Valley of the Dolls (11 page)

“I don’t know, Gil.” He turned to Neely. “By the way—what
is
your name?”

The childish eyes opened wide. “It’s Neely.”

“Neely,” Lyon repeated into the phone. “Yes, N-e-e-l-y.” He looked back to Neely for confirmation. She nodded vaguely. Then he asked, “Neely what?”

She stared at him. “Oh gosh . . . I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never had to bother with a name because I’ve been one of The Gaucheros. I can’t use Ethel Agnes O’Neill.”

Lyon placed his hand over the phone. “Shall I tell him to wait until tomorrow, until you come up with something?”

“And give him a chance to change his mind? Not on your life! Anne, what shall I call myself? Can I use your name? Neely Welles?”

Anne smiled. “You can think of something more exciting.”

Neely looked at Lyon wildly. “Mr. Burke?”

He shook his head. “Neely Burke has no magic.”

Neely stood still for a moment. Suddenly her eyes flashed. “Neely O’Hara!”

“What?” Lyon and Anne choked on the word together.

“Neely O’Hara. It’s perfect. I’m Irish, and Scarlett is my favorite person—”

“She’s just read
Gone with the Wind,”
Anne explained.

“Neely, I’m sure we could come up with something more euphonious,” Lyon suggested.

“More what?”

“Yes, Gil, I’m still with you,” Lyon said. “We’re just having a small board meeting on a name.”

“I want to be Neely O’Hara,” Neely insisted stubbornly.

“It’s Neely O’Hara,” Lyon said with a grin. “Yes, O’Hara. That’s right. And have the contract at rehearsal tomorrow—she’s the nervous type. And Gil, make it a white contract—standard Equity, not chorus. Let’s start the girl off right.” He hung up. “And now, Miss Neely O’Hara, you’d better go over to Actors Equity and join immediately. There’s a rather stiff initiation fee—might be well over a hundred dollars. If you need an advance . . .”

“I’ve got seven hundred dollars saved,” Neely said proudly.

“Fine. And if you’re really determined to stay with the name, I’ll be glad to put through the necessary forms to make it legal.”

“You mean so no one can steal it?”

He smiled. “Well—let’s say it will make things easier. Your checking account, Social Security . . .”

“Checking account? Geez, when would I ever need a checking account?”

The phone buzzed again. “Oh, Geez,” Neely muttered. “I bet he’s changed his mind.”

Lyon picked it up. “Hello? Oh, hi. . .” His voice changed. “Yes, I saw the story in the paper. I told you all along I was just playing Cupid. . . . Come now . . .” He laughed. “You make me feel seven feet tall. Look, Diane angel, there are some people in the office and I’m keeping them waiting. We can talk about it tonight. Would you like to see the show at the Copa? Gil Case invited us along. . . . Fine, I’ll pick you up around eight. . . . Good girl. ’By.” He turned back to Neely and Anne with a slight smile that begged forgiveness for the interruption.

Anne stood up. “We’ve already taken up too much of your time. Thank you very much, Lyon.”

“Not at all. I owed you a whopper of a favor . . . in fact, I owe you the very bed I sleep in. At least this helped even the score.”

When they were in the outer office, Neely did a pirouette and hugged Anne ecstatically. “Anne, I’m so happy I could shout at the top of my lungs!”

“I’m very happy for you, Neely.”

Neely stared at her. “Hey, what’s the matter? You look upset. Are you mad because I busted in like I did? I’m sorry. But Lyon wasn’t mad and Mr. Bellamy didn’t even know I was here. See, it all worked just fine. Please, Anne, say you’re not mad or it will ruin my whole day.”

“I’m not mad—just a little tired. Honestly, Neely.” Anne sat down at her desk.

Neely looked puzzled. “Yeah, I guess we both have been through a lot of excitement.” She leaned over and hugged Anne. “Oh, Anne, some day I’ll make this all up to you . . . somehow. I swear I will!”

She watched Neely skip out of the office. Mechanically, she inserted a fresh piece of paper in the typewriter. The carbon smudged her engagement ring. She polished it carefully, then began to type.

Anne found herself living with
Hit the Sky.
In the beginning her exposure was limited to Neely’s detailed descriptions of the daily rehearsals. Neely was in the chorus, and for three days she showed Anne every step. Then came the startling announcement: Neely had a “part”—three lines in a crowd scene. But the crowning achievement was the understudy role.

