But she knew she would see him.
Kevin didn’t mention it until they had finished dinner. Then he casually asked what Lyon was doing in New York. She explained his assignment. Kevin listened intently as he studied his brandy glass. Then he said, “Well, now that I’ve seen him, I can understand. A girl of twenty would be attracted to a man like Lyon. Of course he’s a bit too obvious—his looks and that phony English charm—but I suppose a young, impressionable girl would find him attractive.”
“Yes.” She sipped her drink. “But part of Lyon’s charm is his unawareness of his looks—”
“Ha! Don’t kid yourself!” Kevin said with a trace of irritation. “That bird knows his power. He operates on those looks. There’s not a wasted movement. He also knows how to make men like him. I’d have liked him, if he wasn’t your Lyon Burke.”
She smiled and reached for a cigarette.
“Anne.” His tone was urgent. “Say something. I’m trying to play it cool, like they do in movies, but for God’s sake, help me, give me something to grab at—tell me he left you cold.”
“No, Kevin. I’d be lying if I said that.”
“You’re not going to see him again?”
“If you tell me not to, I won’t.”
“But you want to?” He was pleading for a denial.
She avoided his eyes. “It might be wiser if I did. Wiser for both of us. I might find everything I thought attractive about him kind of childish now. As you say, his appearance hits one—hard—but I don’t know what Lyon Burke is like now. Maybe I never knew . . . maybe I dreamed him into an image. Henry warned me about that. But if we want any chance at happiness, you and I, then I have to find out.”
“You mean I could blow the whole thing because this sonofabitch got some newspaper assignment? If he hadn’t, you’d never have seen him again. You know that!”
“Of course I do. Kevin, I care for you . . . deeply. We have years together that can’t be dissolved. But Lyon was something that ended on a high note. Maybe I’ll find it ends with a flat one after all, but I’ve got to find out.”
“Don’t, Anne. Don’t see him!” It was a harsh croak.
“Kevin . . . please . . .” She looked around the restaurant uneasily.
“Anne.” He groped for her hand, almost spilling a glass of water. “Anne, you’re my life. I can’t live without you!”
“You won’t have to, Kevin.”
His eyes held hers. “Is that a promise?”
She saw tears in his eyes. “Promise,” she said miserably.
She couldn’t come to terms with herself the following day. She reached for the phone a dozen times to call Lyon and cancel the date. But she never finished dialing. Maybe it would fall flat. Maybe she could just walk away. That would solve everything. She had promised Kevin she wouldn’t leave him, but she hadn’t promised not to see Lyon. She had to see him.
They met at the Little Club at seven. He was sitting at the bar when she came in, and he sprang to his feet and led her to a table. “You’re just not the type to sit at a bar,” he said. He looked at her intently after they had ordered a drink. “Anne, you look marvelous. You haven’t changed a bit. No, that’s not true. You are much more lovely.”
“You’ve held up fairly well too,” she said wryly.
“I often wondered about you,” he said. “Sometimes when I longed for you I’d console myself with crazy fantasies. I’d tell myself you were fat, with six or seven sniffly little brats clinging to your skirts. At least it got me back to the typewriter.”
She laughed. “Oh, Lyon—and I used to pretend you were bald.”
It was easy after that. She told him about Jennifer, carefully skirting the real truth. Somehow she felt that Jennifer’s legend must be kept intact—that the body beautiful should not be blemished by cancer. They discussed Neely. Henry had told him about that, but he couldn’t believe it could happen to the bright-eyed Neely he had known.
“She’s such an enormous talent,” he said. “She’s frightfully popular in England. Her pictures were quite wonderful for Hollywood products. In spite of all the tinsel and sugar candy they surrounded her with, she still emerged as a true artist. She will come out of it, won’t she?”
Anne’s eyes clouded. “They say she’s bent for self-destruction, that her kind of illness is never really cured. It may be arrested, and with help she might be able to function again. But she’ll always have that self-destructive urge. At least, that’s what the doctors say.”
