Valley of the Dolls Read online

  He looked at her and suddenly smiled. “And here I am, wasting your time talking about it.”

  “No, please go on.”

  He looked at her strangely. “I’ve said a great many things today . . . things that probably should have stayed locked away in my mind.” He signaled for the check. “But I’ve taken up enough of your time. Make the rest of the afternoon count. Buy a new dress, have your hair done—or do any of the wonderful things a beautiful girl should do.”

  “This girl is going back to the office.”

  “Nothing of the kind. I’m giving this order. Henry expected you to be gone several days. The least you deserve is a half-day holiday. And a two-week salary bonus. I’ll see to that.”

  “But I couldn’t think of—”

  “Nonsense. I expected to hand a renting agent a full month’s rent under the table. Let’s call this my first official act at Bellamy and Bellows. You get a two-week salary bonus and the afternoon off.”

  She took the afternoon off, but she didn’t do any of the things he suggested. She walked up Fifth Avenue. She looked at the new winter styles. She sat in the square at the Plaza. And she thought about Lyon Burke. He dwarfed anyone she had ever known. She had been overwhelmed by the smiling, inscrutable Lyon, but the Lyon who talked about the war—he seemed accessible, capable of caring. He had cared about the corporal. Who was Lyon Burke, really?

  She left the square and walked down Fifth Avenue. It was getting late. She had to go home and change. Allen was picking her up. Allen! She couldn’t marry Allen! That would be refuting everything she had said. That was really giving up! It was too early to compromise with even part of a dream.

  She would tell him at dinner. But it had to be brought up gently, with tact. She couldn’t just open with, “Hello Allen I’m not going to marry you.” But during dinner, she’d work into it and break it easily—but firmly. It was as simple as that.

  But it wasn’t. No quiet little French restaurant now. Allen no longer needed to hide his identity. They went to “21.” Waiters bowed to him and everyone called him by name. He seemed to know most of the people in the room.

  “By the way, Anne, do you like country living?” he asked suddenly. “We have this house in Greenwich . . .”

  This was the opening. “No, I had enough of that in Lawrenceville. As a matter of fact, Allen, there’s something I want to say . . . something you’ve got to understand. . . .”

  He looked at his watch and suddenly signaled for the check.

  “Allen!”

  “Go on, I’m listening.” He was signing the check.

  “It’s about what you said last night. And now about country living. Allen, I like you very much but—”

  “Oh, I’m glad you reminded me. I sent the lease over to Lyon Burke. Talked to him this afternoon. He sounds like a nice guy. English, isn’t he?”

  “He was raised in England. Allen, listen to me.”

  He stood up. “You can tell me in the cab.”

  “Please sit down. I’d rather tell you here.”

  He smiled and held her coat. “It’s dark in the cab—more romantic. Besides, we’re late.”

  She stood up helplessly. “Where are we going?”

  “Morocco.” He tipped his way out of the room with a series of surreptitious handshakes. In the cab, he settled back and smiled. “My father is at Morocco. I told him we would stop by. Now, what did you want to tell me?”

  “Allen, I’m very flattered about the way you feel. I’m also very grateful about the apartment for Lyon Burke. It’s saved me a lot of trouble and pavement pounding. I think you’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, but—” she saw the neon sign of El Morocco and her words rushed out—”but about marriage . . . what you said last night. . . I’m sorry, Allen, I—”

  “Good evening, Mr. Cooper!” The doorman at El Morocco sang the greeting as he swung open the door of the cab. “Your father is inside.”

  “Thanks, Pete.” Another bill exchanged hands. Allen led her into the club. She had failed to make her point—or had Allen consciously made it a point not to understand?

  Gino Cooper was sitting with a group of men at a large round table near the bar. He waved at Allen, signaling he’d join them. The waiter led Allen to a table against the wall. It was ten-thirty, still early for El Morocco. Although this was Anne’s first visit to the famous club, she had seen pictures, in newspapers and magazines, of various celebrities sitting against the famous zebra stripes. She looked around. There were plenty of zebra stripes, but otherwise it was just a large room with a fairly good orchestra playing some show tunes.

