Valley of the Dolls

by Jacqueline Susann

  She looked at him closely. “It’s pretty drastic, Win. I’ll be scarred and won’t be able to have any children . . . and I’ll be—”

  “Hush . . . not a word.” He looked at her with adoration. “Shall I tell you something? I was going along with the whole thing because of you. The children, I mean. At my age, I really didn’t care one way or another. But I wanted to please you. You seemed to want it so much, so I pretended it was important to me. All I care about is you—can’t you understand—”

  She held him close. “Oh, Win!” Tears of relief ran down her face.

  He stroked her hair. “You weren’t afraid you’d lose me? Oh, my beautiful girl—you’ll never lose me. Don’t you realize I’m just beginning to live because of you?” He kissed her breasts through the filmy nightgown. “You’re all I want—not babies, you. you’re the only woman who ever stirred anything in me. God, Jennifer, before I knew you I often wondered if something wasn’t lacking in me. I blamed it on Eleanor. Poor Eleanor—it wasn’t her fault. She roused nothing within me, and I probably left her cold, too. But with you . . . At first, when we met, I turned away from you—remember?”

  She nodded and stroked his head as he lay against her breasts. He kissed the firm skin of her neck. “But you changed me, made me realize I wasn’t running from you, that I was just afraid, running from myself. And the moment you walked into my apartment, I knew. I knew somehow everything would be different. Jennifer, you taught me how to love. I could never give that up.” He caressed her breasts. “These are my babies,” he said softly. “These are the only children I want, to lay my face against their perfection each night. . . .” He stopped as his finger stumbled against the small bandage. “What’s this? What have they done to one of my babies?”

  Her smile was frozen. “It’s nothing . . . I had a small cyst. . .”

  “There won’t be a scar!” He was genuinely horrified.

  “No, Winston—they drew it out with a needle. No scar.”

  “That’s all that matters. Let them take out your ovaries—I couldn’t care less. That’s not you—I’ve never met your ovaries. But as long as they never harm my babies . . .” He caressed her breasts again. “Why did that doctor sound so grim when he phoned? Wouldn’t tell me a thing—just told me to come quickly.”

  “He—he knew I wanted children—and . . .”

  “Why didn’t he just say you needed a hysterectomy?” He shook his head. “Those doctors—they’re all crepe hangers. But I’m glad I came. Now I can go back thinking of holding you in my arms.” He held her close. “I want to hold this memory. I won’t be able to return until Friday.” Then he wrote down a number. “Have Anne call me the moment the operation is over. If I’m not there, they’ll reach me.”

  He stopped at the door and looked at her, his eyes roving over her as though he had never really seen her before. “I love you, Jennifer . . . only you—you believe that, don’t you?”

  She smiled. “Yes, Win. I know . . .”

  For a long while after he had gone, the smile remained frozen on her face.

  Dr. Galens stopped in at midnight. “We’ll go up at eight in the morning,” he said cheerfully. “And Jennifer—it’s going to be all right.”

  She smiled. “You bet it will.”

  It was three in the morning when she slipped out of bed. She opened her door quietly. The hospital corridor was dimly lit, but she saw the nurse near the elevator. She closed the door and dressed quietly. Thank God she had worn slacks and a trench coat—that had been to fool the photographers. She took a bandana and tied it over her hair. Then she tiptoed into the hall.

  She crept against the wall, then hid herself in an arch that held the water cooler. The nurse on duty was sitting under a bright light, writing in her book. There was no way to get to the elevator without passing her. She had to stand there and pray that sometime during the night the nurse would leave her post. She also had to pray that no one discovered her hiding there.

  The large clock ticked loudly on and on, while the nurse wrote endlessly in her book. Sweat ran down her neck. She felt waves of heat, as if she were near a furnace. Damn—it was a radiator. Suddenly a buzzer sounded. Oh, thank God! A patient was ringing. But the nurse continued to write. Was she deaf? The buzzer rang again, seeming more insistent this time. “Go answer it!” Jennifer screamed inwardly. As if taking a cue, the buzzer rang again, and kept ringing. The nurse rose lethargically, looked at the room number the arrow pointed to and headed down the hall.

