Valley of the Dolls

by Jacqueline Susann

  She managed a smile. “I’m glad I fit in with your plans. But a girl doesn’t plan on just being someone’s girl—she hopes to be a wife and mother.”

  “I’ve thought about it, Anne—but my kids wouldn’t like it.” He sat on the edge of her bed and said lightly, “Besides, I’m more sure of you this way. Once we were married, you’d take me for granted.” He went back to his bed and. picked up the newspaper. Soon he was lost in the financial section of the Times.

  Anne went back to her script. In a few months he would bring it up again, and again it would end like this. Kevin felt guilty about not marrying her, but it really didn’t matter to her any more. Maybe it was too late to think about children. And a marriage certificate certainly didn’t insure fidelity or happiness—look at Jennifer. And look at poor Neely.

  It was true that everyone knew she was Kevin’s girl. But she was also the Gillian Girl. . . and he had made that possible. She enjoyed her work. It was lucrative and kept her busy. She liked Kevin, too—no, it was more than just liking him, perhaps it was love. Not love as she had known it with Lyon—there were no Cloud Nines with Kevin. Their physical union left her completely untouched, and very often she wondered what attraction she held for him. When she recalled the wild abandon with which she had given herself to Lyon—their deep kisses and feverish embraces, lying locked in each other’s arms all night—her relationship with Kevin seemed absolutely antiseptic.

  In the beginning, it had been strictly a business relationship. Then gradually they had drifted together socially. She had enjoyed his company, and she found dating one man easier than resisting the advances of many. She was an asset to his company, and he was patient with her inexperience before the cameras. It was his patience that had enabled her to achieve her success. He hovered around every rehearsal, checking every light, working with her on her delivery, helping her choose the right dress. She grew to rely on him, to seek his advice and judgment. She was aware of the pretty little models who flung themselves at him, and she saw wealthy divorcees and visiting starlets seek him out. She knew about the frantic invitations he received from the chic, famous fifty-year-old ex-movie queen. Yes, Kevin Gillmore could write his own ticket. But he wanted her. She held him off for a year, but she met no one who kindled any excitement or romantic image. So, finally, she gave herself to Kevin.

  She recalled their first union. She had been unable to do more than submit. She allowed him to take her, to satisfy himself—nothing more. And he never asked for more. Sometimes she forced herself to respond in a tepid way, and Kevin seemed to accept this for passion. Soon she realized that with all his worldliness, he was totally unsophisticated about the act of love. Obviously he had been quite pure when he married his wife, and she must have been equally chaste and unimaginative. They probably had never progressed beyond a few limp kisses and the mechanical act of intercourse. After his wife’s death there must have been girls, and some of them must have gone all out—but he probably related this kind of sex to girls of loose morals. Anne was a lady, as his wife had been. And so he accepted her frigidity as the normal attribute of a lady, and being a gentleman, he expected nothing more.

  No, with Kevin there were no highs or lows, but perhaps this was what mature love was like. Sometimes she told herself she was fortunate. Many girls never knew the Lyon Burke kind of love, and few achieved the solidity of Kevin’s kind of love. Even his unwillingness to marry her presented no real problem. She had never forced the issue, though she knew she could make Kevin marry her—all she had to do was threaten to leave him. No, she was perfectly content with their present status. She knew Kevin would always be there.

  Neely arrived the following week. Anne managed to conceal her shock at Neely’s transformation. She had gained weight, her face looked puffy, and even though she wore an expensive suit, she looked seedy. Her nail polish was chipped, there was a run in her stocking and she seemed rumpled. But most of all, there was something dead in her whole countenance. Neely didn’t sparkle any more. Her eyes didn’t seem to focus when she talked.

  Anne remained the attentive listener as Neely poured out her entire diatribe of woe—the diabolical schemes of The Head, the broken marriage, the evils of Hollywood . . .

  About herself, Anne offered very little information. She talked about her work and her close friendship with Kevin, and when Neely asked with a trace of the little-girl voice if she were “doing it,” Anne smiled and nodded. That seemed to please Neely.

