Valley of the Dolls

by Jacqueline Susann

  “Well, you’ve got your house and your contract. And I’ve got my sanity back. I wasn’t much of a man living with you. Somehow you drained it all out of me, Neely. But that’s over. I’m straightened out now.”

  “By that little whore?”

  “She makes me feel seven feet tall.”

  “Ted, I need you.”

  “And how you do. But not as a man.”

  “Sex! Sex! Sex! Is that all you think about? I like sex. But in its place.”

  “Like once a month on a rainy Sunday? And it never rains in California.”

  “Look, stop with all this. That broad is in there. Get her out!”

  “I will.” He put out his cigarette and started for the cabana.

  “And come upstairs immediately. I want to talk to you!”

  She ran into the house. She opened a new bottle, poured herself a fresh drink and got into bed. Maybe she should overlook this thing. Maybe she had better act more sexy. Christ, she loved him. She adored him. But when you were on the set all day how could you be sexy at night? She looked at her plain pajamas. Maybe she should wear some frilly nightgowns. But Geez, her face was loaded with cream and her hair was sticking out at all angles and gooky. It was washed every morning at the studio, so she had to put lanolin on it at night. Her hair was good and thick, but if she slept in that lacquer they put on it and all the gold powder to pick up the lights, she’d be bald. She had to brush it out every night and load it with oil.

  She thought of the naked girl in the pool. She stood up, swaying, and the wall mirror across the room shot back her own reflection. Oh, brother, she thought. I look like Halloween. But Geez, why shouldn’t that girl look good? She wasn’t pulling in five thousand a week. She wasn’t one of the hottest names in pictures. She was just a girl trying to make it. If she was a star, she’d be in bed at nine with the cream and oil too! Tears ran down her face. God, all her life she had dreamed about something like this. A big house, a guy you loved, kids. She had them all. . . only there was no time to enjoy it.

  She went to the bathroom and washed the cream off her face. If only she wasn’t so sleepy. She fumbled in the bureau. Where were the nice nightgowns? Okay, this yellow one. She slid into it. Geez, her hair! She found a yellow silk scarf and tied it around. Now, that wasn’t bad—not bad at all. She got into bed. Ted should be up any second. She heard the scrunch of the car on the gravel in front. Well, the whore had gone home; now he’d come up all sheepish. She’d let him crawl a little, then she’d surprise him. She’d take him in her arms and they’d do it. And she’d be real good, like in the old days, not just lay back. It had been so great when they first met—but she hadn’t been so tired then. She was getting sleepy . . . God, where was he! She jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs.

  “Ted.” The swimming pool was dark. She threw open the front door. She ran to the garage, the gravel cutting into her bare feet. The car was gone! Maybe he had to take her home. She had come here with him; maybe she had no car. Bullshit! He coulda sent her home in a cab! She’d give it to him when he came back. She started to sob. Maybe he wasn’t coming back. Oh, Christ! What had she done?

  1953

  She fought the divorce for three years. He had moved his clothes out after the swimming-pool incident. She hadn’t gone to work for a week. The studio had been furious. The hell with them, she thought as she tossed in a barbiturate daze. The hell with Ted! At first she was all for a divorce—he couldn’t do this to her! But The Head had opposed it. Bad for her public image. She was the girl next door. . . America’s sweetheart with twin boys. They had stories lined up on her home life and picture layouts of her and Ted with the twins . . . the perfect marriage. No, no divorce. The Head didn’t care how they felt about each other, just as long as it looked good to the public. She was to try to work it out.

  The Head also talked to Ted. He was under contract to Century, so he had to go along. He was to escort Neely to openings, pose with her for screen magazine stories, anything to maintain the image.

  It had been a three-year nightmare. One picture after another . . . dieting . . . the dolls . . . knowing Ted was off somewhere with that girl. And he had to be keeping her. She wasn’t working. To pacify Neely the studio had blackballed her. The word was out—no other studio would touch her.

