Valley of the Dolls Page 13

  “You know I don’t dislike you. I think you’re very nice.”

  “Oh, God . . .” It was a groan.

  “I can’t say I love you if I don’t,” she said miserably.

  “Tell me something. Have you ever loved anyone?”

  “No, but—”

  “Do you think you’re capable of loving someone?”

  “Of course!”

  “But it isn’t me.”

  She swizzled the champagne again and stared at the bubbles. She couldn’t bear to see his eyes.

  “Anne, I think you’re afraid of sex.”

  This time she looked at him. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that I’m unawakened. . . that you will change all that.”

  “Exactly.”

  She sipped the champagne to avoid his eyes.

  “I suppose you’ve been told this before,” he said.

  “No, I’ve heard it in some very bad movies.”

  “Dialogue is often trite because it’s real. And it’s easier to sneer at the truth.”

  “The truth?”

  “That you’re afraid of life—and living.”

  “Is that what you think? Just because I’m not rushing into marriage with you?” There was a hint of a smile in her eyes.

  “Do you think it’s natural to reach twenty and still be a virgin?”

  “Virginity isn’t an affliction.”

  “Not in Lawrenceville, maybe. But then you said you don’t want to be like the people in Lawrenceville. So let me give you a few facts. Most girls of twenty aren’t virgins. In fact, most of them have gone to bed with guys they weren’t even crazy about. Their curiosity and natural sex drive led them to try it. I don’t think you’ve ever even had a decent necking session with a guy. How can you know you don’t like something if you haven’t tried it? Don’t you ever have any urges or feelings about anything? Isn’t there anyone you ever unbend with? Have you ever thrown your arms around anyone? Man, woman or child? Anne, I’ve got to break through to you. I love you. I can’t allow you to shrivel away into another New England old maid.” He grabbed her hands. “Look—forget me for a minute. Isn’t there someone you care about? Sometimes I want to shake you, to see if I can’t rattle some feeling into that perfect face of yours. Didn’t last Thursday mean anything to you?”

  “Thursday?” Her mind raced back.

  “It was Thanksgiving, Anne. We celebrated it at ’21.’ Jesus, doesn’t anything reach you? I was hoping you’d invite me home to Lawrenceville for Thanksgiving. I wanted to meet your mother and your aunt.”

  “Someone had to be in the office on Friday, and Miss Steinberg went to Pittsburgh to see her family.”

  “What about you? You’re an only child. Aren’t you close with your mother? What does she think about us? Do you realize you never mention her?”

  She played with the swizzle stick again. In the beginning she had written every week. But her mother’s replies had been forced and dutiful, so after a few letters she had stopped writing. Her mother really wasn’t interested in New York, Neely or Henry Bellamy.

  “I phoned my mother after the newspapers carried our engagement.”

  “What did she say?”

  (“Well, Anne, you probably know what you’re doing. Everyone in Lawrenceville read about it in the Boston papers. I suppose one New York man is the same as any other. No one knows anything about their families. I don’t suppose he’s related to the Coopers in Plymouth?”)

  Anne smiled faintly. “She said I knew my own mind. As usual, she was wrong.”

  “When will I meet her?”

  “I don’t know, Allen.”

  “Do you want to work for Henry Bellamy the rest of your life? Is that the height of your ambition?”

  “No . . .”

  “What do you want, Anne?”

  “I don’t know. I only know what I don’t want to do! I don’t want to go back to Lawrenceville. I’d rather die.” She shuddered. “I don’t want to get married—until I fall in love. And I do want to fall in love. Allen, I want that desperately. And I want children. I want a daughter. I want to love her . . . be close to her . . .”

  He beamed at her. “Good girl. This is the most you’ve opened up since I’ve known you. You may not love me, but you want everything I want. We’ll have that little girl—now, no objections.” He put his fingers to her lips as she tried to speak. “And that little girl will go to the best schools and make a debut. With your looks and background, I’ll get us to the people we should know. I’ll get a social press agent, and we’ll play up your family background. You watch—we’ll really move. Newport, Palm Beach—no more Miami for me, no more Copa.”

  “But I don’t love you, Allen . . .”

