He inspected her breasts clinically. “I have arranged for you to take a series of hormone shots to maintain the firmness of your breasts. They will be given while you recuperate from the face lift.”
“And where does all this gloriousness take place?”
“It was not easy. But it is arranged. You go to the Clinique Plastique tomorrow, under an assumed name again.”
Claude had been right; it had not been easy. The operation itself had been uncomfortable, but it was the recuperative period that had taken the most out of her. Six weeks of isolation; staring at her swollen, mottled face, her bloodshot eyes, the hideous black stitches behind her ears; wondering if she would ever return to normal, terrified that she had made a mistake. But gradually, as time passed, the stitches were removed and the scars went from a bright, angry red to a light pink that she knew would eventually fade.
The swelling went down, and her spirits soared. Claude had been right all around; it was an unqualified success. She doubted if she had looked this perfect at twenty. She didn’t look twenty, but she looked magnificent. Not a line in her face, and the tautness of the skin gave it a flawless appearance. She was sure she could pass Hollywood’s harshest scrutiny.
She arrived at Idlewild on a bright day in December. When the cameras flashed and the reporters crowded in, she was suddenly grateful to Claude. She noticed several women reporters eying her closely, and she smiled with easy confidence. She was not afraid of the strong sunlight or the close glances. She knew she looked perfect. And the newspapers noticed it, too. Every one of them commented that she was even more beautiful than her screen image.
She insisted on remaining in New York for a week while she renewed acquaintances with Anne. They spent long hours catching up on Jennifer’s adventures and many transitory romances. At last Anne told of her relationship with Kevin.
Jennifer sighed. “I don’t care how nice you say he is, he’s a louse for not marrying you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Anne insisted. “I’m not really in love with him. It’s better this way.”
“Still looking for the stars-in-your-eyes kind of love?” Jennifer asked. “You know, Anne, I guess a woman can either love or be loved, but it’s almost impossible to have both.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but it just doesn’t seem to work out that way. You should know. Allen loved you, even wanted to marry you. And Kevin loves you. Yet you could walk away from either of them and feel nothing. You loved Lyon . . . and he was able to walk away from you.”
“No, I was stupid about that. If you knew how many nights . . . Even now, I still lie awake and relive it in my mind. How I should have handled it. How it could have worked.”
“By going back to Lawrenceville?”
“Yes. It wouldn’t have been forever. His career as an author would have been the same. His first book would have gotten great reviews and made no money. Then he would have written that terrible commercial one—that was a gesture of defiance—then a few more, and finally movie scenarios. That’s what he’s doing in London. The same thing would have happened here. Only he’d be in New York writing for television, or out in Hollywood. Anyway, we’d be together. I just panicked. If only I had thought it out. . . .”
“But a man who could walk away like that. . . Anne, he never really cared.”
Anne set her jaw firmly. “He loved me. I know he did.”
“Sure, just like Allen thought you loved him. Like Kevin thinks you love him. He’s so sure of you he doesn’t even feel he has to marry you. Anne, if you really feel Kevin loves you, make him marry you. It’s a pretty rare thing to be loved. It’s never happened to me.”
“Oh, come on now, Jen. All of Europe loves you . . . and now you’ve got America as well.”
“They love my face and body. Not me!” There’s such a difference, Anne.” Then she shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not very lovable.”
“I love you, Jen—really.”
Jennifer smiled. “I know you do. It’s a pity we’re not queer—we’d make a marvelous team.”
Anne laughed. “If we were, maybe it wouldn’t work out this way. As you said, one loves and the other is loved. Or maybe it’s different with Lesbians.”
Jennifer had a far-off look. “No . . . even with queers, one loves and the other is loved.” She studied her face in the mirror. “Well, you’ve got Kevin—and I’ve got Hollywood.”
“But you are enjoying your success, aren’t you?” Anne asked.