He sighed. “Perhaps that’s why I never made it big. Sometimes I think all great artists are a little balmy. I’m much too normal. I fall asleep the minute I hit the pillow, don’t drink to excess and never even take an aspirin.”
She laughed. “I guess I’m second-rate too. Perhaps I smoke too much, but I’m still a one-drink girl, and although I’d never admit it, I sometimes fall asleep right in the middle of the late movie.”
He laughed back. “No, Anne, you’re first-rate—there’s no one like you. There really isn’t, you know. Every girl I met, it always washed out. They just couldn’t stand up to your image.”
They talked through dinner about New York and the changes he noticed. He introduced her to Irish coffee and she became an instant devotee. She was still praising it when he suddenly turned to her. “It’s all the same, Anne. I want to take you in my arms this moment. I feel as if we’ve never parted.”
“I want to be in your arms, Lyon.”
He grinned. “It’s a deal. But I think it’s best if I paid the check and we got the hell out of here!”
It was unbelievable. To be lying beside him, watching the smoke curl into the light of the bed lamp. . . . There had been no hesitation, no bridges to cross; they had come together in a fusion of love and desire. This was complete fulfillment. When she held him in her arms she suddenly knew it was important to love—more important than being loved. And she knew this was a decision she had to make. Lyon loved her, in his own way. Was it enough? Would she miss Kevin’s tender, unselfish devotion, the one-sided way he lived for her? With Lyon she would have to be on her toes every second. Was she up to the give and take of this kind of love?
He reached out and stroked her bare back. “It was wonderful, Anne. It always was.”
“For me too, Lyon—but only with you.”
“Anne, there is Kevin Gillmore,” he said quietly. He felt her stiffen and stroked her head. “It’s common knowledge, darling. And everyone knows he wants to marry you.” He paused. “You know I didn’t just happen on the set yesterday, don’t you? I made it a point to look up Jerry Richardson. I wanted to meet this Kevin Gillmore—and I wanted to see you.”
She pulled away and sat up. “What was I supposed to do? Sit around all these years and pray for your return? Lyon . . . not a letter, not a word . . . nothing.”
“Hush.” He put his fingers across her lips. “Of course I understand. I wanted to write—oh, God, the letters I wrote and never mailed—but that bloody pride of mine . . . Each book would do it, I’d tell myself. Then I’d return the conquering hero and take my girl away from whatever guy she was with. But I’m not the hero—and Kevin Gillmore is not just a guy. He’s a good man, Anne, and from what I hear he’s head over heels about you.”
She was silent.
“If I had any character, I wouldn’t see you after tonight,” he said.
“Lyon!” There was fear in her voice,
He laughed aloud. “I said if I had any character. I’m afraid I never had very much. And seeing you made whatever shred I had go up in smoke.” Then he said very seriously, “I’ll be here, Anne, for the taking, any time you want me. But that’s all it can be.”
“What does that mean?”
“I return to London after this assignment. I have a new book in the works. The first draft is written.”
“Couldn’t you write here?”
“Possibly. But I couldn’t live, at least not as well. I have a nice flat, and I pick up extra money doing arti
cles. It’s a different life, Anne, but I like it.” Then he added, “And I earn just enough to make it possible to spend those bleak hours at the typewriter, writing what I want to write. It’s a lonely existence, but there’s always the hope that perhaps this is the book that will do it. I believe in my writing and what I’m trying to do, and I have you to thank for this. I’ve lost you because of it—but then, it probably couldn’t have worked any other way. . . .”
“Why not?” she said stubbornly. “If I hadn’t opened my big mouth that day in the Barberry Room—if I hadn’t insisted that you write—you might have been the biggest manager in town and we’d have children and—”
“And hate one another. No, Anne, a marriage hasn’t a chance when you’re scrambling for success. And it probably wouldn’t have worked if you had meekly submitted to that wild idea about living in Lawrenceville, either. I’m just cut out to be a loner, I guess. But I am so very glad to have this chance to be with you again. I’ll cherish every second you give me, and stretch out all the memories for those rainy British nights when I’m home again.” He took her in his arms, and her hurt evaporated in the incredible wonder of loving him.
