Valley of the Dolls (39 page)

“I don’t believe they lose money,” she said stubbornly. “They’re just so worried about television they want my pictures to carry the whole studio. Yeah, sure . . . I’m supposed to work like crazy so The Head can sit in his palace or go to his beach house and screw all the starlets. Who’s paying for all this?
Me
and my talent.”

“Neely, last year three low-budget pictures without stars brought in bigger profits than your last two pictures. One cost eight hundred thousand and grossed four million. If you don’t believe your picture lost money, ask your agents.”

“Who can trust them? They’d go along with the studio. They got other stars to peddle, so they play ball with the guy who does the hiring.”

“Then trust me. Just try. . . .”

“Okay, so I trust you. So does that mean I’m supposed to go on the set tomorrow looking like an ice cream cone in that dress?”

“Neely, you look great in that dress.”

“I look lousy.” She poured herself another drink.

“No, you just want Ted Casablanca’s clothes and no one else’s designs will ever satisfy you. But you can’t have them.”

“That’s not true.” She sniveled and dabbed at her eyes. “Now you sound just like Dr. Mitchell.”

“Well? You trust him, and he’s obviously told you the same thing.”

She smiled. “Okay, maybe you’re right.”

“Good girl. You’ll be in tomorrow?”

She nodded. He kissed her on the cheek and left the bungalow.

She sat there and poured another drink. It was almost six o’clock. She had called Dr. Mitchell when she walked off the set and made an appointment for nine. Nine—that would take until ten, and she wouldn’t get home until eleven or in bed until twelve. If she was going to learn the lyrics of the song for the nightclub scene . . . She called and canceled the doctor and went home.

She sat in bed, her dinner on a tray before her. She tried to memorize the lyrics. Why had she drunk all that Scotch earlier? Her mind just wouldn’t function. Maybe she should go to sleep now. Yes, that was it. Be asleep at nine and leave a call for five. She could learn the lines from five to seven easy. With eight hours of sleep she’d feel great.

She sent the dinner tray back untouched. Might as well skip a meal. She had weighed a hundred and three that morning. Besides, the dolls always worked faster on an empty stomach. She took two red and one yellow. Then she poured half a glass of Scotch. The wonderful, relaxed drowsiness began. She sipped her drink and waited for the real reaction, the anesthetic feeling that would seep through her whole body and drag her down into sleep. But it didn’t come, just the drowsiness. That wasn’t enough. She could still think—and if she thought she’d think about being alone. And then she’d think of Ted and that girl. And she had no one. She was alone—as alone as when she was part of The Gaucheros, touring with Charlie and Dick, alone in strange hotel rooms—with no one who cared about her.

Perspiration made her neck damp and trickled down her back—she felt clammy. She stumbled out of bed and changed her pajamas. Dr. Mitchell was right—she was building up a tolerance to the pills. Maybe one more yellow . . . No, then she’d be groggy and hungover in the morning, and she had to learn those lyrics. Jesus. Today she had needed three green dolls just to get through the morning shooting. She poured a full glass of Scotch. Maybe one more red pill . . . yeah, they wore off faster. She swallowed it quickly. And she wouldn’t drink all this Scotch, just sip at it until the pills worked. Maybe she should read, that always made her drowsy. Anne had sent her another of Lyon’s books. This was the arty type again. She skimmed the pages. It had gotten good reviews—but what good were reviews? The book wasn’t selling.

Suddenly she wished Anne was with her. Anne always knew what to do. It was a shame Anne had made it so big on TV. If she hadn’t she could send for her, give her a couple hundred a week to be a personal secretary. Geez, wouldn’t that be dreamy? But Anne must be making a fortune. You couldn’t turn on television without seeing Anne demonstrating hairspray or lipstick. But why shouldn’t she have made it, especially if those rumors were true about her and that Gillmore guy. But even so, Anne had class. Not like Jennifer. Imagine—the trades said Hollywood was bidding for her, and she was turning them down. Jennifer turning Hollywood down! That broad was making a fortune by showing her fanny and tits in those French pictures. The darling of the art houses. Art houses shit! If Hollywood made pictures like that they would just be dirty pictures. And lately Hollywood was getting so goddam moral. No more low-cut dresses, no soul kissing, moral clauses in every contract. And this same Hollywood was begging Jennifer to come star for them. Sure, they’d cover her tits and her ass. But they’d make her a star, give her the same kind of money real stars were getting just because she had once walked around and showed her boobs!