  Jennifer watched her disappear into a room, then ran swiftly to the elevator. No—it might take too long in coming and make too much noise. The stairway . . . She ran down eight flights of stairs. When she reached the lobby, she was out of breath. She looked around warily. No one paid any attention to her. The elevator man was smoking, talking to the cashier. She ran out into the street and walked a few blocks before hailing a cab. She reached her hotel at four in the morning.

  When the nurse found her room empty the following morning she notified Dr. Galens, and he called Jennifer’s hotel immediately. When her room failed to answer, he had the assistant manager open the door.

  She was lying on the bed, in her most beautiful dress and full stage makeup, clutching an empty bottle of sleeping pills. There were two notes. Anne’s read:

  Anne—No embalmer could make me up as well as I do myself. Thank God for the dolls. Sorry I couldn’t stick around for your wedding. I love you.

  Jen

  The note to Winston Adams said:

  Dear Win—I had to leave—to save your babies. Thanks for making it all almost come true.

  Jennifer

  Senator Adams offered no explanation about the note. When cornered by the press he muttered a terse “No comment.” Anne was just as tight-lipped. Dr. Galens refused to discuss the nature of Jennifer’s ailment. She had gone through a minor operation the previous day, and there was nothing he could add.

  The funeral was a nightmare. Frenzied mobs clustered outside the church, blocking traffic on Fifth Avenue. Mounted police were called to enforce order and to unsnarl crosstown traffic. Newspapers ran Jennifer’s life story, Anne’s picture made the front pages—and to complicate the frantic confusion, Jennifer’s mother arrived, eagerly giving out the Cinderella story to every attentive reporter, sobbing on cue, and demanding an itemized account of all of Jennifer’s clothes, furs and jewelry.

  Anne might have been able to handle Jennifer’s mother, but the appearance of Claude Chardot caused new complications. He produced a will, and while Henry Bellamy frantically searched for a later will, proclaimed himself the rightful heir. Then, to climax things, Neely arrived.

  She was frantic that she had missed the funeral. She had been in Spain. She moved in with Anne and took over the spotlight. The newspaper stories eased away from Jennifer and played up Neely, who was painfully thin and glamorous. She was eager to work—but of course not until she got over this awful thing about Jennifer.

  Somehow Anne managed to get through her appearances on television. She was taping the commercials now, and the new owners of the company were pleading with her to stay on at a large increase in salary. Her involvement in the publicity about Jennifer had increased her name value. Jennifer’s tragedy had postponed her own wedding. April was now the new date.

  It took three weeks for the publicity to ease off. Then, after two days of quiet, two days without any mention of Jennifer in the papers, violent new headlines erupted. Senator Winston Adams had resigned from office. He was suffering a mild breakdown and intended to travel for a year.

  Jennifer’s suicide was revived amidst new speculations. Dr. Galens was harassed. Yes, he had told the Senator the nature of Jennifer’s illness—after all, as her fiancé he had a right to the facts. But the facts were for the Senator, not the press.

  Anne taped several commercials and fled to Palm Beach with Kevin. It was one of the nicest weeks she had known in years. And she had also been able to avoid the hysteria of Neely’s firs
t television appearance. Neely’s new agent had booked her on a top variety show as the guest star, at a fantastic fee. It was to be taped, so Neely felt secure.

  Anne watched the show in Palm Beach. Neely was superb. Everything caught fire—her voice was perfect and she glowed, with eyes like large coals. Neely was no longer a child, but the impish quality was still there. The trembling lip, the nervous laugh, the girlish desire to please—all this came through. It seemed incredible, but she was better than ever. Once again there were shouts of “genius” . . . ”a living legend.” It was a spectacular comeback. She signed for a picture in Hollywood.

  Neely was back on top.

  Neely

  1961

  Neely carelessly tossed things into a bag. “I’ll get new clothes out there,” she told Anne. “Geez, I’ve left most of my stuff in Spain—now can I leave some with you?”

  “I’ll probably be married before you return, Neely, and I’m going around the world. I might sublet the apartment.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll take this along. I’m like a gypsy, all spread out. But it’s good this happened. I was just about busted. Hey, what happened to Jennifer’s money?”

  “It will all go to her mother. That Paris will was a phony—Henry found some peculiarities in it. Claude will get fifty per cent on any reruns of her pictures made while she was still under contract to him. But the rest goes to her mother. That’s mostly jewelry and furs. And they’re reissuing her pictures. But there wasn’t any real money.”