“Can you stand it?” Neely asked.
“Me
—understudying Terry King! Terry has the second lead, and usually with Helen they have the dreariest ingenue they can find. But Terry King is sexy and beautiful. Imagine me ever trying to look sexy and beautiful!”

“Then why did they choose you?”

“Guess they were stuck. I’m the only one in the chorus who can sing. And besides, they usually don’t hire real understudies until the show comes in. I’m just a standby job for the tour.”

“Do you sing well, Neely?”

“Huh? Oh, I sing like I dance. Though I must say I get the steps a lot quicker than most of those chorus girls.” She did a high kick and narrowly missed a lamp. “Now all I need is a boyfriend and I’ll be set.”

“Is there anyone attractive in the show?”

“Are you kidding? A musical is like a sexual desert—unless you’re a fag. Dickie is having a ball with all those chorus boys—it’s like smorgasbord. The leading man is straight—handsome, too—but he has a wife who looks like his mother, and she sits around and watches him every second. The guy who plays opposite Terry King is bald without his rug. The only normal man is the old lech who plays Helen’s father. He’s sixty-five if he’s a day, but he’s always trying to grab a feel. But one of the girls in the chorus has a boyfriend who’s got a friend named Mel Harris. He’s a press agent, and she’s going to arrange for me to double-date with them. I hope something comes out of it. . . . It’d be awful not to have a date on my own opening night. Are you still going to the New York opening with George Bellows?”

“Of course not. I’m . . . well. . . I’m engaged to Allen.”

“Then lemme buy you a pair of seats for the opening. It’ll be my present to you.”

“Don’t you get seats free?”

“Are you kidding? No one does, not even Helen Lawson. But she gets to buy four house seats every night, and someone told me when a show is a hit she sells them to a scalper and makes a fortune.”

“But Neely, I couldn’t let you buy my seats . . . Allen will get them. And Neely, if the Mel thing doesn’t work out, we’ll take you out after your opening.”

Neely had her date with Mel Harris the following week. He was divine, she insisted. He had taken her to Toots Shor’s and told her all about himself. He was twenty-six, had been graduated from New York University, was a press agent but one day hoped to be a producer. He lived in a small midtown hotel and went to Brooklyn every Friday night to have dinner with his family.

“You see, Jewish men are very family conscious,” Neely explained.

“Do you really like him?” Anne asked.

“I love him!”

“Neely, you’ve only had one date. How can you be in love?”

“Look who’s talking. All you had was one lunch with Lyon Burke.”

“Neely! There’s nothing between Lyon Burke and me. I don’t even think about him. In fact, I’m getting quite fond of Allen.”

“Well, I
know
I love Mel. He’s beautiful. Not beautiful like Lyon, but great.”

“What
does
he look like?”

Neely shrugged. “Maybe a little like Georgie Jessel, but to me he’s gorgeous. And he didn’t try to get fresh, either. Even when I lied and said I was twenty. I was afraid seventeen would scare him off.”

Neely cocked her head toward the open door. They were sitting in Anne’s room, and the telephone was downstairs in front of Neely’s room. It was both a convenience and a hazard. She was constantly forced to take messages for everyone in the house.

“This time it’s for me,” she shrieked as she heard the tinny ring.

Five minutes later she bounded back, breathlessly triumphant. “It was him! He’s taking me to the Martinique tonight. He handles some singer there.”

“He must do very well,” Anne said.

“No, he only makes a hundred a week. He works for Irving Steiner and Irving handles about twelve big accounts. But soon he’s going out on his own, though he’s trying to get connected with radio. You know, Jewish men make marvelous husbands.”

“So I’ve heard. But how do they feel about Irish girls?”

Neely knit her brows. “Look, I can always tell him I’m part Jewish. That I took the O’Hara as a stage name.”

“Neely, you’d never get away with it.”

“If I had to, I would. I’m going to marry him. You watch.” She hugged herself and danced across the room, singing softly.

“That’s a pretty song. What is it?”

“From the show. Hey Anne, why don’t you take that mink coat Allen’s father offered you and sell me your black coat? I need a black coat.”

“Neely, sing that song again.”

“Why?”

“Just sing it.”

“It’s Terry King’s number. But I think Helen Lawson is planning to take it. She’s already taken one of Terry’s songs. Poor Terry only has two left, this and another. One’s a real torcher—Helen can’t take that from her. Helen’s character can’t sing that number in the show. It’d be against the plot.”

“Sing the song, Neely—the one you were singing.”