She took another long swallow of her drink. She wasn’t sleepy. She was just getting drunk. And hungry. God, she was starving! She wished she hadn’t sent that tray down. There was caviar in the refrigerator. No . . . she mustn’t. Damn Ted for teaching her to like it! But the costumes were tight as it was. The booze was doing it. Geez, she never ate a thing, and now, if she ate on top of all the booze—No, it wouldn’t be fair to John. He had been so nice today. Funny . . . she had never noticed how blue his eyes were against his tan skin. He must be about fifty, but he was beautiful. John . . . here . . . beside her. Geez, that’d be nice. If he held her in his arms she’d feel protected.

She looked at the clock. Ten-thirty. Maybe John could come over. He could tell his wife it was to discuss a scene. He was probably sitting worrying about her now, wondering whether she’d show. She smiled. No, she wouldn’t ask him to come tonight. She’d already rubbed the lanolin in her hair. But tomorrow she’d work like a horse and ask him to come back for a cold supper and work with her. And it would be more than just a quick bang. She’d make him stay and hold her in his arms until she fell asleep. Maybe he could stay often. She’d cooperate. They’d bring the picture in on time. She’d demand that he direct all her pictures. His kids were grown—maybe he could be with her a lot. She’d call him and tell him she was studying. That would be a good start—so at least he’d fall asleep thinking of her.

She called the studio and got his unlisted number. Then she dialed his home. A woman answered. Neely put on her most gurgly voice. “Is this Mrs. Stykes?”

“No, this is Charlotte—the maid.”

“Oh. Is Mr. Stykes there?”

“No, madame. They are out for the evening. May I take a message?”

“No. No message.” Neely hung up.

Out with his wife! Probably sitting at Romanoff’s telling his wife about how he had conned Neely O’Hara. She could just hear him . . . “I got her eating out of my hand. She’s easy—she may be a star, but underneath she’s just a lousy little mick who’s scared to death. You just have to know how to handle her.” Well,
no one
handled Neely O’Hara! She might have been born a little mick, but she was a star now! She could do what she goddam well liked!

She got out of bed and tiptoed downstairs. Suddenly she stopped. “What the hell am I tippy-toeing around for? This is
my
house!”

There was no one in the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out a large jar of caviar. “Neely, we’re gonna have a ball,” she said aloud. She took a spoon and ate the caviar from the jar. She finished it off. “Now what? Come on, Neely, you can have anything you want. ’Cause you’re a star . . . a big fucking talent . . . nah . . . a fucking
big
talent. And you can have anything.” She lurched against the refrigerator. “Lessee. More caviar? Why not? You bought it.” She opened another jar. “Hah! Now we’ll just take some pâté upstairs in case we wanna eat it later. Neely, nothin’s too good for you.”

She reached out and took a new bottle of Scotch off the bar and stumbled her way up the stairs. She poured another drink and went to the cabinet in the bathroom. “Now, Neely, whaddaya want—red, yellow or blue dolls? Anything you want, baby.” She swallowed two red pills. Then she staggered into bed. She picked up the phone and buzzed. The butler answered. “Lissen, Charlie, cancel the early call. Call the studio tomorrow and tell ’em Miss O’Hara has . . . has laryn . . . laryngitis. And I won’t take any calls. I’m gonna sleep . . . and eat. . . and sleep . . . and eat. . . for maybe a week. When I wake up tomorrow I want pancakes, with butter and loads of syrup. I’m gonna have an orgy!”

1956

Neely had dressed carefully. White slacks, a loose blouse that would hide the roll around her waistline. Geez, why was it so hard to lose the ten pounds this time? Wardrobe fittings for the new picture started in a few days. And now, out of the blue, The Head wanted to see her. She wondered what was up. She thought about it all during her drive to the studio.

The call had come late the previous afternoon. Eddie Frank, one of his satellites, delivered the message. Respectful, casual and easy. “Oh, Miss O’Hara, The Head would like you to have lunch with him tomorrow if it’s convenient.”

