“You will come with me,” she told Jennifer. “But we will have to cash in your return ticket to America. I have not enough money without it.”
Jennifer knew she was handing in her ticket to freedom. For the past year she had grown increasingly weary with Maria’s demands on her body, yet Cleveland and her mother were even less appealing. But Spain! She might find some handsome Spanish man of good family. She was twenty-three, technically a virgin. . . why not?
Jennifer remained in Spain over a year. She met many eligible men. A few were passable, but Maria kept a hawklike watch on all her activities. They were always chaperoned by one of Maria’s aunts. Maria repelled all advances and saw to it that Jennifer made no progress. Jennifer grew desperate. Maria’s possessiveness was stifling. For the first time she understood her mother’s fear of poverty. Money bought freedom; without it one could never be free. In Spain she could live luxuriously and wear beautiful clothes, but she belonged to Maria. If she returned to Cleveland she faced a different kind of imprisonment—marriage to some third-rate man who would also demand the use of her body. Whichever way you looked at it, without money you were someone’s captive. But there had to be a way out!
She began lying awake nights. She suffered through Maria’s lovemaking, returning an ardor she did not feel, feigning sleep until Maria’s even breathing assured her of safety. Then she would slide out of bed and sit by the window, smoking endlessly, staring at the stars, thinking . . .
Money. She had to have money. The answer was in her body—it would work for her. It had carried her this far. She would go to New York, take a different name, lie about her age . . . maybe she could model. Somehow she’d get money. She’d never be trapped again.
When the atom bomb was dropped, everyone in Madrid was feverish for news. Even Maria sat breathlessly at the radio set, eagerly listening for bulletins. Jennifer took this opportunity to post a secret letter to her mother, instructing her to write and demand Jennifer’s presence at home due to illness.
Her mother obeyed and Maria had no choice. They separated with promises of undying devotion, Jennifer swearing to return as soon as her mother recovered. She felt a twinge of guilt when Maria pressed a book of travelers’ checks in her hand. “It comes to three thousand dollars in American money. Try to save enough for your return here, but if you need more, cable me. I live only for the day of your return.” To erase any suspicion, Jennifer left most of her clothes in Spain as further assurance of her return. She had gone directly to New York and checked into a commercial hotel. She sent her mother five hundred dollars and told her to forward any mail from Spain, but under no circumstances to reveal her whereabouts or new name.
In the beginning Maria wrote every day. Jennifer never answered. Through a strange stroke of luck she had run into the Panamanian medical student the first day she was in New York. Fortunately he only recalled that they had met and that he had wanted her. He accepted the new name without question. She went to bed with him every night for three weeks, and then he introduced her to Prince Mirallo. . . .
It was seven o’clock—she crushed out the last cigarette. She had to sleep. She wanted to be really good with Robby. Then maybe she could get the gown and the money for her mother.
Neely
January, 1946
The New York critics had been unanimous in their raves for Hit the Sky. Helen Lawson’s public adoration had reached new heights, and Neely had received several excellent notices—none strong enough to incur Helen’s animosity, but glowing enough to exceed Neely’s wildest expectations.
No one had been more surprised than Neely. One critic had actually called her the freshest new talent to come along in many a season. This accolade, coupled with the new apartment, made her almost believe she was someone.
She couldn’t get over the luxury of the apartment. Anne was just fabulous! She just ran into luck, that girl. And it always seemed to be connected with Allen. Only this time it was Allen’s father. Gino had dumped his girl friend Adele, who had gotten so mad she had booked herself into the Dorchester Hotel in London as a showgirl. Just before she left, Anne had run into her and gotten her scrumptious apartment. Neely kept touching everything—the bedspreads, the lamps . . . She never dreamed she’d live in a living room that had a white rug.
