Valley of the Dolls

by Jacqueline Susann

  “You mean your work?” Anne asked.

  “No, I mean just pressure. Here, there’s no such thing. If I sleep, I sleep. If I don’t—so what? So I won’t make a gorgeous mosaic ashtray in O.T. and I might be off in my badminton game. And I eat what I please. Geez, I weigh a hundred and sixty, but who cares? And Anne—I sing. Christ, I sing like a fucking canary.”

  “Oh, Neely, I’m so glad. I knew you would.”

  “The darndest thing happened. Once every month they have a dance. It’s a real camp. The male kooks get all caked up, and we get all caked up, and we meet in the gymnasium—under supervision, of course. I go because I have no choice. If I refuse I get a bad mark. Well, they have a three-piece band, and one night I got up and fooled around a little. It wasn’t great, because the piano player is a schoolteacher from the village who plays melody with both hands. But I sang, and suddenly a real sick kook—a guy all gray, with a nutty look—shuffled over. He was a chronic, and I’d never seen him before—the chronics rarely come. They’re the incurables, the ones who are kept here for life on a custodial basis. Boy, you have to be a rich kook for that—and we have some. Cottage Eve is for the women incurables and Cottage Adam for the men. Naturally, they’re separated from us by twelve acres—in fact, we never see a male kook except at the dances. Well, anyway, this real burnt-out looking male kook shuffled over. One nurse rushed to get him, but Dr. Hall was there and motioned to let him alone. Turned out he hadn’t talked in two years, and the doctor wanted to see what he was up to. So anyway, he ambles over to me—I’m singing one of Helen Lawson’s old numbers—and he just stands there.

  “I keep singing—I start doing some of my old songs—and suddenly he begins singing with me, in the greatest harmony you ever heard. It was so wonderful I wanted to die. Anne, my spine tingled—this cat could really sing. And there was something familiar about him. We sang together for an hour, and everyone clapped like crazy—even Dr. Hall and Dr. Archer. And when it was over, this kook touched my cheek with his hand and said, ’Neely, you always had it—we both did.’ Then he shuffled off. I just stood there. Then Doc Hall came over to me and said, ’He’s been here two years, deteriorating all the time. It’s been a well-kept secret, but I see you know one another. Please don’t talk about it. We call him Mr. Jones.’ Well, I had no idea who he was, but I’ve gotten cagey in this creep joint, and I can outsmart Doc Hall by now. So I played along. I said, ’What shall I call him? He calls me Neely.’ And Doc Hall says, ‘Oh, you can call him Tony, but stick with the Jones.’”

  “Tony?” Anne didn’t understand.

  “Tony Polar!” Neely exclaimed. He’s got some kind of a brain illness he was born with. Lucky he and Jen never had a kid—it probably would have gone nuts too.”

  The abortion! Jennifer had known! It was a secret she had never revealed. Tears came to Anne’s eyes.

  “Neely,” she said. “Jen never told anyone, but she must have known. Please—don’t you tell anyone.”

  “Why? He’s not married to Jen. She’s dead—remember?”

  “But she died without ever telling anyone. She wanted it to stay a secret. For her sake and his . . . please.”

  “Okay, who would care anyway?”

  “Well, when you get out of here it might make great gossip. But don’t. Tony just faded from the scene. It’s been rumored that he’s in Europe, but no one knows and by now they don’t care. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “Sure,” Neely said agreeably. “But it’s sure no secret about me. I got an offer to do a two-part story for a magazine. They’ll pay me twenty thousand for it. George Bellows is going to get someone to ghostwrite it for me.”

  “George Bellows? How did he happen to get in touch with you?”

  “Well, you’ve seen the columns. They’ve been hinting that I’m fat and can’t sing, or that I’m thin and can’t sing. So I wrote in that they were half right—I’m fat and never sang better. Then I got Doc Hall to let me make a tape here and I sent it to Henry Bellamy and asked him to play it for the press. He musta turned it over to George, because the next thing I knew George came to visit me. And he got me this offer. He wants to handle me when I get out. He’s trying to raise the money to buy Henry out, you know.”

  “Lyon says the Johnson Harris office is going to absorb Henry’s company.”