  Gino joined their table immediately. Without waiting for any introduction, he grabbed Anne’s hand and pumped it violently.

  “So this is her, huh?” He whistled softly. “Kid, you were right. This one was worth waiting for. She’s got real class. I can tell without her even opening her mouth.” He snapped his fingers; a captain seemed to materialize from the atmosphere. “Bring some champagne,” he ordered without taking his eyes away from Anne.

  “Anne doesn’t drink,” Allen began.

  “Tonight she’ll drink,” Gino said heartily. “Tonight’s an occasion.”

  Anne smiled. Gino’s warmth was infectious. He was swarthy, heavyset and floridly handsome. His black hair was streaked with gray, but his immense vitality and enthusiasm were almost boyish.

  When the champagne was poured, he toasted her. “To the new lady in our family.” With one gulp he drained half his glass. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said, “Are you Catholic?”

  “No, I—” Anne began.

  “Well, you gotta convert when you marry Allen. I’ll make an appointment with Father Kelly at the Paulist Center. He can rush it through with private instruction.”

  “Mr. Cooper—” It had been almost a physical effort to find her voice.

  Allen quickly interrupted. “We haven’t discussed religion, Dad. And there’s no reason for Anne to convert.”

  Gino considered this. “Well, no . . . not if she’s dead set against it. Long as she marries in the Church and promises to raise the kids Catholic—”

  “Mr. Cooper, I’m not going to marry Allen!” There! She had said it, loud and clear.

  His eyes narrowed. “Why? You that anti-Catholic?”

  “I’m not anti-anything.”

  “Then what’s the hitch?”

  “I’m not in love with Allen.”

  At first Gino’s stare was blank. Then he turned to Allen in bewilderment. “What in hell did she say?”

  “She said she wasn’t in love with me,” Allen answered.

  “Say, is this a gag or something? I thought you said you were gonna marry her.”

  “I did. And I will. But first I have to make her love me.”

  “You both crazy or something?” Gino demanded.

  Allen smiled pleasantly. “I told you, Dad—up until last night, Anne thought I was just a struggling little insurance agent. She has to readjust her thinking.”

  “What’s to readjust?” Gino asked. “Since when did money become a handicap?”

  “We never discussed love, Dad. I don’t think Anne allowed herself to take me seriously. She spent too much time worrying I’d lose my job.”

  Gino looked at Anne curiously. “You really went with him all these weeks and ate at those hash houses he told me about?”

  Anne smiled faintly. She was beginning to feel conspicuous. Gino’s voice carried, and Anne was sure half the room was enjoying their conversation.

  Gino hit his thigh and laughed aloud. “This is a good one!” He poured himself more champagne. A waiter leaped to assist him. Gino motioned him away. “I used to open these bottles with my teeth. Now six flunkies feel they gotta help me pour it.” He turned to Anne. “I like you! Welcome to the family.”

  “But I’m not going to marry Allen.”

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “Listen—if you lived through six weeks of bad eats and accepted him
as a punk, you’ll love him now. Drink your champagne. Start cultivating rich tastes, you can afford it. Hi, Ronnie.” A thin young man had appeared from nowhere and was standing silently at their table.

  “This is Ronnie Wolfe,” Gino told her. “Sit down, Ronnie.” Gino snapped his fingers and called into space, “Bring Mr. Wolfe his usual.” And from space a waiter appeared and placed a pot of coffee before the stranger.

  “Now, don’t tell me you never heard of Ronnie—everybody reads his column,” Gino said proudly.

  “Anne’s new in New York,” Allen said quickly. “She only knows about the Times.”

  “Good paper,” Ronnie said crisply. He pulled out a worn little black leather book. His dark eyes darted from Allen to Gino. “All right, let’s have her name—and who’s staked the claim? Father or son?”

