Valley of the Dolls Read online

  It was Helen’s show from start to finish. Each song brought on a new and stronger frenzy of applause. They were no longer an audience, they were a cult, united in the worship of Helen Lawson. The raucous laugh, which made Anne wince in public, seemed wholesome and vibrant across the footlights. Neely sparkled in her tiny bit. Jennifer North reappeared in a new revealing gown, and the audience thundered its approval. Terry King received appreciative applause for her two songs, delivered in a voice sweeter and more appealing than Helen’s. But Helen was compelling; her authority was an art in itself.

  “I think Terry is good,” Anne whispered to Lyon. “But she’s no competition for Helen. She’s just an average performer.”

  “Unfortunately, her looks are above average,” Lyon answered.

  At intermission everyone crowded into the small lobby. Gilbert Case motioned to Henry, and they followed him into the bar next door.

  “Gil, it’s Helen’s biggest show,” Henry said, as they all sipped at the weak bar Scotch.

  “That’s how I see it, dear boy,” Gil said with a hearty smile. “A little cutting here and there and it comes in exactly as it is. I won’t need Boston; we’ll be able to do it with just four weeks in Philadelphia.”

  “Easy. If the cutting is in the right spots.”

  They looked at each other silently. Then Case quickly forced a hint of a smile. “Come now, Henry, you know I’m in a bind. I can’t fire Terry King. She’s got a run-of-the-play contract.”

  “How did she get that?” Lyon asked.

  He shrugged. “An excellent question. Do you think any decent ingenue will sign for a Helen Lawson show without it? Look at the track record. Betty Mobile—fired in Boston. Notices too good. Sherry Haines—part written out in Philly. Notices too good. Need I go on? You can’t get an ingenue for a Helen Lawson show without a run-of-the-play contract. Not unless you’re willing to settle for a pig.”

  “Helen won’t let her open in New York, I can tell you that,” Henry said quietly.

  “Henry, I beg of you—talk to her,” Gil pleaded. “If I fired Terry, how could I justify it to my backers? I’ve got two more shows lined up for this season. I need those backers. If I fire Terry, I have to pay her four hundred a week until June first, and I have to pay the same salary to the girl who replaces her. With Helen’s salary, plus her percentage . . . well, I just can’t take on anything like that.”

  “It’ll wind up costing you even more if you keep Terry, plus a lot of aggravation. If Terry King stays, Helen will gripe about the numbers and the orchestrations. You’ll have to book three weeks in Boston. Figure on trucking and traveling, you stand to lose eight thousand a week. Then Helen will suddenly become dissatisfied with all her costumes. She’ll also want you to get outside lyricists. I can see an extra twenty-five thousand right there. But get rid of Terry and Helen will start loving everything about the show, including you, and you’ll come in after Philly. It’s as simple as that.”

  Gil shuddered. “Well, there’s always the other way . . .”

  Henry nodded silently.

  Gil sighed. “I’ll give it a try. But I’m getting too old for these executions.”

  Henry left a few bills on the bar and they returned to the theatre.

  The second act mounted in excitement. Helen belted out two show-stoppers in a row and was forced back for three encores. The show was an electrifying hit; the audience refused to let her leave the stage. They were still applauding when the curtain rang down for the final time.

  Henry’s program was marked with curlicues and notations on cuts and changes. His forehead was crinkled as they stood in the crowded lobby.

  “You’d think the show was a flop, from your expression,” Anne said gaily.

  “No, honey, I just know the battles ahead.” Then he smiled. “It’s her biggest hit so far. She’s topped herself.” He stamped out his cigarette. “Well, let’s fight our way backstage.”

  The entrance to Helen’s dressing room looked like a mob scene. The hall was crowded with well-wishers who waited patiently in line to give the star a hurried kiss and a congratulatory compliment. Helen stood at the door, the heavy makeup appearing grotesque up close. She smiled and accepted the accolades with a false heartiness. She saw Henry, Anne and Lyon as they tried to get through the crowd. “Hi!” she yelled gaily. “Get inside.” She nodded toward the entrance of her dressing room. As Anne passed, Helen whispered, “As soon as I get rid of these crumbs we’ll go to Gil’s party.” Then she turned brightly to the next person waiting in line, flashed her merry smile and continued with her boisterous greetings.