  Neely shrugged. “If Georgie can meet the price of Johnson Harris in a few weeks he’ll buy the company. He might manage it, if he can con that alcoholic wife of his into parting with some loot. She’s worth millions.”

  Anne’s head was spinning. “What alcoholic wife? George isn’t married.”

  “George is a cozy one. He was married from the very start—when we first met him. He’s been married to this dame for twenty years. But he did it for the business, he said. He thought she’d conk off in a few years. But even though her liver is shot, she’s still on the scene and controlling the money. I don’t know where he’ll get it—unless he gives her a nudge over the hill in the next few weeks. And if I know George, he’s not above it. I’ve always hated the bastard.”

  “At least he got you this offer.”

  “Well, he’ll get his commission. I told him I could use the twenty G’s. You’ve been paying my freight here, and I have to pay you back. And I’ll need some money when I get on the outside. But I still hope George doesn’t wind up with Henry’s business. He gives me the creeps.”

  The idea began to form when she left Neely. As she drove home it became a certainty. Henry said she needed time, and this would help. She brought the car to the garage and put in a call to Henry. She had to see him for dinner, right away, and they agreed to meet at a small restaurant on Fifty-third Street.

  “Why not?” Henry said, after she told him. “Lyon would be a natural to write Neely’s story. He knew her from the early days. And it would buy you another month, at least.”

  “But you’ve got to sell George on the idea, and George has to present it to Lyon so that I have nothing to do with it.”

  Lyon was delighted with George’s offer. But he refused to visit Neely. He wanted to remember her as she was, as the fresh-faced child. He had to, he insisted, to write it from that angle. He spoke to her on the phone and sent her copy to approve, and Neely was ecstatic with the way the story was shaping up. The writing went well, and Lyon was ready to do the final rewrite by the end of September.

  Early in October, Henry met Anne at “21” after another hurried summons. Her eyes were sparkling as she presented her newest proposition. He listened carefully, then threw up his hands. “You’re a real Panzer division—but it won’t work.”

  “Why?”

  “He doesn’t want to own an agency. I know it. Lyon likes writing.”

  “But Henry, you can try. Tell him you don’t want the Johnson Harris office absorbing a business you’ve put your life’s blood into. Please—try.”

  “But Anne, even if I tell him that I’m making the loan, he has to find out eventually.”

  “I’ll worry about that when the time comes. Henry, there isn’t a moment to lose.”

  Lyon sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “I’m flattered, Henry . . . but I’m not your man.”

  The waiter refilled Henry’s coffee cup. He waited until the man moved away before he answered. “Look, Lyon, I gave my life to this outfit. The Johnson Harris office doesn’t deserve the roster of stars I’ve built up. George Bellows doesn’t deserve going down the drain either. Oh, they’ll take him on, make him a vice president. But they’ll kick him upstairs to such an unimportant position he’ll be forced to quit. I tell you I haven’t slept nights. That’s why I’m offering to lend you the money to buy the agency with George.”

  “But why me? Why not lend George the money?”

  “Why do you think George hasn’t been able to raise it?” Henry asked.

  “It’s a big bundle, I suppose.”

  “No. The word is out—George can’t handle it alone. He’s a great businessman, but he’s not good with
people. Half the stars will leave. But if I appoint you—if we do it right, with big publicity . . . start with small column rumors at first . . . how I sent for you . . . then let it build . . . Listen, enough people still remember how great you were.”

  Lyon shook his head. “I appreciate it, and I’m flattered. But I have to pass. I’m happy in London. I don’t want the pressure of an agency. I hate the rat race, and I enjoy writing.”

  “And what about Anne?”

  Lyon studied his cigarette. “She’s the only consideration. Does she know about your offer?”

  “No.” Henry hoped he sounded convincing. “Because I think Anne would want you to make the decision without pressure.”

  “But it’s such a whopping loan, Henry.”

  “I don’t need the money. I just want out. My last electrocardiogram convinced me. But I’d like to see the agency continue. You can pay me back a little each year. I’m not worried.”

  “Would you feel very badly if I refused?”

  “Yes I would, Lyon. You walked out on me once when I needed you. I need you now. I want you to carry on the agency with George.”