  The Academy Award had cinched things. It had been the greatest moment of her life. She had never dreamed she’d really get it. When they called her name she had turned to Ted with a gasp. His smile had been warm—he was really thrilled for her. She had run up the aisle. Then the pictures, the photographer and newsreel cameras—and Ted right there, holding her arm. Everything was going to be all right—she had won the Oscar and Ted was at her side, smiling at her.

  He had stayed until the last camera had clicked and the last congratulation had been accepted. Then he had driven her home, said good night in front of the door and left her—an Academy Award-winning star—to go to the arms of that tramp! That had done it!

  The next morning she had called The Head and demanded he come to her bungalow. She could throw her weight around now. And The Head had come, too! This time she announced the terms. She wanted a divorce—immediately—and she wanted Ted Casablanca dropped by the studio. The Head had humbly agreed to her demands. God, the power of an Oscar!

  It also made her realize that it wasn’t life or death to report for work every day. She was the biggest star in Hollywood, and the Oscar proved it. If she had a bad night, fuck ’em! She was Neely O’Hara! And if she gained a few pounds on caviar, fuck ’em. So it took a week to get it off—so what! Her pictures made them a fortune. . . .

  She sat in the air-conditioned studio bungalow trembling. It was the third time she had walked off the set in five weeks. Goddam that John Stykes. He might be the greatest director in the world, but he was crucifying her in this picture. She tore off the strip of false eyelashes and violently dabbed cream on her face.

  “Miss O’Hara, don’t! It will take an hour to get the makeup on again,” the maid pleaded.

  “No more work today,” she said grimly, erasing the pancake.

  “But we’re behind schedule—”

  “We!” Neely turned on her. “Where do you get that we stuff? Christ! Everybody’s in show business!”

  There was a knock on the door. It was John Stykes. He was handsome in a craggy, weatherbeaten way. “Come on, Neely, let’s get going.”

  She saw his look of despair at her naked face. “Yes, buster—no more work for today!” She grinned maliciously.

  He sat down. “All right. It’s three o’clock. We’ll knock off early.”

  “Only I’m not okaying that last take,” she snapped.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “You know damn well. All the closeups were on our feet.”

  “Neely, the studio is paying Chuck Martin fifty thousand just for that dance he does with you. He’s a great dancer. What should we shoot? His ears?”

  “No, dammit, you shoot me! Body shots—my feet can’t keep up with him. I’m not that good a dancer.”

  “I can’t believe my ears,” he said with mock wonder. “You mean you actually concede someone might have more talent than you?”

  “Listen, Chuck Martin’s been dancing in Broadway shows for thirty years. But that’s all he can do—dance. He’s old enough to be my father. I’m only twenty-five, but I can sing, dance and act. I’ll put my singing and acting up against the best of them. No one can touch me when it comes to singing. No one! As for dancing, okay, so I’m no Ginger Rogers or Eleanor Powell. But all Chuck Martin can do is dance. He’s almost as good as Astaire. But is that any reason I should look bad?”

  “If you admit he’s that good, why not let us give five minutes to his feet?”

  “Because it’s my picture. That’s something I learned in my first Broadway show, from an expert. No performer feathers his nest on my talent. Look, who needs Chuck Martin anyway? I’ve used chorus boys in all my other pictures.”


  “The Head picked Chuck personally.” John Stykes lit a cigarette. Neely reached for one. He lit it for her. “Since when did you start smoking?”

  “I took one the day my divorce became final. I’ve found they keep me from eating.”

  “Bad for the voice, Neely.”

  “I only smoke about ten a day.” She inhaled deeply. “Well, is it settled now?”

  The director looked toward the maid. “Neely, could we talk alone?”

  “Sure.” She motioned the maid to leave. “You’re through for the day, Shirley. See you here tomorrow, at seven.”

  John smiled when they were alone. “I’m glad you’re not planning to play hookey.”

  “Why should I? You just sit up tonight and figure a new way to shoot that scene so that it stars me—not Chuck Martin’s feet.”

  “Neely, has it ever occurred to you why The Head didn’t use a chorus boy?”

  “Sure, sure. Television! Everybody panics easily these days. But that’s not my worry. If The Head thinks sending for Chuck Martin and paying out an extra fifty G’s is gonna lick television, that’s his business. Only don’t do it on my time.”