If it’s convenient! Ha! As if anyone had anything more convenient to do if The Head summoned. Boy, they had short memories. Three years ago when she won the Oscar
he
had come to
her.
Well, this new picture would fix things. Geez, what a part. And the songs . . . She’d win an Oscar nomination for sure, maybe even another Oscar.

She sat there across the great expanse of Early American desk, trying to look eager and young. He liked her that way. She decided The Head must have been born old. He never changed—that shock of white hair, the perennial tan that blended with the crusted liver spots. His eyes twinkled merrily and his small hands played with the trade papers on his desk.

“Dearie, do you know why I sent for you?”

“No sir, but it’s always a pleasure to see you, sir.” (Oh, she knew all the right protocol.)

“Did you see yesterday’s trades?”

(Oh, God, that award. That stinking award.)

“Miss Front Office Poison of 1956—Neely O’Hara. Not very pleasant, is it?” he asked kindly.

She fidgeted. “Oh, you know those awards.” She used her little-girl voice. “I was real hurt when I saw it. But several people told me it means nothing. The press just gets together each year and picks a patsy. Last year they gave it to Stewart Lane and he’s Twentieth’s top star.”

“No, he is not.” The voice was still kind. “He never made it back after the war. Every one of his pictures has lost money. But they’re committed for two more years so they keep it quiet.”

“Well, my pictures do great.”

“At the box office, yes. For us—-no.”

She squirmed. Well, here it was again—the overtime, the missed rehearsals, the pep talk . . .

“This new picture is very expensive,” he stated. “Prices have soared. We’re competing with television, and people won’t go out just to see any movie. Not when they can see entertainment for free in their own homes. It’s no longer a little box—it’s got a big face and it’s getting bigger.”

She played with the cuticles on her fingers. What the hell—she hadn’t invented the damn thing. Let him go holler at General Sarnoff.

“We’re putting more money into
Let’s Live Tonight
than any other picture we’ve ever made. Any overtime and we’re dead. Sam Jackson is working on a tight schedule.”

“Sam’s one of my favorite producers,” she said.

“I’ve made a deal with Sam. For every day he brings the picture in
under
the shooting schedule, he gets a thousand-dollar bonus.”

It
was
going to be a rat race.

“And the first time he’s one day behind he goes off the picture.”

“You mean you’d take Sam Jackson off a picture?”

“I’ll take anyone off who can’t meet my demands. Hollywood has changed, dearie. We’ve let the last of our contract players go. Your present contract has one year to go, and when . . .
if
we renegotiate, it won’t be like before.”

You’re damn right it won’t be, she thought. I’ll form a corporation and get a piece of the action. I’ll own something. Her tax men had explained this to her.

“No, dearie.” He sighed. “Everything is changing. Now I can’t tell the stockholders to mind their business. Now I have to answer to them—and the only answer they want is profits.”

She nodded and wondered when the interview would end. This was just a routine pep talk! He had a nerve dragging her out here just for this. She was hungry—he could at least have ordered lunch. She hadn’t had breakfast and she had only taken one Dexie.

“That’s why I’m taking you off the picture,” he said.

She stared at him in astonishment.

“Dearie, I can’t afford the risk. Sam Jackson can be replaced if he doesn’t work out. But if you’re on film I can’t replace you. I’d have to start from the top . . . reshoot everything.”

“But you can’t replace me before I even begin,” she stammered.

“Why not? Look at you. You’re fat again. Fittings are scheduled for next week, and you won’t be ready. No, this is too big a venture. I’m putting in Janie Lord.”

“Janie Lord! Why, she’s just beginning.” He couldn’t mean it. He was just trying to scare her.

“She’s made three inexpensive pictures and they all made money. She’s got stories in every fan magazine this month. This picture will make her a star, a big one. And I’ve got Brick Nelson playing opposite her for insurance.”

She had wondered about Brick Nelson. He was expensive, and usually her pictures had no other top-monied stars. She was the star, the whole picture. Her mind raced to her contract. He wasn’t kidding. But could he cancel her like this after she had been announced? With no cause?

“There’s nothing you can do, legally,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “We rewrote the role so it calls for a younger girl.”

“Younger girl! Listen, I’m only twenty-eight. That’s not exactly over the hill.”

“You look forty,” he said casually.

“I have no makeup on,” she said defensively.

“You have circles under your eyes . . . the beginnings of a double chin. You’re a mess.”