  1962

  On January second, 1962, Bellamy and Bellows officially became Bellamy, Bellows and Burke. George was president, Lyon was vice president and Henry retired completely, but Lyon was adamant about keeping his name in the firm. There was a champagne party for the press and clients, and this turned into a double celebration when Lyon announced that he and Anne were getting married the following day.

  When the party was in full swing, Henry took her aside. No one noticed their little conference.

  “He’ll have to find out the truth next year,” Henry whispered.

  “Why does he ever have to know?”

  “Anne, next year you’ll have to file joint taxes. Then he’ll learn that you loaned him the money to buy the business. After all, he’s paying interest on the loan, and you’ll have to declare it.”

  “But why couldn’t you lend him the money then? And I’d lend it to you, and—”

  “And we’d all wind up in trouble with the Bureau of Internal Revenue. Anne, I don’t have the kind of money sitting around that you have. I haven’t made two thousand a week clear and been given large blocks of stock in Gillian. And I didn’t have a guy like Henry Bellamy invest a hundred G’s in A.T.&T. a long time ago and watch it double. If I’m taking a capital gain I can’t invest my own money—oh, what the hell, you wouldn’t understand. But I can’t use my own money to buy my own business. By the way, I sold out all your Gillian. It’s for the best—it’s gone up to triple what the company is worth and is due for a big drop. I also had to unload half of your A.T.&T. You’ll never starve, but you’ve got a lot riding on this business. So it’s no little toy. Lyon and George better make good—three quarters of your savings are in it.”

  “Next year, when Lyon finds out, how do you think he’ll take it?” she asked.

  “Depends. If he’s happy, if the business is going well and he’s back in the groove, he’ll probably laugh it off. After all, how can a guy be angry because a girl he loves tricked him into marrying her by secretly loaning him money?”

  “The only thing that worries me is his gratitude to you,” she said. “He keeps saying he can’t let you down and talking about how much you must believe in him to make such an offer. He said he really didn’t want to take over the company, but your belief in him made it impossible to turn you down.”

  “Nuts. I notice he didn’t waste much time in asking you to marry him. I’m sure that was the deciding factor.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, at least I’ve got a year before the trouble starts. And as you say, there might be no trouble. But I don’t care if there is. I can’t live without him, Henry. I tried for fifteen years, and it wasn’t living. I’d bribe, lie, cheat, anything—just so long as I have Lyon. That’s all that counts. Just pray for me when the big secret comes out.”

  “Listen, if I know you, you’ll be pregnant by then, the business will be booming and Lyon will be secretly delighted that you pulled some strings to make his dreams come true.”

  They were married in Henry’s apartment the following day. Judge Hellman, a close friend of Henry’s, officiated, and George and his wife were witnesses. Anne and Lyon rushed off for a four-day honeymoon in Palm Beach. It was agreed they would live in Anne’s apartment. Lyon and George were each to draw seven hundred dollars a week and expenses; the profits would remain in the company, with bonuses distributed at the end of each fiscal year.

  Within two months Lyon had signed several of the top English stars. They had also taken away some performers from other agencies. They took on some added manpower. Lyon wanted to set up a California office, but George was more cautious.

  “Let’s evaluate it carefully,” he said. “I’ll agree that we’re loaded with clients. But the really big money comes in putting together television packages. We have to get a few jumbos, sell them on TV and tie up the package. We need a Carol Burnett, a Danny Thomas, a Judy Garland . . .”

  “I agree,” Lyon said quickly. “But we can’t get them. They’ve all got excellent management. Besides, that’s the easy way. I think we should build our own jumbos—that’s real management. Henry did that with Helen Lawson. Now if we create a star, every other star will want to sign with us.”

  George looked over the list. “There’s no one with us that has the potential.”

  Lyon was thoughtful. “If Peter Shay’s picture with Metro is as good as the shooting script, we’re bound to get a three-picture deal after that. Perhaps we could build him into—”

  George shook his head. “He’s a character comedian. We need a guy with romantic appeal, or a big comic, or a woman. Besides, Peter will keep commuting between here and England—you know the English. No insult,” George added quickly. “But no matter how well they do here, they run back to that wet little island with our loot.”

  Lyon smiled. “That wet little island is a swinging place. One can be quite happy over there.”