  “Neely, your last two pictures lost money.”

  “C’mon! I read Variety. I saw the grosses. They were terrific! My last picture grossed four million and it hasn’t played Europe yet.”

  “But it cost over six million to make.”

  “So what? Variety says my picture will be the top grosser of the year.”

  “Sure, and it would have made the studio a fortune if it had been made for the two million five it was slated for. The studio’s kept the real figures a secret—so far. No one ever heard of a picture running that much over. The Head was afraid to let the reports get published. His stockholders would hold an emergency meeting. He has to make it up with this picture. Your first loss was a small one, but this last one . . . honey, no picture has ever cost six million.”

  “I had the flu. People can’t help it if they get sick.”

  “Neely, you were out ten days with sleeping pills.”

  “And then I got the flu.”

  “I wasn’t on that picture, but I know the facts. You boozed and ate. . . . All right, so you got run down and got sick. But when you recovered, it took three weeks to get the weight off you. And even then you still were ten pounds over and all the costumes had to be redone.”

  “All right! I was upset. My divorce became final that week. And Sam Burns, my favorite cameraman, got sick. I won’t work without Sam. I wasn’t ten pounds overweight—I weighed ninety-eight. But the clothes were so lousy I looked heavy.” She stopped, then turned on him violently. “And that’s another thing. They’ve got to get me a new designer. The clothes stink. Ted would never have let me wear this crap!”

  “Ellen Small has won nine Academy Awards.”

  “Well, let her make clothes for her Oscars, not for me.”

  “Neely, I like you. That’s why I’m talking to you instead of The Head. I won’t let on that you walked out today. Oh, he’ll hear about the early dismissal, but I’ll say we were through with the scene earlier than we expected and it was too late to set up the next. But how long do you think he’ll put up with this?”

  “With what?”

  “With your walkouts, your tantrums . . .”

  “I didn’t work this hard to become a star and have to worry about the front office. Once you’re a star, everyone has to worry about you. You rate it. I learned that from Helen Lawson.”

  “Helen Lawson is a pro,” he snapped. “That’s one thing you aren’t.”

  “So where is she now?”

  “She can star on Broadway whenever she wants—”

  “What’s Broadway? That’s all she can get!”

  “Right. And she knows it. But Helen Lawson was never a second late for rehearsal in her life. She only has one thing—a big voice. And she knows it. She might be careless about everything else, but she’s a businesswoman with that voice. She’s a different kind of a monster than you are, Neely—”

  “Monster! Why you. . . you . . .”

  He laughed and tweaked her nose. “Sure you’re a monster,” he said good-naturedly. “Every star is one. But Helen is a mechanical star, a voice. You have . . . well, sometimes, honey, I think you border on genius. You feel things—too deeply at times.” He leaned over and took her hands. “Neely, they don’t come like you. You’re rare. But this is no art form—it’s dollars and cents. Stockholders aren’t interested in genius, just box-office receipts. Look, baby, we’re ten days behind, but if you cooperate, we can make it up. We can shoot the nightclub scene in one day instead of three. I’ve got it all set for tomorrow. The extras have been called. I know how to lick it. I’ll work a few nights . . . do the crowd scenes with your stand-in. We can shoot from the back. Neely, we can do it. We can still bring it in on time.”

  She wavered for a moment, then she shot him a metallic smile. “You almost got to me, Johnny-boy. This was the daddy of all pep talks. But like you said, I’m a monster—and monsters know every angle. Seven years ago if someone had talked to me like this, I’d have jumped and said, ’Yes sir, yes sir, yes sir.’ I worked my ass off, half killed myself . . . and I made the studio a fortune.”

  “And you made yourself a star.”

  “Yeah, and what does that get me?” she said. She walked across the room and poured herself half a glass of Scotch. “Want a drink?”

  “Beer, if you’ve got it.”