  “Both of us this time,” Gino said. “This little girl is gonna be related to me soon. Anne Welles. Spell the name right, Ronnie—she’s gonna marry Allen.”

  Ronnie whistled. He looked at Anne with curious respect. “Big story, all right. New model in town lassos big prize. Or actress? Now don’t tell me—see if I can guess. Texas?”

  “I’m from Massachusetts and I work in an office,” Anne said coldly.

  Ronnie’s eyes twinkled. “Next thing I expect you’ll even tell me you can type.”

  “I hardly think that’s news for your column. And I also think you should know that Allen and I—”

  “Now Anne,” Gino said quickly. “Ronnie’s a friend.”

  “No, let her go on.” Ronnie was looking at her with something close to respect.

  “Aw, have some more champagne,” Gino said, refilling her glass.

  She picked up her glass and sipped it in an effort to control her anger. She wanted to insist she was not marrying Allen, but she knew Gino had deliberately stopped her and probably would again. It would be embarrassing to him to be contradicted in public. The moment Ronnie Wolfe left she would tell Gino not to make any more statements. She had told them both—father and son—that she was not going to marry Allen. Did money give people a blind spot? Rob them of their hearing?

  “Who do you work for?” Ronnie asked.

  “Henry Bellamy,” Allen said. “But that’s temporary.”

  “Allen!” She turned to him angrily, but Ronnie interrupted.

  “Look, Miss Welles—questions are my job.” He smiled in a frank and friendly way. “I like you. It’s refreshing to run into a girl who didn’t come to New York to be an actress or a model.” He looked at her closely. “Great cheekbones. You could make a fortune if you wanted. If Powers or Longworth ever saw you, you might even get richer than your boyfriend.” He winked at Gino.

  “If she wanted to work we’d buy her a modeling agency,” Gino bellowed. “But she’s gonna settle down and raise babies.”

  “Mr. Cooper—” Anne’s face was burning.

  Allen broke in. “Dad, let’s take first things first.”

  Ronnie laughed. “Here comes your friend, Gino. Does she know the news?”

  They looked up as a tall, stunning girl approached the table. Without rising, Gino moved over and patted the seat. “This is Adele Martin. Sit down, baby, and say hello to Anne Welles, my son’s fiancée.”

  Adele’s penciled brows shot into a higher arch. Without acknowledging Anne, she looked from Allen to Ronnie for verification.

  Ronnie nodded, his eyes bright with amusement at Adele’s consternation. But the girl’s recovery was quick. She snuggled beside Gino and offered Anne a weak smile. “How’d you swing it, honey? I’ve been trying to drag this baboon to the altar for seven months. Give me the magic word and we can make it a double ceremony.” She looked up at Gino adoringly.

  “You’re a career girl, Adele,” Ronnie said, winking at Gino.

  Adele stared at him murderously. “Listen, Ronnie, it takes a certain amount of talent to be a showgirl. Don’t knock it.”

  Ronnie smiled and tucked his notebook away. “I think you’re the best showgirl in town, Adele.”

  “You can say that again,” she said, somewhat mollified. “I’ve turned down two movie offers to stay with my baby here.” She leaned over and kissed Gino’s cheek.

  Ronnie rose and jerked his head in farewell. Anne watched him join another table as another waiter swiftly appeared with a fresh pot of coffee. Ronnie sipped the coffee slowly and took out his black book, his eager eyes constantly darting to the door to scan each new arrival.

  Allen followed her glance. “Ronnie’s a nice guy. No legmen . . . gets all his own items.”

  Adele sneered. “He’s a busybody.”

  “You’re just mad because he printed we’re engaged to be engaged,” Gino said.

  “Well, it’s a hell of a line. Made me look like a fool.” Then she smiled. “How about it, baby? You can’t let your son beat you to the altar.”

  “I been to the altar,” Gino said. “After Rosanna died, that was the end of my married life. A guy can only have one wife. Romances? Plenty. But one wife.”

  “Who made that rule?” Adele demanded.