Of course it was only a sublease. Adele would take it back from them June first. But by then Jennifer would probably marry Tony, Anne might marry Lyon and she would marry Mel. Especially if Mel’s new job worked out. What a Christmas present from the blue that was! Johnny Mallon giving him a two-week trial as a writer on a radio show! If he made good they could be rich. Radio writers made as much as five hundred a week, Mel said. Even more. Mel was starting at two hundred, and she was making two hundred—and the show had come in to New York three weeks earlier than planned because they didn’t need Boston. Geez, things were just perfect!
She was going to buy some fancy clothes, too. After all, everyone had seen the purple taffeta a hundred times. Geez, the way Jennifer came back from Philadelphia with a closet full of clothes. No wonder she was always broke. She said Tony Polar was tight, but how could she mean that with him giving her that gorgeous big blue ring for Christmas? Jennifer said it was only an aquamarine. Geez, she’d be happy to accept an aquamarine. Well, for a start she was going to get a new winter coat. Ohrbach’s was having a big sale.
She and Mel had been invited to Johnny Mallon’s New Year’s Eve party. But they’d seen the old year out in Helen’s dressing room. “You’ll never get out of the theatre and to a party before twelve o’clock,” Helen had insisted, pouring champagne.
Johnny’s party had been terrific. Neely had never been to a party packed with celebrities. And they all knew her! That was the big surprise—everyone knew who she was! She couldn’t get over it. And then Johnny Mallon had told Mel he “could consider himself a permanent member of the team.” Geez, that was great. She had to stop saying “Geez” all the time. Several people had laughed when she said it. Oh, not nasty laughing . . . they’d thought she was kidding. But maybe if she mixed with these classy friends of Mel’s she’d learn some good expressions. She never heard anything backstage except words she didn’t want to say. And Mel had such a good vocabulary . . . he’d gone to college. Geez, a college man like Mel—in love with her!
She’d never forget that New Year’s Eve. Mel said he wouldn’t either. She’d hugged him that night when they reached his hotel. “I’m so happy, Mel—I’m scared.”
“This is really starting off 1946 with a bang,” Mel had said as they got ready for bed. “But you know, I felt a little sorry for Helen Lawson tonight. She looked so lonely when we left her dressing room.”
Neely had wrinkled her nose. “Listen, Helen never has a date. Tonight she was lucky she had that faggot designer to take her to a party. Geez, Mel, your hotel is really chintzy—there’s no heat and it’s practically morning. We get heat almost all night.” She’d climbed into bed and shivered in his arms.
“All right—name the day and I’ll move. We can get married any time you like. I’ll find us a nice apartment.”
Neely had snuggled up to him, wrapping her legs around his for warmth.
“How about it, Neely? You heard Johnny tonight. I’m set—I’m making two hundred a week.”
“So’m I.”
“Then let’s get married.”
“Okay. On June first.”
“Why do we have to wait until then?”
“Because I got the apartment with the girls till then. I’d have to keep kicking in my third of the rent if I left before. We all agreed to that kind of a deal because we’re all on the verge of getting married.”
“We can manage it. We’ll pay them.”
“Are you kidding? I should pay two rents?”
“But Neely, I want you.”
She giggled. “You got me. C’mon, take me. . . now. . .”
“But Neely—”
“We’ll get married June first. C’mon, Mel, m
ake love to me. No, not that way—I’m not wearing my diaphragm. Do it the other way . . . please. Please, Mel. . .”
February, 1946
Anne and Jennifer stared in speechless disbelief as Neely casually directed the moving men in the placement of an enormous piano.
“I’ve just signed with the Johnson Harris office,” Neely announced.
“What happened to Henry?” Anne asked.
“Well, we had a long talk yesterday. I told him the Johnson Harris office had come to me, and he gave me a release right away. I’m not really big enough for a manager. I need a big agency behind me. Henry agreed. And look what happened . . .”
“They gave you a piano?” Jennifer asked.
“No, but they’re paying for the rental. And they got me into La Rouge—I open in three weeks.”
“But you’re in Hit the Sky,” Anne said.