It was dawn when she reached her apartment. As she slipped the key into the door, she noticed the sliver of light.
“How did you manage to tear yourself away so soon? It’s not morning yet.” Kevin was sitting in the living room, smoking.
She walked over and snatched the cigarette from his mouth. “You haven’t smoked since your heart attack. What are you trying to prove?”
He sneered. “Why the big concern for my health? Seems to me that after tonight I have very little future.”
“Kevin, why did you come here?”
“Because I knew you were with him. Tell me about it. Did he release all those inhibitions? Did you both swing from chandeliers?”
“Stop it! It’s not good for you to carry on like this. Come on—if you want to stay the night, go to bed.”
“Would you go to bed with me tonight?” He saw her stiffen. “If you did, you’d be a wet deck. That’s the name for a girl like that. Well, would you?”
“Kevin . . . we haven’t had sex since your heart attack. It’s not that I’ve minded—I understand about your health and. . .”
“And my age—go on, say it.”
“Whatever happened tonight is between Lyon and me. It has nothing to do with my feeling for you.”
“Am I supposed to take that? Let Lyon play the stud, and I play the doddering faithful retainer?”
“You are my friend, part of my life . . . someone I love deeply. Lyon is something . . . different.”
“Well, I won’t stand for it. You’ll have to choose.”
“All right, Kevin,” she said wearily. “If you force me . . .”
He grabbed her. “No—no! Anne, don’t leave me!” He began to sob. She wanted to pull away; instead she stroked his head. It was so terrible to see a man fall apart. Was she responsible, or was it his failing health and his age?
“Kevin, I won’t leave you.”
“But you’ll go on seeing him. Do you think I can go on like that? Knowing you come to me from his arms?”
“Kevin—” She groped for the right words. “We both know I was with Lyon. But he’s going back. And he knows about you. He even said you’re quite a guy.”
“That’s the English in him. Don’t you know that? All the English are decadent. He’d probably get a kick out of sharing you.”
She sighed patiently. This wasn’t Kevin speaking. It was his hysterical fear. “Kevin, I’m staying with you.”
“Why? Doesn’t he want you?”
She turned and went into the bedroom and began to undress. It was unbelievable. History repeating itself. Kevin had suddenly looked like Allen Cooper—the same cowlike expression and the same childish rage. And once again it was Lyon who was sitting back, demanding nothing and promising nothing, while she was being torn in two. How much did she really owe Kevin? Her relationship with him had been far from thrilling. Yet throughout the entire time she had never given him cause for jealousy or concern. There had been many chances—many men younger and more attractive than Kevin—but she had ignored every advance. She had given him fourteen years of happiness—shouldn’t that balance any obligation she owed him? Yet Kevin needed her. He had sat there all night, smoking. She knew how it was to sit and wait for someone. Suddenly she felt a great surge of tenderness and pity for Kevin. Oh, God, he had looked so old, so vulnerable. She couldn’t hurt him.
She returned to the living room. He was sitting there, staring into space—crumpled, defeated.
She held out her arms. “Kevin, I love you. Get undressed, it’s late. Get some sleep. I’m here—I’ll always be here, as long as you want me.”
He stumbled toward her. “You won’t see him again? You won’t?”
“No, Kevin. I won’t see him ever again.”
For two weeks she fought against calling him. She tried to blot him out of her thoughts. Although he never called her, she knew he was there, waiting. But she called on every bit of self-discipline she had ever known and managed to hold out. There were nights when she was alone, obsessed with the need to phone, to race down the three blocks to his hotel. She’d stand on her terrace, breathing in the balmy night air and looking at the stars. A night like this was made for love—to be with Lyon, not to stand alone like this. And invariably there’d be a call from Kevin, casually checking up on her. He had never done that before, but now he had taken to calling at odd hours. Often he’d leave her and say pointedly, “Well, my girl, back to my bachelor quarters. Tonight it’s going to be a warm bath and bed for your old man.” Three hours later he would silently let himself into her apartment. “I couldn’t sleep,” he’d say. “May I spend the night here?” She’d smile and pity the relief that flooded his face at finding her home, alone.