  The party was going strong when they arrived, but at Helen’s entrance all activity stopped and everyone turned toward the door. There was a split second of silence that exploded into a frenzied ovation. Helen acknowledged it with a smile and a good-natured wave that commanded the party to return to the festivities at hand. The show’s press agent leaped forward to guide her to the local press and some of the important backers. Lyon led Anne to a quiet corner and brought her a ginger ale and a plate of listless, dry chicken sandwiches.

  “There’s hot food across the room,” he said as he settled beside her. “I’ll have a go at it after the crowd clears a bit.”

  “I’m not really hungry,” Anne insisted as she nibbled at one of the tasteless sandwiches. Her eyes roved around the room. “I don’t see Neely.”

  “I’m afraid only the principals are invited to this party. The chorus and showgirls have their own shindig.”

  “Why, that’s awful!”

  “Not really. They take up a collection among themselves, get much better sandwiches at the delicatessen, hole up in someone’s room and have a perfectly marvelous time knocking the higher-ups.”

  Another hush suddenly enveloped the room. Anne’s eyes automatically swung to the door. Jim Taylor, a leading columnist in New Haven, had just entered with Jennifer North. Each time she saw Jennifer the girl’s incredible beauty came as a fresh surprise. She watched the backers swarm over for an introduction, and once again she was doubly surprised at Jennifer’s warmth, her easy interest in everyone she met.

  Helen ambled over and pulled up a chair. “You two are smart, sneaking off in a corner like this. God, how I hate these parties. But it’s Gilbert’s way of paying off the backers. Gives them one night to mingle with Showbiz.” She punctuated the last word with a grin.

  Gil Case joined them. “There’s wonderful chicken à la king over there. Chinese food, too.”

  “Gil, why do you always serve such shit at these parties?” Helen asked.

  “It’s good food. The hotel recommended it.”

  “I’m sure they also recommended roast beef—but that’s too expensive.”

  “Now Helen,” Gil said pleasantly, “this is your night. Enjoy it.” He disappeared into the milling crowd.

  “Hey, Gil!” Helen shrieked. “We got a little talking to do.” She leaped from her chair and followed him.

  “He hasn’t a chance,” said Lyon, smiling.

  “Do you think she’ll keep at it—about Terry King, I mean?” Anne asked.

  “She won’t relent—not an inch.”

  “Maybe I should talk to Helen,” Anne said thoughtfully. “Terry King is good. She deserves a chance. And she’s no competition to Helen. I’m sure I could convince her—”

  “Anne, don’t try. You’ll have your head snapped off.”

  “No, Lyon, we’re friends. That’s the trouble. No one treats Helen like a human being. She’s easy to talk to. I know she’d listen to me.”

  He took her hand and looked into her eyes. “I believe you mean it. Anne . . . wonderful Anne . . . how did anyone as lovely as you get into such a rat race? You only think you know Helen. Underneath the greasepaint there’s cast iron.”

  “You’re wrong, Lyon. I do know Helen. I talk to her at night, late, for hours—when the mask is off—and she speaks from the heart. She’s a wonderful woman. The toughness is all put on. No one takes th
e trouble to dig beneath it.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll go along that this sweet side exists—but it isn’t Helen. It’s perhaps one of the small sides of Helen, one that is rarely shown and one that is capable of dissolving at a moment’s notice. But the toughness—that is always there.”

  “Oh, Lyon . . .”

  Suddenly there was a surge to the door. A bellhop entered, his arms burdened with advance copies of the morning papers. Helen grabbed a set and scanned the notices quickly. Gil Case read them aloud.

  The show was an unqualified hit. The critics praised the music, raved about the book and riotously acclaimed Helen. She was a living legend, the greatest musical comedy star alive, an accomplished actress, and on and on. Terry King also received a few nice mentions and Jennifer North was rewarded with superlatives on her physical attributes.

