they first met.
“We’ll catch Tony Polar’s opening tonight,” Henry had said. “You must be seen around, to keep the publicity going. I’ve arranged for Lyon Burke to escort you. I’m taking Helen.” She had been unprepared for someone like Lyon. She had felt a surge of excitement in meeting a man she knew she wanted, a man she wanted for nothing beyond her own pleasure. She had intended to have him that night; then Tony Polar had materialized. It had been a tense moment of decision. The spotlight on Tony; Tony singing to her; everyone in the room staring; keeping her smile: frozen in place; feeling the magnetism of Lyon Burke, yet aware of the public embrace Tony Polar was offering. As a man Tony could not compare with Lyon. They were the same age, she imagined—both around thirty. But one would always be a boy, while the other had long been a man. But Lyon Burke was only an agent; Tony was a star. That had made her decision. . . . It was that simple.
She got undressed, dropping her clothes carelessly on the chair. Maybe she would let Robby stay tomorrow night. She could do with a new evening gown. She wrinkled her nose. He was so unattractive and he breathed so hard. But she needed some clothes, and men who looked like R
obby were always generous. They had to be. Now Lyon Burke . . . But he was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Some unknown mechanism seemed to click within her mind, automatically eliminating the impractical with the precision of an IBM machine, acting as a nerve block to her emotions when they might complicate her decisions.
It hadn’t always been like this. In the beginning her emotions had fought back. But that was long ago. Now the decisions came automatically. She thought of Lyon Burke again. Too bad—the timing had been unfortunate that night. That night it had to be Lyon or Tony and there had been no contest.
Lyon had seemed to understand. She was suddenly struck by a new thought. “We’re alike!” Of course, that had to be the answer. She was a luxury he couldn’t afford. But Anne—certainly Anne couldn’t fit into his scheme of things. A new and foreign thought struck her. Perhaps she just hadn’t appealed to Lyon. But that was ridiculous. She appealed to every man. She dropped her bra and pants to the floor and stood before the full-length mirror. She surveyed her body with clinical interest. It was perfect. She turned sideways and examined the profile of her breasts. They were as upright as ever. She folded her arms and methodically did twenty-five breast-tightening exercises. She opened the medicine cabinet and took out the large jar of cocoa butter. With almost surgical precision she massaged the butter into her breasts with gentle but firm upward strokes. Then, with equal care, she creamed the makeup off her face. Once this was accomplished, she opened another jar and put some cream under her eyes. She took a V-shaped plaster out of a box and pasted it between her eyes, on the bridge of her nose. She did twenty-five more breast exercises and slid into a nightgown.
She looked at the clock. Good Lord, it was almost four and she still wasn’t sleepy. When did they turn the heat on in this hotel? It was freezing. She got under the covers and glanced through the morning papers. There were two pictures of her. One was a wire-service photo, showing her with Tony. Tony! He’d have asked her to marry him by now if it weren’t for that sister of his. She frowned as she thought of Miriam. The “frownie” plaster stabbed a warning. She relaxed her face instantly. What was she going to do about Miriam? They could never shake her. If it wasn’t that Tony was so eager to go to bed with her, she’d never see him alone. Come to think of it, that was the only time they did get rid of Miriam.
Valley of the Dolls Page 19