  “You don’t love anyone. But I saw a spark in your eyes when you said you wanted to be in love . . . wanted to have a child. It’s there, buried, just waiting to get out. You’re the kind who will be a wild woman in bed once you’ve tried it—”

  “Allen!”

  He smiled. “Now don’t knock anything you haven’t tried. I don’t like to brag, but I’ve been around. I’ll arouse you. I’ll have you begging for more—”

  “I won’t sit and listen to this!”

  “All right. I won’t say another word. I won’t press you about marriage . . . until Christmas. We’ll set a date then.”

  “No, Allen . . .”

  “I always get what I want, Anne—and I want you. I want you to love me. And you will! Now—not another word until Christmas.”

  That had happened on Tuesday.

  On Wednesday the cast of Hit the Sky left for New Haven to prepare for the Friday night opening.

  On Thursday Henry Bellamy said, “Oh by the way, Anne, we’re taking the one o’clock train tomorrow for New Haven. I’ve booked a room for you at the Taft Hotel.”

  “Me?”

  “Don’t you want to go? Lyon and I have to make the opening, and I took it for granted you’d want to be there. After all, Helen is your buddy, and you’re also friendly with the little O’Hara kid who’s in the show.”

  “I’d love it! I’ve never been to an opening.”

  “Well, fasten your seat belt, because there’s nothing like a New Haven opening.”

  December, 1945

  They met at Grand Central Station. It was a cold, brisk day. Henry looked puffy and tired under his clean shave. Lyon Burke greeted her with a warm, quick smile.

  They settled in the parlor car; both men opened attaché cases and hunched over contracts and legal papers. The train ride was merely an extension of their usual working day.

  Anne tried to concentrate on her magazine. The bright sunlight that flashed through the window disclosed the wintry bareness of the countryside. It made her think of Lawrenceville. In New York you forgot how cold and bleak winter could be. The neon lights, the moving crowds, the taxi-filled streets stampeded the snow into slush and the slush into gray water that quickly disappeared and you forgot about the bare, desolate ground of the outside world. The loneliness of winter. The long evenings sitting in the large, clean kitchen with Mother and Aunt Amy. Or the occasional trips to the movies, or the bowling alley, or to play bridge. O God, she prayed, thank You for giving me the strength to run. Never make me go back—never!

  When they pulled into the dark station at New Haven, both attaché cases snapped closed and the men stood to stretch their legs. Henry’s face took on a look of tired apprehension.

  “Well, here we go—into the line of fire,” he said.

  Lyon took Anne’s arm. “Come, my girl, you’re going to enjoy your first opening in New Haven. We won’t let Henry spoil it for you.”

  “I’ve been to New Haven fifty times,” Henry said mournfully, “and I always forget how much I hate it until I get here. New Haven is always a trouble city. Except with a Helen Lawson show—then it’s total disaster!”

  The Taft Hotel looked gloomy and forbidding. “Wash up and meet us in the bar,” Henry told her. “And if I were you I
wouldn’t call Helen. She’s a killer in New Haven. She’s probably still at the theatre. I’ll go on over and check in with her. It’s right next door.”

  Anne unpacked her bag quickly. The room was small and depressing. But nothing could dampen her exuberance. She felt like a girl on her first trip alone, and she was filled with a sense of expectancy—as if at any moment something very wonderful could happen.

  She went to the small window and looked down on the street. The early winter darkness was closing in on the city, and street lamps began to show in the grayness. Across from the hotel a neon sign on a small restaurant flickered uncertainly. She turned quickly at the shrill ring of the phone.

  It was Neely. “I just got back from rehearsal. Mr. Bellamy was at the theatre to see Helen. He told me you were here! I’m so thrilled!”

  “So am I. How’s it going?”

  “Awful!” Neely gasped in her breathless way. “Last night we had a dress rehearsal that lasted till four in the morning. Helen is trying to cut another number from Terry King. Terry ran out of the theatre in a fit, and her agent arrived this afternoon for a showdown with Gil Case. Terry says Helen can’t cut the song. And the dance with The Gaucheros is awful. I bet it gets cut and Charlie and Dick get the sack,” Neely added cheerfully.