  Everyone congratulated everyone. Backers walked around with silly smiles, shaking hands and crowding Helen with praise.

  “This is a marvelous spot for us to make an exit,” Lyon suggested.

  They had just reached the door when Henry blocked the way. “Going somewhere?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “Thought we’d go across to the diner and get some decent food,” Lyon answered.

  “Oh no, my boy—you don’t leave me alone with this.”

  “With what?” Lyon asked innocently. “The show’s home.”

  “Sure. Only Helen insists on an immediate meeting with Gilbert.”

  “When?”

  “In ten minutes, in Gil’s suite. And I need you, if for nothing more than just moral support.”

  Anne covered her disappointment with a smile. “Go on, Lyon. It is late. I’m not really hungry.”

  “Not on your life,” he said as he tucked her arm in his. “You know the real Helen. Perhaps you can dig her up for us tonight. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

  The atmosphere in Gil Case’s suite offered a violent contrast to the festivities of the party. Helen sat on a couch, sipping at a glass of champagne, sulking with the unflattering childish pout. The stage makeup had caked and run, emphasizing the wrinkles and forming unattractive little cracks on her face.

  “This is complete madness!” Gil Case threw his arms to the ceiling in despair. “Here we are, all sitting around as if we’re at a wake, and we’ve got the biggest hit of the season going for us.”

  “You bet your ass it’s a hit!” Helen snarled. “Every show I do is a hit. It’s gonna make you a rich man, Gil. You’ll get a big picture sale and I’ll sit back and watch Betty Grable or Rita Hayworth do my part. Okay, that’s the game. But I don’t have to sit back and watch a little whore like Terry King get a Hollywood ticket through my efforts.”

  “Helen, she barely got a mention.”

  “Oh yeah? One paper said she was a cinch for pictures. She’s also got the best song in the show.”

  Henry spoke up. “Helen, we’ve gone over that. There’s no way that song can be rewritten for your role. The boys sat up two nights trying to lick it. It’s an ingenue’s song.”

  “And they also said Jennifer North was a cinch for pictures,” Gil added.

  “Jennifer North doesn’t sing!”

  “Helen—Terry King can’t hurt you,” Henry pleaded.

  “You bet your ass she can’t! Because she isn’t gonna get the chance. This is my show, and I’m not Santa Claus. The only star that comes out of a Lawson show is Lawson.”

  “But the girl is good,” Gil insisted. “The two songs she does help the show. And what’s good for the show is good for you. As you said, it’s your show.”

  “Well, if she’s so fucking good, go star her in your next show. How much money would your backers come up with for her?”

  Henry stood up. “Helen, you’re too big for this. The girl can’t hurt you, and she deserves a chance. You had to start too. Remember your first show? Suppose Nancy Shaw had insisted you get the boot in New Haven. Where would you be today?”

  “Where in hell is Nancy Shaw today?” Helen snapped. “Listen, Henry, she was pushing forty when I came along. If she’d been smart she’d have gotten rid of me. But she was stuck-up—she was a beauty, and all those great beauties are stuck-up. She figured I was no competition in the looks department. Maybe I wasn’t. But I managed to walk off with the show. Not that this could happen with Terry King. She’s no Helen Lawson. When you get down to it, Nancy Shaw was no Helen Lawson either. But I learned from her mistake—no one uses me or my show to feather their own little nest.”

  Gil shrugged. “She’s got a run-of-the-play contract.”

  Helen’s smile was nasty. “I know all about run-of-the-play contracts.”

  “But Helen, she received decent notices. I can’t go to my backers and say I have to pay her off because she’s no good.”

  “I agree,” Helen said amiably.

  “And it wouldn’t do you any good in the business to have it known she was fired.”

  “Right!” Helen agreed. “That’s the last thing we both want. At least we’re settled on that.” Her eyes narrowed. “Now go to it. Get rid of her the sensible way. You can do it. You’ve done it before.”

  Gil Case seemed to shrink three inches in size. Then, with a heavy sigh, he said, “All right. But I had better wait until after the Philadelphia opening.”