  Neely shrugged. “Listen, for a girl with no talent, she lived pretty good. Why do you think she did it? The Dutch act, I mean.”

  “I’ve told you, Neely, I really don’t know.”

  “Well, I’ve figured it out. I don’t think she had anything wrong with her like some of the rumors—some people think it was TB and I even heard a crazy rumor of incurable cancer. I think the real reason she took a powder was because she was losing her looks.”

  “That’s ridiculous! Jennifer was more beautiful than ever.”

  “But her last picture was a bomb. Oh, this new one will make money because of the publicity, but I heard that wasn’t too hot either. She was slipping, all right.”

  “Neely, she was retiring. She was going to get married.”

  “Yeah, I read all that jazz in Spain, how she suddenly found true love and all. But come on—the Senator was no Rock Hudson. Jen got pretty bored sitting around just being married to Tony, and he was young and gorgeous. Nope, I think she just couldn’t face it. She was getting older, and her looks had to go soon, and she couldn’t settle for just the Senator. So she took a powder. Now me, I never have to worry. I have talent, and fat or thin it doesn’t matter. Look at Helen Lawson. She wasn’t like me, of course—it was mechanics with her, and now that her voice is gone she’s going to the Coast to play a character role in some television series. But even with her voice gone she’ll survive, because she had a talent.”

  “Helen will survive,” Anne said slowly, “because she has no real emotions. Any unhappiness she has is like a child’s unhappiness. It can be erased with a new toy. But any voice—even yours, Neely—must be taken care of.”

  “No, my voice comes from inside, from the way I feel things. And I’ve learned something—guys will leave you, your looks will go, your kids will grow up and everything you thought was great will go sour. All you can really count on is yourself and your talent.”

  Three weeks later Neely returned. She was in a state of near collapse. “Anne—my voice—on the third day of recording, it went! I can’t sing!”

  Anne tried to calm her. There were wonderful throat men . . . things like this happened to singers all the time.

  “No, I’m through,” Neely wailed. “I was examined by every doctor. I haven’t even got a nodule. They say it’s nerves, but it’s not. God is punishing me for talking about Jen the way I did. And they had to scrap the picture. I’m through for good—they’ll never touch me out there.”

  “God doesn’t work that way,” Anne said soothingly. “If anyone is punishing you, you’re doing it to yourself.”

  “Oh sure, that’s what my last headshrinker said—that I have a self-destructive urge and that I’m always punishing myself for some imaginary guilt. That’s a lot of shit! I’ve never done anything wrong.”

  Neely found a new psychiatrist. Dr. Massinger was highly recommended. Anne insisted that Neely live with her. She was positive that intensive therapy and a friend’s support would pull Neely out of it. She had always snapped back before.

  And Neely tried. She tried to be neat, and she didn’t clutter the apartment. But she never slept. She went out with musicians, came home and sat in the living room until dawn, gulping Seconals and listening to her old records.

  One morning, Anne awakened and found Neely huddled in the living room with tears running down her face. “I’m through, Anne. I tried to sing with my records, and I can’t make it.”

  “But Dr. Massinger says it’s nerves. Your voice will come back, Neely.”

  “He said Hollywood gave me nerves. That’s why I tried tonight, for the first time, here, alone, with no cameras and no Hollywood. Anne, my throat closed. I can’t sing.”

  “It’s only been a few weeks, Neely—give it time.”

  Neely stood up. “Maybe.” She wandered into the bathroom and swallowed a few pills. “Got some Scotch, Anne? The pills won’t work without it.”

  Anne handed her a bottle. It was going to be one of those days, with Neely bombed out on pills. It was Sunday, and she had planned to stay in. She had invited Kevin to dinner and she had meant to cook her one dish, a crabmeat casserole. But now Neely would sleep all day.

  She phoned Kevin and arranged to spend the day at his place. Later they could go down to Lüchow’s for dinner.

  Neely heard the door close. She wasn’t asleep, but it had been easier to pretend to sleep. Anne got so nervous when she drank and took pills—was always afraid she’d set herself on fire or something. Neely sat up and poured herself another stiff drink. She lit a cigarette. Christ, it was the last one. And you could be sure Anne had stashed all the rest away, just for safety. Well, she’d fall asleep soon.