“I’m gonna double. I’ll just do a midnight show at La Rouge. And for that I’ll get three hundred a week! Isn’t that terrific? And guess what? The Johnson Harris office got me Zeke Whyte—and they’re paying for him—and he’s gonna make my arrangements and stage my act. Zeke only works with the biggest stars. When he heard me sing he said with a little work I could be great. He said I’m a cross between Judy Garland and Mary Martin.”
“Well, just don’t let any Helen Lawson creep in or we’ll throw all three of you out,” Jennifer said with a wink at Anne.
“Isn’t the piano gorgeous?” Neely asked, running her hand lovingly across the scarred Steinway. “Zeke insisted on this one. It does something for the room, doesn’t it?”
Jennifer nodded. “Sure does. Gives it a real air—like a rehearsal hall.”
Neely’s childish face looked chagrined. “Gee—do you mind it being here?”
Jennifer smiled. “No. I’m just wondering where you plan to put the ballet bar. That does come next, doesn’t it?”
Anne laughed. “Let her be ambitious, Jen. It’ll be nice having a star in the family.”
Neely made a wry face. “I’m doing it strictly for the money. In June, when Mel and I get married, I wanna have enough cash saved to furnish a place as nice as this.”
“When does he get a chance to write for Johnny Mallon?” Jennifer asked. “He seems to be working full time as press agent for you. I’ve never seen anyone get so much publicity.”
“Why shouldn’t he?” Neely insisted. “After all, everything I earn is for our future.”
“You really don’t care about making it—the star bit?” Jennifer asked.
“For what? To wind up alone on New Year’s Eve with some faggot as a date? Oh, I’ll keep working after I’m married—but my marriage will always come first. And you’re a fine one to talk—didn’t you just turn down a contract at Twentieth because of Tony?”
Jennifer shrugged. “It wasn’t a good contract. Only one-fifty a week.”
“But Henry thought you should have taken it,” Neely insisted. “If it had been bigger would you have signed?”
“Maybe . . . I guess so. But I have no talent, Neely, and you have.”
“Yeah, but it takes more than talent. Hey, let’s clean up this place. Zeke will be here any minute.”
“It’s neat as a pin,” Anne insisted.
Neely ran around emptying ashtrays. “Jen, you use every ashtray in the place. Zeke says he’s glad I don’t smoke. Even in a room, smoke hurts a singer’s voice.”
Jennifer raised her eyebrows. “Will cigarettes be barred at your club opening?”
“No, but why do I have to have my home contaminated?”
For the next three weeks Zeke Whyte took over the apartment. He rehearsed Neely relentlessly. Anne and Jennifer never arrived without finding him there. He was femininely attractive, aware of his own importance, a hard taskmaster and an excellent musician. He drove Neely unmercifully.
“What does he want from me?” she’d demand, bursting into the bedroom in tears. “I never had a singing lesson in my life and I’m doing okay. All of a sudden he’s trying to turn me into a Lily Pons—in three weeks! Anne, go in and tell him to get off my back!”
Then Zeke would appear at the doorway. “Okay, Neely . . . hysterical time over. Let’s get back to work.”
“I can’t,” she would sob. “You expect too much.”
“Of course I do. Why be good if you can be great?”
Neely would always go back . . . the scales would continue . . . there would be more hysterics . . . more scales . . . it seemed endless.
But the loudest argument came at the end of the second week. Neely came tearing into the offices of Bellamy and Bellows. “Where is he?” she demanded of Anne.
“Where is who?”
“Henry! I want him back as my manager. I need him. He’s got to get Zeke off my back.”
“Henry’s at N.B.C. What’s Zeke done now?”
“He wants me to burn all my clothes!”
“What?”
“You heard me. Burn them! He says he won’t even let me give them away, they’re so awful. Including this new coat.” She stroked the red fox collar lovingly. “I paid seventy dollars for it at Ohrbach’s.”
Anne hid a smile. “Well, the coat is a little sophisticated for you.”
“Look, all my life I’ve worn my sister’s hand-me-downs. I have a right to pick my own clothes now.”
“What does Zeke want you to wear?”
“Who knows? I’m supposed to meet him later at some designer’s place. That’s why I need Henry—to talk to him—to tell him I have some rights.”