  “It sounds awful. Is Helen back yet?”

  “No, she’s still at the theatre locked in her dressing room with Henry Bellamy. I don’t see how they’ll work it all out.”

  “You mean the show won’t open tonight!”

  “Oh, they’ll get the curtain up somehow,” Neely said happily. “But it’ll be a doozy. Hey Anne, Mel is here.”

  “He probably took the same train we did.”

  “No, he came up last night.” After a pause Neely said, “Anne . . . I. . . we did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “You know.”

  “Neely . . . you mean . . .?”

  “Uh huh. It hurt a lot and I didn’t come. But Mel made me come the other way.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He went down on me.”

  “Neely!”

  “Now Anne, stop acting so prissy. Just because you’re not hot for Allen doesn’t mean I’m a tramp. I happen to be in love with Mel.”

  “And that makes it right.”

  “You’re darn right it does! We both want each other. Nowadays people don’t get married just to do it. Mel respects me and loves me just as much today as he did yesterday. Even more, because now he really loves me. And I love him. Besides, we can’t get married yet. He helps support his folks. But if the show’s a hit and I can count on my hundred a week, then we’ll get married.”

  “But Neely . . . what you did . . .” Anne choked with embarrassment.

  “You mean let him go down on me? Listen, Mel says anything two people do together when they’re in love is normal. And besides, it feels sensational! Oh, Geez, I can hardly wait until tonight. And Anne . . . when he touches my breast I can feel it down there. I bet coming the other way won’t be half as great—”

  “Neely, for God’s sake!”

  “Wait till it happens to you. You’ll see. See you after the show. Watch for me. I have three lines in the second scene.”

  Lyon was waiting at a table in the bar. “Henry’s still at the theatre.” He grimaced in sympathy. “I ordered a ginger ale for you. Right?”

  She looked at the glass with a smile. “Maybe I should learn to sip at a Scotch. I feel even the waiters stare at me with disapproval.”

  “Then stare right back. Never let anyone shame you into doing anything you don’t choose to do. Keep your identity.”

  “I don’t think I have an identity yet.”

  “Everyone has an identity. One of their own, and one for show. I rather think you enjoy playing the passive Girl Friday role for show while you look for the real you.”

  “I recall that you said I was a fighter . . .”

  “I think you are—but for others.”

  She sipped at her ginger ale. He offered her a cigarette. “Have I said the wrong thing?”

  “No, I think you’ve hit on a very big truth.” Then she looked up brightly. “But I did fight for one thing. I—”

  “Yes, you came to New York. But tell me, Anne, is that going to be the one glorious achievement in your life?”

  “What about you?” Her eyes suddenly flashed in anger. “The war is over. Life goes on. Are you going to fight again?”

  “I’m fighting right now,” he said quietly.

  “I never seem to say anything light and airy when I’m with you,” she said wryly. “But I didn’t start it this time. And I think I will have a Scotch.”

  He signaled the captain and got two drinks. She raised the glass in a toast. “Perhaps if I down this I can say something that will make you laugh.”

  “I’ll be delighted to laugh. And you needn’t drink the Scotch.”

  She gulped down half the drink. Then she said weakly, “It tastes awful and I still can’t think of anything funny to say.”

  He took the glass from her. “Why is it important to make me laugh?”

  “I saw you that night at La Ronde—with Jennifer North. You were laughing a great deal. I thought about it. . .” She reached for the drink. What was she saying? She took another swallow.

  “Go ahead, finish the drink. It was a good idea at that. At least you’re fighting for yourself now.”

  “And what are you fighting for, Lyon?”

  “You.”

  Their eyes met. “You don’t have to fight,” she said quietly.

  He took her hand quickly. Allen’s diamond cut into her finger with almost a personal rage of its own. But she made no sign that she felt its sharp edge. Lyon’s eyes were close . . .

  “Well, I can see you two have had a few.” Henry Bellamy was striding cheerfully toward them. He motioned the waiter for a drink.

  Anne withdrew her hand hastily. The ring had actually cut into her flesh. Henry sat down and sighed.