Jennifer shrugged. “At times. But I hate the work. I never was a career girl. I’m no dedicated actress. And I always had my share of the limelight, first with the Prince and then with Tony. And it all adds up to the same thing—I really didn’t earn any of it—the Prince, Tony or my career. My face and body got it for me. Oh, God, I’d give my life for someone who would just love me . . .”
“If that’s what you really want, Jen, you’ll find it. I’m sure you will.”
Jennifer reached out and grabbed Anne’s hand. “Pray for it, Anne. I want to get out of this rat race. I want a man to love me . . . I want a child. It’s not too late. Pray that I meet the right guy so I can tell Claude and everyone else to go drop dead!”
Anne
1960
Kevin Gillmore suffered a serious heart attack in the spring of 1960. For two weeks he lay gray and lifeless in an oxygen tent. The moment he was strong enough to speak, he reached for Anne’s hand. “Anne, am I going to make it?”
He seemed reassured when she squeezed his hand and nodded.
“Promise me one thing,” he whispered. “If I do make it, will you marry me?”
She forced a noncommittal smile. “Don’t talk, Kevin. Just rest and get well.”
Tears came to his eyes. “Please, Anne. I’m afraid. I can’t face it alone. Please . . . I’ll make it if I know that you’ll marry me . . . that you’ll always be there.”
“Kevin, you must rest. You’re going to be fine.”
“It’s too late for those children you wanted, Anne, but I’ll give you everything else. I’ll sell the business . . . we’ll travel. Just say you’ll marry me and never leave me.”
She smiled. “All right, Kevin. I promise.”
She kept her vigil at his bedside for six long weeks. As he grew stronger, he talked incessantly about their marriage, about the things they would do, and how he would make everything up to her. She grew resigned. Why not marry Kevin? What was she waiting for? She was thirty-five—Good Lord, thirty-five! How did it happen? You felt the same inside, but suddenly you were thirty-five and time was racing on. One year blended into another. So much had happened—and yet so little. She had blown her chance for the great love and for children. But there were other compensations. She was independently wealthy. Her original investments had more than doubled, and Henry had put her in several other successful ventures. Each year Kevin had given her several hundred shares of stock in the company—and the stock was due to split two for one any day. No, money would never be a problem. If she never worked again—and without Kevin’s help—she was a rich woman.
But then, money had never been a problem. Even in the beginning there had been the five thousand in the bank. She had never been like Jennifer . . . Jen, who had to send her mother money; Jen, who had to make it. She was very proud of Jennifer’s whirlwind success in Hollywood. She had made five pictures—five beautiful, technicolor pictures, with someone singing for Jennifer. Someone else danced in the long shots, but it was always Jennifer in the closeups. And she was miraculously beautiful. Her name had been coupled with a director and a leading man, and her latest conquest was a producer. But from her letters and phone calls, Anne knew Jennifer was still searching.
Toward the end of his stay in the hospital, Kevin began planning their honeymoon. “You’re sure you won’t mind giving up your work?” he asked anxiously.
“My work?” she laughed. “Kevin, you handed me the whole thing on a silver platter.”
“No, Anne
. I started you modeling, but you did the rest. You’re good. You’re an asset to the company.”
“Well, you can take the asset away from the company any time you like. I think both will survive.”
His hand clutched hers. “I love you, Anne. I’ll sell the company. . .”
She nodded. “Now you get some rest. Plan our honeymoon while I’m gone.”
He clung to her hand. “Must you go?”
She made her voice light. “I’m still working for you, and there’s a show tonight.”
“Anne . . . You know—there won’t be any sex. Not for a long while, maybe never again.”
“Don’t worry about it, Kevin.”
He started to sob. “I’ll lose you, I know I will!”
In spite of herself, she felt revulsion. The terrible strength of illness—it robbed a man of his dignity. She patted him gently. “I’ll be with you, Kevin. I promise.”
Kevin was back at his desk in August, strong, vital, with his old “take-charge” power. The fear-ridden days in the oxygen tent were a dim memory. Sure, he had had a little coronary, but it hadn’t gotten him down. He was better than ever. The rest had done him good. And he was going to marry Anne. Of course, being alone frightened him at times. If anything should happen at night . . .