  She refilled her glass, then realized she was drinking too fast. Better sip it, with a few more pills. She reached under her pillow—she had hidden three red dolls there. She swallowed them and sipped the Scotch slowly. The pills were finally working—she felt lethargic. But she couldn’t sleep. She refilled her glass. Damn, the bottle was nearly empty. And no cigarettes. Well, maybe a few more dolls. But she had taken so many—and that could be dangerous. Dr. Massinger had warned her that one day her tolerance might not be as great as usual. So what! If her talent was gone, why not? What was there to hang around for? She only had ten thousand dollars left. Geez, no—there had been ten thousand when she left the Coast, but she had sent a check for the twins’ school—that was twelve hundred—and then twenty-five a day to the headshrinker for three weeks, and her trip in was a few hundred. And she had been writing checks for cash right and left! Maybe there was only five thousand left. How long could that last? And she couldn’t stay with Anne forever—Anne was getting married next month. Geez, where was she gonna get money? The house was gone—no insurance . . . maybe she should just swallow the rest of the bottle. Ted would have to take care of the kids, but they didn’t really care about her—when she saw them on the Coast it was just “gimme, get me, buy me.”

  There was no one who cared if she lived or died. No one cared about her. Maybe God did, if there was a God.

  “Hey, God, are you really up there?” she said. “Are you a big white-haired man with a beard? Do you understand me? Tell me, what went wrong? I never asked for too much. Geez, all I wanted was an apartment and a guy to love me. I tried—why did you fuck it up all the time? Why in hell did you give me a voice if you didn’t want me to be great? Why did you take it away?” She poured the last of the Scotch and dropped the bottle on the floor. “Hey, Jen—are you u
p there? I know you’re not flying around with big wings or any of that jazz, but if there is another life and you are somewhere, then maybe you can hear me. Did you feel like this? Geez, I’d love to be with you . . . it’s got to be better than this. What’s here for me? Another day, another night to get through—go to Jilly’s with guys who are nothing, who want to be seen with me while I sign the tabs.” She drained the glass.

  “Geez, I’m thirty-two . . . that’s not young any more. There’s got to be some kind of a crazy heaven . . . not the jazz with harps and angels, but maybe like Earth without problems. Sure, it’s got to be. After all, look at all the bright people who believe, like the President and Clare Booth Luce. Maybe I should become a Catholic or something. I guess I was born one, but I never got to go to church. But there has to be a heaven, Jen, because look at all those babies who got killed by Hitler. And look at all the people born deaf and blind like Helen Keller. If there wasn’t something after, then it wouldn’t be fair. Why should a nice lady like Helen Keller never be able to see or hear and someone like you have everything if it wasn’t gonna be evened up later on. Sure, there’s a heaven. Look at my sister, living with that dope Charlie. Why should I be so successful and my sister be stuck in Astoria with nothing if there isn’t a heaven later on? Sure. Hey, Jen, does it hurt before you die? Were you scared? Stay with me, Jen . . . I’m gonna get some more pills—I’m gonna join you.”

  She ran into the bathroom. She had hidden the bottle behind the bath salts. Only six left! She swallowed them quickly. Six wouldn’t do it, though. Maybe aspirin? Maybe a whole bottle of aspirin on top of the pills? Shit! Only five aspirin left. She swallowed them. No more Scotch, but there was some bourbon Anne kept in the bar for Kevin. That on top of the Scotch . . . She started out of the bathroom, lurched—and the glass she was carrying crashed to the tile floor. Oh, Geez . . . Anne got so mad when she broke things. She stopped to pick up the fragments. It was just a bar glass, but knowing Anne, it was probably crystal or something. She picked up a long sliver. Boy, this would do it—one slash across the wrist and she’d have a funeral like Jennifer. Would they fight over her too? Would Ted Casablanca demand she be buried out there, or would her half-assed sister come to life and demand to take over? Geez, imagine spending the rest of your life in some stinking cemetery in Astoria. Anne would fight for dignity, but she wanted the biggest funeral ever . . . even bigger than Jennifer’s. Well, nothing could be bigger than that. Okay, as big as Jennifer’s. But what if there was no heaven or God? Then she’d be dead, but she couldn’t enjoy it. But—she held the sliver—if she were almost dead, there would be the same fuss. Like before in Hollywood . . . maybe they’d even plead with her to come back, and everyone would be sorry. Then, if she wasn’t nervous, maybe she could sing, and everything would be wonderful again. . . .