  “Sure. Home is where the heart is. But that doesn’t help us. Now, I have a germ of an idea. Someone we could get, and if we built her into a star we could really write our own ticket. Neely O’Hara.”

  Lyon grimaced. “Nothing is worth that. Besides, she’s still at Haven Manor. And let’s face it, George, she’s washed up.”

  “Someone like Neely is never washed up. The public identifies with a loser. They feel they’ve gone through all the tragedies with her. She destroyed herself at the height of her talent. People talk about her as if she’s dead. They think she can never make it again. That’s all to our good. Because if we bring her back and put her on top, then we make it, because we’ve accomplished the impossible. Then you watch how the stars leave GAC, CMA, William Morris, Johnson Harris. They’ll figure if we could do this for Neely O’Hara, think what we could do for them. Stars are a funny breed—they’re long on talent and short on gratitude.”

  Lyon was not convinced. “But with Neely, we’re not dealing with just a has-been, we’re dealing with a girl who is emotionally sick, who could fly apart at any time. Anne says she’s quite overweight—and she’s not exactly eighteen.”

  “She’s thirty-three, and I’ll go along with everything you say. But—she’s also the goddamdest talent around. I’ve got some tapes she made just last week at a local recording place up there. She’s an out-patient now, and she came to stay with my wife and me last weekend. She’s fat as a pig—but she can sing!”

  Lyon shrugged. “But it will take a year to slim her down. and she might crack under the strain. She did before.”

  “She doesn’t get thin. That’s the point. Let her stay fat. She sings—that’s all that matters.”

  “And what do we do with a fat singer?”

  “We book her in concerts. Do you know the money in one-night concerts all over the country? Lena Horne, Garland, Liberace—they all clean up. People will come to see Neely if for nothing more than curiosity. In one year
her concerts alone will pay for our office. Our other clients will be gravy. And if we keep her functioning for a year, the stars will come to us begging.”

  “If you want to give it a whirl, go ahead,” Lyon said. “But it’s your baby. I’ll take care of the office while you launch America’s new sweetheart.”

  “It’s not that easy,” George said slowly. “She’s not crazy about me. And my wife isn’t a good influence on Neely.” He paused. “My wife has a drinking problem. But Neely likes you, and she’s under heavy obligation to Anne—”

  “One second,” Lyon said quickly. “Anne works hard. Neely O’Hara is the last thing we need in our life.”

  “All I’m asking is for you to make the pitch to her to sign with us, then I’ll do the dirty work. I’ll handle the publicity and set up the bookings. I’ll travel with her. All you have to do is make the original offer. She’s ready to leave the fruit farm any time now. We’ll get her a hotel suite. She has no money, so the office will pay for it—in fact, we’ll pay for everything, including her arrangements and rehearsals. We’ll keep a maid with her night and day—I know just the dame, a Danish masseuse who’s strong as an ox—and we’ll keep books on every dime spent. When she starts to work we’ll deduct it from each pay check until we get back every cent we put up. If she flops on us—well, it’s a legitimate tax deduction.”

  “It’s a pretty big gamble.”

  “We’ve little to lose, and the publicity would probably be worth the few thousand it will cost. Besides, if she hits big she’ll be able to pay Anne back. You realize your wife has been footing her bills. She owes Anne close to twenty thousand dollars.”

  Lyon shook his head. “I don’t like it, but if you want to go through with it I’ll go along. With the understanding that it’s your ball game. I’ll make the initial offer, but from there on, you take over.”

  George nodded. “Watch me. I’ll send our little blimp all the way to the moon—and she’ll carry us along.”

  Anne let herself into the apartment and switched on the air conditioner. She was sorry it was the maid’s day off. It was hot and humid, a record-breaking heat wave. She rushed to the bathroom and was violently ill. Then she put a cold towel on her forehead. She smiled wryly. Everyone gets morning sickness, she thought—I get evening sickness. She was positive she was pregnant. Ten days late. Of course, she couldn’t be sure. She had been two weeks late in February, and she and Lyon had celebrated—then she had awakened with the familiar cramps. This time she hadn’t told Lyon. And just yesterday this nausea had begun, at five-thirty both days. Oh please, God, let it be true, she prayed. Everything was so wonderful—and now a baby! It would be a girl baby—a girl who looked just like Lyon.