  Kevin played the gracious host. If Neely infringed on his private life he hid his irritation well. He escorted both girls around town to the shows and the nightclubs. Neely caused a sensation wherever she went. She blossomed with the acclaim. There were no lost days, no endless bouts of drinking. She bought new clothes, dropped ten pounds in two weeks and rarely took more than three pills a night. She sparkled again—and became the bouncing girl Anne had always known.

  One hot September evening, as they were leaving a theatre, a large crowd deserted the stage door and rushed to Neely, cutting them off from their cab. Laughing, waving, signing books, Neely was buffeted by the friendly mob until Kevin, assisted by a policeman, managed to clear a path to the curb.

  In the taxi Kevin mopped perspiration from his face and shook his head in wonder. “It’s fantastic! If they’re that crazy just to see you, what would they do if you sang?”

  “Pass out in sheer ecstasy.” Neely laughed. “But my public has always been hot for me,” she added, her round eyes suddenly growing serious. “There were lines at Radio City for all my pictures. They just cost too darn much money to make. But I never had a picture that died. I always did big business—”

  Kevin stared at her as though what she had been saying had just penetrated. A note of excitement made his voice tremble. “You’re right. Your pictures always sold out. Your public is still with you. They want you. Neely—let’s do a spectacular! I’ll present it—I’ll buy an hour of prime time on one of the networks. My God—it would be a sensation!”

  “Are you kidding? Me do TV? A whole hour live—with no retakes? Geez, I’d die.”

  “If you sang all the songs you’ve introduced, you wouldn’t need retakes,” Kevin insisted. “No gimmicks, no other acts—just you standing out there singing.”

  “Forget it,” Neely answered. “I heard what those television cameras do to you—they add ten pounds and twenty years. And besides, what do I need it for? The Johnson Harris office is trying to work out a three-picture deal with Metro right now.”

  As Neely’s appearances in public continued to generate new excitement, Kevin became obsessed with the idea. “Work on her,” he pleaded to Anne. “I’d give her four weeks of rehearsal. We’d introduce a new product. The publicity would be worth millions for Gillian.”

  “I can’t force her if she’s afraid,” Anne insisted. “If something went wrong I’d feel responsible.”

  “What could go wrong? It’s not as if she’s a no-talent hothouse flower created by the Hollywood cameras. Neely grew up in vaudeville, she played Broadway—she’s a trouper. Television’s loaded with no-talent performers. Every day someone you never heard of jumps into television and becomes a star, and only because the real talents like Neely are holding out. It’s not as if I’m asking her to do a weekly series. Just one shot, a spectacular—and she’d do herself a lot of good, too.”

  “I agree, Kevin. But you’re the super salesman—it’s up to you to convince her. I’m her friend, and I intend to remain just that.”

  Kevin brought up the subject several times, and each time Neely good-naturedly turned him down. She was enjoying her first real holiday, her first contact with the adulation of the fans, a long-overdue payment for the years of cloistered grind in the studio factory.

  Kevin seized every opportunity to get Neely involved in watching performers and reliving her own past. He bought tickets for the opening night of Helen Lawson’s new musical, hoping that seeing Helen would reactivate Neely’s ambition and revive the exci
tement of working to an audience.

  Helen’s opening was a major event. She had disappeared from the Broadway scene in another unsuccessful attempt at marriage, this time as mistress of a large estate in Jamaica. She had retired with ecstatic interviews. She had found “the only true love of her life.” There had been pictures of an overblown Helen clinging to the arm of a nondescript, gray-haired man. She was selling her New York apartment and furniture and going to Jamaica to live a wonderful life as a simple housewife. The wonderful life lasted six years. Then Helen returned, and there were more front-page stories. Jamaica was “a tropical small town filled with rich, idle people and bugs.” There was nothing to do but drink and gossip. The wonderful man was “a louse who drank too much and had ’liaisons’ with other women.” She got a Mexican divorce and immediately accepted the starring role in a new musical.