She was at “21” with Kevin and one of the new owners of Gillian when Lyon walked in. It was the end of June, one of those sticky, hot nights that suddenly arrive with no warning. The temperature was in the nineties. She had taped commercials all day, and she was tired. And bored. She looked up and saw Lyon swing into the room. He was with what Kevin would call a “dish,” and he didn’t see her as the captain led him to a different section of the room. From her seat she could watch him without being observed. The girl was about nineteen, with coal-black hair that hung to her shoulders. Her tan was heavy, and it was obvious that she had worked at it systematically. She had a pretty face, and her sleazy white dress clung provocatively to her youthful body, its tiny shoulder straps showing an expanse of decolletage. Her hand, with its outrageously long silver fingernails, kept entwining itself in Lyon’s. She hung onto his words. She tossed her hair. At one point she said something and Lyon threw back his head and laughed. Then he leaned over and planted a light kiss on the tip of her nose. Anne felt physically ill. How many nights had he spent with girls like this? All those nights she had lain awake, wanting him, thinking of him, picturing him alone and thinking all she had to do was call. . . .
It was the worst night she had known in a long time. The depths of her unhappiness frightened her. She had not felt anything so deeply since the old days with Lyon, but now it was as if all her senses had suddenly been awakened—all the emotions she had thought were part of her youth—they weren’t dead, they had just been sleeping, waiting to be activated. She kept her eyes riveted on Lyon and the girl, grateful Kevin was deep in some discussion of stock options.
At last the endless evening was over. As she left she shot a final glance at Lyon. He was giving his undivided attention to a story the girl was telling.
She pleaded a headache, but Kevin insisted on coming up. The moment they were in the apartment he said, “I saw them too.”
“Who?”
“Your lover and the beautiful girl. You sat there, eating your heart out, didn’t you?” His voice was nasty. “Now maybe you know how I feel!”
“Kevin, I’m
tired.”
“She could be your daughter, Anne.”
“Come now, Kevin—I’m only thirty-six.”
“Lots of girls have babies at eighteen. Oh, she could be your daughter, all right. See, my pet, your Lyon is still roaring. He can have his pick. In fact, did it ever occur to you that maybe he just laid you for old times’ sake? Out of pity, like you pity me. Well, cheer up—we’re a set, you and I. Two discards. And in a way I’m beginning to pity you. You’re probably still dreaming of that wonderful night of love. Well, it was only a night he tossed to you out of sympathy and guilt.” His anger grew as he noticed her eyes darken with pain. “Sure, that’s all it was! Did he plead with you to leave me, to marry him? You bet he didn’t! When he marries it will be a dish. You’ve had it, my lady. Sure, you’re a beautiful woman—in your late thirties. But he liked you when you were twenty, and even then he walked out on you. And it was good old Kevin who picked up the pieces. Kevin who made you rich and famous.” He started for the door, then stopped. “You know, I could get a girl of twenty if I wanted. Oh, don’t worry, I’ll stick with you—but the shoe is on the other foot now. I call the shots from now on. Tomorrow you hand in your notice. I’m not sitting around next season while you work. And we’ll take that round-the-world trip we planned—only I’m not sure there’s any point in getting married first. I’ll have to think about that.”
She had been staring at him while he spoke. When he finished, she said, “Kevin, you don’t mean any of this. This isn’t you.”
“Yes, lady, I’ve finally gotten my balls back. All along I’ve been so grateful for your favors—until I saw you tonight. God, what jealousy does to a person. You disintegrated before my eyes. You suddenly looked faded and washed out beside that dish. The lines of anxiety in your face . . . My goddess suddenly toppled. I saw a faded blonde gazing in open envy at a stud she’d lost to a better filly.”
“Kevin, please leave. You can’t mean these things.”
“Don’t play the grande dame with me. That’s over. You’re a reject now! Want me to prove it to you? He should be home by now—he couldn’t wait to get that dish in the kip. Would you dare phone him now? Phone him and tell him you want to see him. I’ll clock it. You’ll get the fastest brush in town.”
Valley of the Dolls Page 43