  “Oh no you don’t!” Helen bellowed. “And let her get another set of notices? I want her out as of this weekend!”

  Gil lost some of his patience. “My dear girl, then what? Who replaces her Monday for the Philadelphia opening?”

  “Send for Penny Maxwell. She auditioned for the part, and she’s a quick study. Besides, I wanted her in the first place.”

  “She’s rehearsing for Max Seller’s new show.”

  “You’re kidding! Christ! She sings sharp, and she’s a pig!”

  “Then it’s settled,” Gil said. “Terry opens in Philadelphia. She has to. Even if I get on the phone tomorrow morning with every agent in New York, there’s no one who can get up in the part in time.”

  “I know someone who could,” Anne said suddenly. Everyone turned and stared at her. “I know it’s none of my business,” she added nervously.

  “Who do you know, angel?” Helen asked kindly.

  “Neely O’Hara. She’s Terry’s understudy. She knows every song, and she really sings quite well.”

  “Out of the question,” Gil said haughtily. “I put her on as understudy only to cover us on the road. I intend to get a real understudy when we hit New York. She’s too insignificant. Reminds me of Orphan Annie.”

  Helen’s eyes narrowed. “And what should an ingenue look like? A fucked-out redhead with big tits?”

  “Helen, it’s a good part. I can’t take a chance for the Philadelphia opening with an unknown kid.”

  “She’s been in vaudeville all her life,” Anne offered. “She’s used to audiences. Really, Mr. Case, Neely might be wonderful.”

  He hesitated. “Well . . . we could try her, I suppose. I’d have three weeks in Philly to find someone else if she doesn’t work out.”

  Helen stood up. “Then everything is settled. We can all go to sleep.”

  “Like little lambs,” Gil said angrily. “Except I’m the one who has to handle Terry King.”

  “I’ll bet you did plenty of that before you signed her,” Helen snapped. She walked to the door. “Call a rehearsal for everyone at eleven tomorrow—except me. Start the ball rolling then. I gotta get some sleep. We got a matinee yet.” She turned to Anne. “Glad you came tonight, Annie-pie. I’ll check in with you when I get in bed.”

  Gil closed the door after Helen. “You boys weren’t any help,” he said accusingly.

  “I tried.” Henry hunched his shoulders. “But I knew it was useless.” He looked at Lyon and Anne. “Go on, have your eggs. I’ll stay with Gil and map out the slaughter.”

  As they rang for the elevator Lyon said, “Shall we try that little beanery across the street?”

  “I’m not hu
ngry.”

  “Tired?”

  “No, not a bit.” Her eyes were shining.

  “I think I could stand some air. How about it, want to brave the winter in New Haven?”

  They walked down the deserted street. “What will they do about Terry King?” Anne asked.

  “Force her to quit.” Lyon’s breath smoked the darkness.

  “But how?”

  “Come to rehearsal tomorrow—if you have a strong stomach.”

  She shivered. “Well, at least Neely will get a chance.”

  “You were wonderful. I’d like a friend like you.”

  She looked at him suddenly. “Lyon, what do you think I am? Do you suppose I’m walking with you on a cold December night just because I enjoy freezing?”

  “I’m walking because I am a friend, Anne. I’m also a realist. New Haven will end, but you have a great clump of a diamond on your finger and a nice guy that goes with it. You’re much too nice for a quick out-of-town romance.”

  “Is that all it would be?”

  “Could it be any more?” He stopped and looked down at her.

  “It can be anything you want, Lyon.”

  Without a word, he spun her around and led her back to the hotel. They didn’t speak until they entered his room. It was a duplicate of the colorless old-fashioned room that had been assigned to her. Lyon took her coat. For a moment he stared at her tenderly, then he held out his arms. She rushed to him, to his lips, cold from the night air but firm and demanding as they met her own. Her arms slid around him. She was surprised at the urgency with which she returned his kiss, as if she had always been waiting to kiss like this. She clung to him, her mind spinning deeper and deeper into the wonder of that kiss.