  It was a typical Helen Lawson opening. All the right people were in the audience, waiting to cheer her, to welcome home the Queen. The applause had been deafening on her entrance, but after ten minutes the air was heavy with “flop sweat.” Kevin had felt a surge of hope as Neely sat on the edge of her seat, mentally taking every bow with Helen. But his hopes were dashed when Neely whispered, “I thought she was old when I first met her. Geez, she was a kid in comparison.”

  Kevin had to admit Neely was right. Helen was no longer skirting middle age; she was middle-aged. She had put on a good deal of weight. But her legs were still good, and she still tossed her long mane of black hair.

  “Boy, has she been dipping into the dye pots,” Neely whispered. “I like black hair, but she must be kidding with that color. It’s ebony.”

  “She should use Gillian’s color black,” Kevin commented. “Gives a more natural look.”

  “Nothing could help her,” Neely hissed. “And now she hasn’t even got a good script going for her. Why did she ever take this show? She’s got loads of dough.”

  “What else is she going to do?” Kevin said carefully. “An actress is only alive when she’s on stage.”

  “Eh!” Neely waved him aside. “That’s an old cliché.”

  “It’s just started,” Anne whispered. “It might get better.”

  “It’s a flop. I can smell it,” Neely answered.

  Neely was right. Anne watched Helen struggle valiantly. She felt a surge of sympathy for this blowsy-looking middle-aged woman trying to play a romantic role. Her voice was as vital as ever, with only the trace of a vibrato; but either the lyrics missed or the tune wasn’t there. As the show progressed her energy increased, as if she were trying to put her own life’s blood into the dying show.

  There were numerous curtain calls. The first-nighters gave the Queen dutiful homage. But the comments as they filed out of the theatre were more truthful. “Helen’s first flop.” . . . “It wasn’t Helen’s fault, it was a bad book.” . . . “The direction was lousy.” . . . “Ah, but the old Helen would have pulled it out. Remember Sunny Lady? No book or score—just Helen, and it was enough.” . . . “Listen, everyone is entitled to one flop.” . . . “Yes, but at her age it’s too late to make a comeback. Why didn’t she let well enough alone?” . . . “They’re kinder to racehorses—at least they put the champions out to stud.” . . . “Yeah, and from what I hear, that’s what Helen would really like.” . . . “But who’s the old bag going to stud with?” . . . “Aw, she still has great legs and magnificent hair.” . . . “Well, she’s got to have something left.” . . . “And my dear, I studied voice in college. There was a vibrato.” . . .

  “I can’t go backstage,” Neely said. “I know she musta heard I was out front, but Geez, what can I say? Like maybe the sets were great?”

  “Want to go to Sardi’s?” Kevin asked. “She’ll come there to take her bows.”

  “Wanna bet?” Neely answered. “Listen, no one knows better than Helen what a bomb this was. She doesn’t want to be sitting around Sardi’s with egg on her face when those early editions of the Times and Tribune come out. Besides, Franco Salla is opening at the Persian Room tonight. He was a sensation at Ciro’s. I went every night. I wouldn’t miss his New York opening.”

  Wearily, Kevin called the Persian Room and booked a table. It was mobbed with the same columnists and many of the same people who had attended Helen’s opening. When the captain saw Neely, a new table was placed ringside in front of a disgruntled group who had tipped lavishly to insure an unhampered view. A surge of excitement ran through the audience as Neely entered.

  Kevin ordered champagne, but Neely barely sipped at her glass. Anne watched the crowd and thought about the new commercial she was to do the following day. It was late, and she could see the show was not going to start on schedule. Tomorrow she’d have to use the “idiot cards.” She watched the people milling at the door. Nothing ever changed at openings—the same impatient people waiting to be shown to their tables, offering folded bills for better locations, the same perspiring busboys scuttling around placing makeshift tables at ringside, trying to ignore the complaints of the occupants of tables they eclipsed. People who had started at ringside were now three rows back. The dance floor was half its original size. And just as it seemed impossible to squeeze another person into the room, Anne saw a busboy rushing another platter-sized table to the ringside. It was placed directly opposite them.