“I want to make the best possible deal for the company,” he told Anne. “I’m holding out for twelve million and an honorary chairmanship of the board. As long as the company bears my name, I want to be sure it keeps its class. I figure I can wind up everything by the first of the year, February at the latest. Is that okay? But if you like we can get married right now . . .”
She smiled. “We’ve waited this long, let’s do one thing right. I want to get married and go on a honeymoon.”
“February then! That will be the deadline I set for myself. Then marriage and a long honeymoon trip. We’ll go around the world.”
“Really around the world? I mean, not just London, Paris and Rome? But the Orient, India, Greece, Spain?”
“The works.” He looked at her closely. “I noticed you threw in Spain. Okay, we’ll search Spain from top to bottom. We’ll find Neely—I promise you we will.”
She worried about Neely constantly. After the television shambles, Neely had sat out her year of suspension. Then, with another fanfare of publicity, she had been signed to star in a big technicolor picture at a major studio. She was thin, radiant and exuberant, the center of attention. It was a major event—Neely O’Hara’s comeback. But after a few weeks of filming, the usual uneasy rumors began to drift into print. Neely was holding up production . . . Neely had a bad back . . . Neely had laryngitis. Then came the bombshell—the picture was to be scrapped, at a loss of half a million! Once again Neely was branded unreliable and uncooperative. There were even rumors that she had lost her voice.
Ten days later, with no warning, she had arrived at Anne’s apartment. She had no money, but her lawyers were arranging for the sale of her house—then she’d have a bundle. Anne let her move in, though she dreaded the disrupting influence. Television had forced her into a highly organized way of life. There were certain hours set aside to study scripts, set times for fittings, time put aside for complete rest and a facial before facing the cameras.
Neely’s invasion was cyclonic from the start. The phone kept ringing; newspapermen came in a steady stream, demanding interviews; fans were found prowling around the building. But Anne knew Neely needed her, and it would only be for a few weeks.
But the weeks stretched into months. The apartment was always in a shambles. Three maids quit. Neely broke a lamp and an end table lurching around in a semiconscious state. Anne kept emptying bottles of pills down the drain, but Neely seemed to have an endless source and endless hiding places. When she wasn’t in a drugged sleep she was underfoot, bleary-eyed, carrying around a bottle of Scotch and screaming curses at Hollywood.
It was Kevin who insisted she move. He put her in a hotel suite. She could stay there as long as she wished, as his guest.
When her money for the sale of the house came through, Neely mysteriously checked out of the hotel. A few weeks later she turned up in a Greenwich Village police station, arrested on a charge of disturbing the peace, based on complaints about the loud parties she gave. She had been almost unrecognizable in the newspaper pictures—fat, blotchy, red-eyed, her hair falling into her eyes.
Anne had rushed to her. Neely was holed up in a fashionable building on lower Fifth Avenue, but the apartment looked like a tenement. It was littered with empty whiskey bottles, and most of the furniture was broken, stained or burned from careless cigarettes. The rumpled linen on the bed looked as if it hadn’t been changed since Neely had taken occupancy.
“Lemme come and live with you, Anne,” she mumbled. “I got lotsa money. I just can’t stand being alone. That’s why I always give parties. And look what those slobs have done—this place was gorgeous when I sublet it.” She looked around ruefully. “The lady I got it from is suing me for damages, so I gotta get outta here. . . .”
“Neely, you’ve got to pull yourself together. I spoke to your agents. You are still a big name—you could do a Broadway show.”
“Nope, I’m unreliable. They’re afraid of me.”
“Not if you straightened out—if you did a show and proved you are reliable.”
“I can’t sing, Anne. I lost it.”
“No one could sing living like this. And you shouldn’t smoke, Neely. You smoke more than I do. Look, why not check into a hospital for a few days—”
“No! That’s what Dr. Gold said. He’s my new headshrinker. Wants me to go to Connecticut to some fancy funny farm. Costs a thousand a month. But I’m not a nut—I’m just unhappy.”