  Gino poured the girl some champagne. Anne sensed that they had covered this ground many times. “Adele, forget it.” His voice was cold. “Even if I did remarry, it couldn’t be you. You been divorced.”

  Then, as Adele sulked, he said, “Oh by the way, I told Irving to bring two coats to your place tomorrow. Take your pick.”

  Adele’s expression changed instantly. “Both mink?”

  “What else? Maybe muskrat?”

  “Oh, Gino . . .” She snuggled close to him. “Sometimes you get me so mad, but I have to forgive you. I love you so.”

  Gino looked down at Anne’s silk coat lying crushed on the seat. “Hey, Allen. Okay with you if I send one over to Anne as an engagement present?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned to Anne. “What color do you like?”

  “Color?” Anne had always thought mink was brown.

  “He means ranch or wild, honey,” Adele explained. “I think wild mink would go great with your hair.”

  “I’m afraid I couldn’t accept it,” Anne said quietly.

  “Why not?” Gino snapped.

  “Perhaps Anne would like her coat to come from me—after we’re married,” Allen said quickly.

  Gino laughed. “You mean when you get your mink you want it to be legal?”

  “What’s illegal about taking a mink coat?” Adele asked. “I think it’s illegal to turn one down.”

  Anne felt uncomfortable. The champagne made her feel warm. The club was packed; the dance floor had shrunk as waiters frantically placed dime-sized tables on the floor for important new arrivals. People were mashed against the velvet rope and there wasn’t an inch of space on the side of the room where they were sitting—yet curiously enough there were some empty tables on the other side. Allen explained that that was “Siberia.” If you sat on that side of the room no one respected you. Squares and out-of-towners sat there. They didn’t know the difference. But a “regular” would die of embarrassment if he had to sit there.

  There was a constant swirl of people, a continuous flow of introductions. At some point another columnist joined them briefly and someone took their picture. Gino ordered more champagne. Girls who looked like exact replicas of Adele stopped by the table and congratulated Allen and tossed sympathetic winks at Adele. Some greeted Allen with familiarity—a hug and a kiss, explosive declarations of eternal devotion or “Did Anne realize how lucky she was,” stares of envy, and of curiosity.

  She sat quietly, her outward calm denying her mounting panic. She had to straighten this out with Allen on the way home. Then he could call Ronnie Wolfe and the other columnist. She had to make him understand.

  She tapped his arm quietly. “It’s one o’clock, Allen. I should be getting home.”

  Gino looked amazed. “Home? That’s a dirty word. The party’s just getting going.”

  “I have to work tomorrow, Mr. Cooper.”

  Gino s
miled expansively. “Little lady, you don’t ever have to do anything again except be good to my boy.”

  “But I have a job—”

  “So quit it,” Gino said, pouring champagne all around. “Quit my job?”

  “Why not?” This time it was Adele Martin who asked the question. “If Gino asked me to marry him, I’d give up my career in a second.”

  “What career?” Gino laughed. “Standing around as a back-drop two hours every night?” He turned to Anne. “Miss America here has to show up for work. She belongs to some kind of an actors’ union. But you got no contract.”

  “I like my job and I wouldn’t walk out on anyone,” Anne replied.

  Gino shrugged. “Okay, I go along with that. You’ve got class. A guy should get notice. Tell him tomorrow, give him a chance to find someone else.” He signaled for the check. “Guess we could all stand one early night for a change.”

  Anne slipped into her coat. She’d straighten this out when she got Allen alone in the cab going home. . . .

  But there was no cab. A long black chauffeured car was waiting. Gino motioned them inside. “Get in,” he said. “We’ll drop Tillie the Toiler first.”

  When they reached her brownstone, Gino and Adele waited in the car and Allen walked her to the door.

  “Allen,” she whispered, “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  He leaned over and kissed her lightly. “Anne, I know tonight has been wild, but it won’t be like this again. You had to meet Gino. That’s over and done with. Tomorrow we’ll go out alone.”