  Helen made her entrance, accompanied by a slim young boy. He was a minor dancer in her show, effeminately beautiful and ignorantly proud to be the center of attention. Helen must have known all about his “roommate,” but he played his role of escort with flawless perfection. He held her hand, listened raptly to everything she said, laughed on cue and reveled in the introductions Helen engulfed him in as she turned to the tables around her and loudly greeted friends. The captain answered her bellowed summons with a look of patient resignation. Anne could hear her across the room as she shouted, “I know this is one of those fancy-Dan rooms that don’t serve booze while the act is on, so set up a few bottles of the grape fast, before it’s too late.”

  The lights finally dimmed. Franco Salla was introduced. He was a strong singer, especially good in his Italian numbers. The audience had read his out-of-town notices and was eager to make him a star. He was forced to do several encores. Then, after a charming speech of gratitude, enhanced by his accent, he turned gravely to the ringside, and with an air of solemn awe, introduced “the giant of musical comedy, the queen of them all, the great lady who has been a star for decades . . . Helen Lawson!”

  Helen forced a mechanical grin. She rose and waved good-naturedly to the audience. The applause was loud and hearty with respect.

  Then Franco turned and looked at Neely. The audience followed his gaze. His voice was soft and his eyes grew tender with admiration. “And now, the once-in-a-lifetime star . . . the girl everyone loves . . . the singer every singer worships . . .” He stopped, groping, as if there were no superlatives strong enough to describe Neely. Then he smiled and said, simply, “Miss Neely O’Hara.”

  The applause was deafening. A few people stood up to cheer. Then, suddenly, in a body, the entire audience was on its feet, clamoring, applauding, demanding a song. Kevin stood, too. Anne didn’t know what to do; everyone was standing except Helen Lawson and her young dancer. Helen sat there with a glassy smile clamped on her face and clapped noiselessly. The dancer stared at her dumbly, awaiting any command.

  Neely finally rose and walked to the microphone. She thanked everyone graciously and tried to beg off. When the audience stormed an insistent demand, she shrugged helplessly and turned to the orchestra. After a quick discussion of key and chords, she took center stage and sang.

  She was brilliant. Her voice was clear and soaring, and the audience reacted with the frenzied adoration of worshippers at a revival meeting. She did six songs before she could beg off. She returned to the table ecstatic, her eyes shining with tears of excitement. Columnists came over to congratulate her, and well-gowned women demanded autographs “for my daughter.” Neely good-naturedly signe
d menus, cards and bits of paper. When the deluge finally died down, she gulped a glass of champagne. “You know, I could get to like this,” she said.

  “Singing in a supper club?” Kevin asked hopefully.

  “No, drinking champagne. It’s good.” She poured another glass. “It’s safer to stick with Scotch or vodka, but tonight is an exception. Only I better not make a habit of it—too fattening. Look at Old Ironsides over there—all that blubber is solid vintage wine.”

  “Neely, you were great tonight,” Kevin began.

  “Sure. It’s easy to be great with old standards. They don’t write songs like that any more.”

  “But that’s what you’d do on my spectacular.”

  She grinned. “Oh, we’re back to that, huh?”

  “Neely, the public adores you—”

  “Sure. They adore my movies, too. Is it my fault that unions and costs are so high they can’t break even in Hollywood?”

  “They say it’s not just the costs and unions, Neely.”

  Her eyes narrowed and lost some of their good humor. “And what do they say, Mr. Bones?”

  “They say you run the costs up . . . that you’re unreliable . . . that you’ve lost your voice.”

  Anne shifted nervously and tried to catch Kevin’s eye to signal a warning, but he ignored her and riveted his gaze on Neely.

  Neely managed a smile. “Well, you just heard me sing. So don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

  “I don’t believe it, because I heard you tonight. And no one in this room believes it. But that’s only a handful of people. The public believes what they read, Neely. So do a lot of movie producers.”