“I agree. I meant a regular hospital—like Mt. Sinai or Doctors. Let them get you off pills, regulate your life—”
“No. Lemme move in with you. I’ll be good. No pills. I swear.”
Anne had heard this oath before, but she promised to think about it. When she left she called Neely’s doctor. He was deeply concerned. He agreed a few weeks in a hospital might help, but it wasn’t the solution. Neely needed drastic psychiatric help.
That night Neely disappeared. Perhaps she feared commitment. No one knew. She had over a hundred thousand dollars, but the way she was spending it even this sum couldn’t last long. She turned up in London, and the British press gave her a front-page reception and an enthusiastic welcome. She attended parties and basked in acclaim. She was booked into the Palladium, but at the last minute canceled out. Then, suddenly, there were stories of her exploits in Spain. She seemed to have settled there. She made a picture—the advance publicity was excellent, but it was never released—and after a time she gradually disappeared from the news. Anne’s letters were returned stamped “address unknown”—Neely seemed to have vanished.
Jennifer
1960
Jennifer arrived in New York late in November, without publicity. Her call came as a complete surprise to Anne.
“I’ve got to see you,” she said eagerly. “I’m at the Sherry.”
“I’ll come right over. Is anything wrong?”
“No, everything’s perfect—divine! Anne, I read that Kevin was selling the company. When is the marriage date?”
“We’re trying for February fifteenth.”
“Good. Maybe we can have a double celebration.”
“Oh sure, we’ll—What? Jen, what did you say?”
“Come on over. I’m talking on a hotel wire, remember?”
Jennifer was waiting impatiently when Anne arrived. “I’ve got sandwiches and Cokes all set up. We can have a real old-fashioned gab session. Have you got time?”
“The whole afternoon. Jen, who is he? Tell me!”
Jennifer’s eyes were shining. “Oh, Anne, I’m so happy! I don’t even care that I’m going to be forty next Friday. I still get the curse, so I can still have babies, and . . . well, being forty doesn’t matter now.”
Forty! Th
e word hit Anne with a sudden jolt. Jennifer forty! She looked marvelous. She recalled how she had thought Helen Lawson old at forty, and her own mother—dried out at forty-two. But Jennifer still had the incredible figure and the firm skin. She looked twenty-five.
“Remember when I attended the big Republican rally in Washington—right before the convention?” Jennifer asked.
Anne laughed. “Remember it! Kevin swears you’re responsible for the Democrats getting in.”
Jennifer grinned. “Well, it was a studio publicity thing. I was willing to do anything for them after they got me my release from Claude. It cost them plenty, but they did it to make me happy.” She shuddered. “I’d had it with his dictating to me. I was nothing but a salable piece of flesh to him. Not that the studio doesn’t regard me the same way, but at least they’re more delicate about it. They even pretend I have talent.” She laughed outright.
“Now, Jen—you were excellent in your last picture.”
“I thought I wasn’t too bad. It was my first serious role. But the picture’s dying everywhere.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing. The biggest stars come up with a loser now and then. You were listed number three at the box office in last month’s polls.”
Jennifer shrugged. “Listen, if I hadn’t met him, I’d be in a state of shock. The studio is hysterical about the picture laying an egg. They’re rushing to get top writers for my new picture . . . the top director . . .” She shrugged. “But I couldn’t care less. This morning I found two new lines under my eyes and even that didn’t bother me.”
“Who is he?” Anne demanded.
Jennifer pushed away her untouched sandwich and sipped at her Coke. “Well, you remember the shindig in Washington? He was there. We met at all the cocktail parties. He was always nice, but he didn’t fall all over me like everyone else did. He was remote, polite, but . . .”
Anne was exasperated. “Jen, who?”
Jennifer’s eyes narrowed. “Winston Adams.” She waited for Anne’s reaction.
Anne almost exploded. “You mean the senator?”
Valley of the Dolls Page 36