“If I do, will you sell me your black coat when you get the mink?”

“I’ll
give
it to you . . . if I ever take the mink. Sing the song.”

Neely sighed, and like a child forced to recite, stood in the center of the room and sang the ballad. Anne could hardly believe it. Neely had an extraordinary voice, crystal clear. Her low notes were strong and melodious, and her higher range had power and beauty.

“Neely! You can really sing!”

“Oh, anyone can sing,” Neely said, laughing.

“Not like that. I couldn’t carry a tune if my life was at stake.”

“If you grew up in vaudeville you could. I can dance, juggle, even do some sleight of hand. You stand around in the wings, you pick it up.”

“But Neely, you sing
well.
Really well.”

Neely shrugged. “That and a nickel will get me a cup of coffee.”

Anne became personally involved with
Hit the Sky
at the end of the second week of rehearsals. Henry called in late one afternoon just as she was about to leave the office.

“Anne, thank God you’re still there. Look, honey, you can save my life. I’m stuck at N.B.C. The Ed Holson show airs tonight at nine and the last twenty minutes has to be rewritten. Ed is a ballbreaker—the writers are ready to quit and he’s thrown out the producer. I can’t leave. And Helen Lawson expects me to drop by with a portfolio of her new stocks. It’s on my desk.”

“Shall I send it by messenger?”

“No,
take
it to her. But don’t say I’m at N.B.C. Tell her I’m locked in a board-of-directors meeting on that real-estate deal she’s interested in and that I couldn’t get away. As long as she thinks I’m out making a buck for
her,
she won’t mind. Give it to her personally, and for God’s sake be convincing with the message.”

“I’ll do my best,” Anne promised.

“Take it to the Booth Theatre, backstage entrance. They should be breaking any minute. Tell her I’ll go over everything in detail with her tomorrow.”

She was sorry Henry had caught her. If only she had left earlier. She wasn’t good at things like this. Meeting Helen Lawson face to face was not her idea of a casual everyday encounter.

She was nervous when she reached the theatre and timidly opened the black, rusted stage door. Even the old doorman who sat near the radiator reading the racing form looked formidable.

He looked up. “Well? Whaddaya want?”

She wondered about all those movies where the gay chorus girls called a paternal stage doorman “Dad.” This one was staring at her as if she were in a police lineup.

She explained, pointing to the portfolio as added proof. He jerked his head, said, “In there,” and went back to his paper.

“In there” she bumped into a frantic man holding a script. “What the hell are
you
doing here?” he whispered angrily.

She went through the entire explanation again, secretly cursing Henry.

“Well, they’re still rehearsing,” he grumbled. “You can’t stand here in the wings. Go through that door and sit in the audience till we break.”

She groped her way into the dark, empty theatre. Gil Case was sitting on the aisle of the third row, his hat tilted to shade his eyes from the glaring work light on the stage. The chorus girls were sitting in a tired little group against the back wall of the bare stage. Some were whispering quietly among themselves, a few were massaging their calves, one was knitting. Neely was sitting erect, her eyes fastened on Helen Lawson. Helen stood in the center of the stage, singing a love song with a tall, handsome man.

She was belting out the lyrics in her famous style. Her smile was bright and merry, and even in the love song she exuded her familiar hale and hearty attitude. Her eyes flashed with grinning humor when the lyrics went into comedy, and her face went serious when the song moved into the inevitable lover’s lament. Her figure was beginning to show signs of middle age—the thickness through the waist, the slight spread in the hips. Recalling Helen’s appearance in the past, Anne felt as if she were gazing at the cruel distortion of a monument. Age settled with more grace on ordinary people, but for celebrities—women stars in particular—age became a hatchet that vandalized a work of art. Helen’s figure had always been her biggest asset. Playing broad comedy in a high-styled wardrobe had been a Helen Lawson trademark. Her face, although never classically beautiful, had been attractive and vivacious with her shock of long black hair.

Helen had not had a Broadway opening for five years. Her last show had enjoyed a two-year run, then a year on tour. She had met her last husband on that tour. There had been a whirlwind courtship in Omaha, Nebraska, then a huge wedding, with Helen telling the press that she intended to settle on his ranch as soon as the show ended its run. There she would play her greatest role, her final role—that of a wife. The big, smiling husband, Red Ingram, also assured the press that Helen’s place was on his ranch. “I never saw this little girl in any of her shows,” he told the world. “Just as well—I mighta nipped her career long ago. She’s for me.”