  “Go back to your handholding,” he said nonchalantly. “Don’t let me stop you. Hell, you’re both young, enjoy it. I mean it—when you’re young you think you’ll always be young. Then one day you suddenly wake up and you’re over fifty. And the names in the obituary columns are no longer anonymous old people. They’re your contemporaries and friends.” The drink arrived. He drained it without stopping for breath.

  “Come on, Henry,” Lyon said, laughing. “Nothing can be that bad.” He reached under the table and recaptured Anne’s hand with a warm intimacy.

  “It’s worse,” Henry insisted. “In fact, this one promises to be the daddy of them all. Either Helen’s getting tougher or I’m getting older.”

  “Helen’s always a barracuda until the show opens in New York,” Lyon said easily.

  Henry pulled out a notebook and stared at a scribbled list. “Want to hear a few beefs? And these are just for openers. Bad light on rhythm number; second scene evening dress stinks; orchestra too loud on ballad; Terry King’s ballad holds up show and she sings it like a dirge; dream sequence chorus number too long; all my songs end with blackout—want to take my bows in one; want ballad with guy made into solo for me—he’s tone-deaf; Terry King plays part too tough, throws show off balance.” He shook his head and signaled for another drink.

  “God, I hate this bar,” he said, looking around and waving affably to a few agents and producers who had arrived for the opening. “I hate every sonofabitch who comes up here hoping to see a flop.” He smiled at someone across the room. “And Gil Case draws them all. They love to see a ‘gentleman’ producer flop. He’s crammed that Harvard background down their throats so much . . .” He sighed again. “This is the most miserable bar in the world, and I’ve spent some of the most miserable nights of my life in it.”

  Anne and Lyon exchanged an intimate smile. She looked around. It was the most beautiful room in the world. If I could just hold this moment, she told herself. No matter what happens to me
the rest of my life, this will be the happiest moment I will ever know.

  They had a quick dinner in the old-fashioned hotel dining room. Henry and Lyon knew almost everyone in the room. None of the cast was present. They were busily grabbing a sandwich in their rooms and resetting limp hair. Through the chatter and excitement she watched Lyon constantly. Occasionally their eyes would meet and hold for a quick, personal moment. She could hardly believe this was happening to her . . . happening exactly as she had hoped it would . . . feeling as she had dreamed she would . . .

  Henry signaled for the check. “Anne, I can see you’re all nerves before an opening. You haven’t touched your food. Well, you can eat later. Gil Case is having a big spread after the show.”

  The theatre was sold out. With the flood of theatrical people on hand, the audience took on the excitement of a New York opening. Anne sat between Lyon and Henry in the third row. The lights went down and the orchestra burst into the overture. Lyon reached for her hand. She returned the pressure, dizzy with happiness.

  The show opened with a bright musical number. The costumes were clean, colorful and new; the chorus girls, who had been limp and unattractive just a few hours back, looked beautiful in their peach-colored makeup. Within minutes, the air became charged with the electricity of a hit—an intangible current that passed between the audience and the performers.

  When Jennifer North walked on, spotlighted apart from the other girls, an audible gasp rolled through the entire house. She walked slowly, undulating to the music, in a gold-beaded dress that seemed molded to her incredible body.

  “Jesus,” Henry hissed under his breath. He leaned across Anne. “Lyon, we can’t miss. Weiss is here from Twentieth, and Meyers is here from Paramount. She’s a cinch for a five-year deal.”

  “It will have to be a good one,” Lyon answered. “She’s hung on Tony Polar. She won’t leave him unless the contract is too big to pass up.”

  “Tony’ll never marry her. Leave this to me.”

  “There’s your little friend,” Lyon said quickly. Anne looked just as Neely disappeared across the stage, accompanied by two chorus boys.

  When Helen made her entrance, all action suspended as the audience stampeded a reception that bordered on hysteria. Helen stood quietly, half smiling, and accepted the acclaim. Everyone was on that stage because of her; the theatre was filled because of her; every musician in the pit was there because of her; the book had been written just for her. Protected by footlights, Helen received love on a mass scale. If Gino were here, he’d be screaming and applauding like the others. After the show he would beg Anne to “get her off my back,” but for this moment she was everyone’s love.