  She went to the bar and got some beer from the small refrigerator. “This is what I’ve got,” she said as she handed it to him. “The best booze in town—only I’m not supposed to drink it. It puts weight on me. I also got a swimming pool I can’t use because I’m not allowed to get tan. Bad for technicolor. I got two closets full of clothes and no place or time to wear them because I have to stay home each night and study the next day’s scenes. John . . .” She knelt on the floor and sat at his feet. “How did it happen?”

  He rubbed her head. “You just got there too fast.”

  “No, that’s not the answer. I kicked around in vaudeville all my life. I’m not some beauty-contest winner the studio had to teach to talk, walk and act. They signed me ’cause I had talent. Sure, they taught me some things. I dance better. I’ve gone through the reading bit—books The Head thought I should read. You know, the self-improvement bit. Now I don’t sound like a moron when I give interviews. But I came with my talent. I’m twenty-five and I feel like I’m ninety. I’ve lost two husbands. All I know is to study lines, songs, dance routines, to starve, to sleep with pills, stay awake with pills. . . . There’s got to be more than that to living.”

  “Did you have more fun back in your early vaudeville days?”

  “No, and I hate people who say it was all so wonderful when they were starving. It stunk. One-night stands, cold trains, dim-witted audiences . . . but there was something that kept you going and made you feel good—hope. It was all so lousy that you knew it had to get better, and you dreamed of the big time or security and thought it would be so wonderful if you could just latch onto a piece of it. And that hope kept you going so it didn’t seem bad. But when you sit here and think, Geez, here it is . . . this is it. . . and it stinks. Then what?”

  “You’ve got the babies, Neely. Right now you’re caught up in the time-consuming job of being a star. But you’ll find a right guy again—and then you might have to make a choice between mass love and a private life. It’s not easy to give up the love of an audience and settle for one man. Not after you’ve had it like you have. You’ll have to weigh all this and ask yourself if the love you get from your talent is enough to compensate.”

  “No, it isn’t. I can’t enjoy it. I mean, what has this God-given talent given me? All I can do is give it to others. Is that the end? I got it, but I have to keep giving it away—and I wind up with nothing. Boy, is this crazy? Wait till I tell this to Dr. Mitchell.”

  “Your analyst?”

  She nodded. “
I don’t need one, really. That’s another crazy thing. He was Ted’s analyst. Imagine! Me—the most normal girl in the world—I wind up with a headshrinker. I went to see him when something awful happened with Ted, and the next thing you know, I found myself running to him every time something came up. At first it was always about Ted . . . but then he started groping in my past, like maybe it was my fault Ted had troubles. But I went along—and then I did learn a lot about myself. You know, John, I never knew what it was to have a mother’s love. He says that’s why it’s important to me to be a star—I need mass love.”

  “That’s bullshit!” John was angry. “Listen, there are plenty of stars who love their mass love and who had some pretty doting parents. You’re a star because you have talent, not because you never knew a mother’s love. I’m tired of all these fancy doctors who blame everything on the poor mothers of the world. So your old lady kicked off early. Did she do it purposely just to get even with you? Listen, Neely, you’ll be a lot better off if you forget your headshrinker. You got where you are on your own.”

  “But I am neurotic, John. I’ve found I have all kinds of neuroses.”

  “So? Maybe that’s why you’re a star. If he cures them maybe you won’t be you. I got my own kinks, but I’m not about to plunk out twenty-five bucks a throw and have some guy tell me my father mistreated me and I miss my mother’s love. What am I going to do about it even if I find out it’s true? Go to Minnesota and punch my old man in the nose? He’s eighty. Or find myself a gray-haired call girl who’ll stroke my head and bottle-feed me? Listen, whatever happened is yesterday’s newspaper. It’s today and tomorrow—that’s what counts!”

  She sighed. “It’s all so easy the way you say it. But when you spend that long night alone—God, the nights are awful—and you feel there is one person you can talk to . . . See, John, a psychiatrist has no angles. He’s out for you . . . to help you. He’s the only one I can trust.”

  He stood up. “All right, see him tonight. But look, Neely. Do yourself a favor. Forget the costumes. Do the nightclub scene tomorrow. Learn the lyrics and let’s bring the picture in on time.”