“Now Neely, you don’t need Henry. You can tell him yourself.”
“No, I don’t want to fight with him. He might walk out. Geez, Anne—he’s done such great things with my voice. Sometimes I don’t even believe it’s me. And in just two weeks. You know, for the first time I feel maybe I could be great. I can hit notes I never dreamed existed, and hold them with real power. He’s a genius.”
“Then maybe he’s right about the clothes.”
Neely sighed. “Well, I’m gonna let him pick my dress for the opening. It’s being specially designed because he’s making me dance and move a little on some numbers. But I’ll never give up this coat. . . .”
The following week she sent the coat to her sister, along with the purple taffeta and the six new dresses she had bought since the show had opened. Zeke made her buy an evening dress for the opening, two wool street dresses for everyday and a tailored navy blue coat. She stared at her sparse wardrobe in disgust. She alternated the two dresses, afraid to eat when she wore them—one spot and half her wardrobe was out of commission.
“Imagine, a hundred and twenty-five bucks for this,” she told Mel as she spread a napkin carefully over the blue wool. They were sitting in Sardi’s, where Neely now rated a front table—a fact that never ceased to amaze her.
“It’s smart looking,” Mel said. “But it doesn’t look like that kind of money.”
“Zeke says I have to create an image and look that way all the time.”
“What kind of an image is this dress supposed to create?”
She shrugged. “I dunno. What does it do to you? You went to college.”
Mel bit into his sandwich and stared thoughtfully at the dress. “Well, you don’t look like a rising young Broadway star, that’s for sure.” He studied her. “More like a schoolgirl. Yes, that’s it—like maybe you’re fresh from some fancy girls’ college.”
“Is that good?”
“I don’t know, honey. I love you in anything—even that awful purple job.”
“Mel! You never told me you didn’t like the taffeta.”
“You had it when we first met, and I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“What about my black coat with the red fox collar?”
“Well, it was ordinary looking . . . and sort of old for you.”
“And this plain navy coat is unusual?”
“I don’t know, honey, but I think it’s right for you. Fags have pretty go
od taste.”
“Oh, all right.” She sighed and bit carefully into her sandwich.
March, 1946
No one was prepared for the impact of Neely’s opening night. Anne was there with Lyon and Henry. Jennifer sat across the room at a large table with Tony Polar, his sister, his writers and some song pluggers. Helen Lawson arrived with an assistant stage manager. She waved hello to Henry and pointedly ignored Anne.
It began as a typical club opening. The newspapermen came because it was an assignment. The celebrities came to be seen by the newspapermen. No one expected very much. It had happened before—a new little girl, using the handle of a hit show to augment her slim pay check. They came respecting her energy and ambition; they left a raving, worshipping cult.
Anne couldn’t believe it. She caught Jennifer’s eye during the show and they exchanged stares of delighted amazement. Henry Bellamy was sitting on the edge of his seat.
Neely was fantastic. The lighting made the childlike face almost beautiful and the dress—a plain white satin shirtwaist and a short navy satin skirt—showed off her marvelous legs. Anne was surprised she had never noticed them before, or her perfect little figure with its small waistline and childish breasts.
“The star that got away,” Henry whispered. “Jesus, Lyon—how did we ever let her slip through our fingers?”
Lyon shook his head. “When we make a mistake, it’s a beaut!”
“She’s really great, isn’t she?” Anne whispered.
“Great isn’t the word,” Lyon answered. “She’s unbelievable. There’s no one around like her.”
After that, the excitement that generated around Neely made life chaotic at the apartment. The phone rang constantly, and the living room was taken over for interviews, picture sessions, rehearsals. Neely had guest shots on all the radio shows. She signed with a major record company. Metro wanted her. Twentieth wanted her. And Helen Lawson stopped talking to her.
Neely felt awful. “Imagine. She just cuts me dead,” she told Anne.
Jennifer grinned. “That means you’re a star. She’s still adorable to me.”
Valley of the Dolls Page 21
