Valley of the Dolls (44 page)

“You’ll be fine,” the director kept repeating.

“No,
no!
I’m not doing the show!”

“Neely, you’ve got to,” Anne insisted. “The time is paid for. . . the show goes on in an hour.”

“I can’t do it,” she sobbed.

“Then you’ll never work again,” the director suddenly snapped.

“Who wants to? If I never set foot near a television studio again, it’s too soon for me!”

“I mean in any medium,” the director said coolly.

“Who says?”

“AFTRA. If you walk out on a show like this, it’s breaking a contract. All the unions are affiliated in upholding the rules. AFTRA, SAG and Equity.”

“What would happen if I suddenly dropped dead?”

He smiled coldly. “Unfortunately, I hardly think that’s likely.”

“Couldn’t you just announce that I developed a sudden case of laryngitis?” she pleaded.

The director sighed. “Neely, the network doctor would insist on examining you. The network went co-op on all the ads—they’ve spent a fortune. Now look. You’ve got an hour—don’t even think about the show. Go to your dressing room and relax.”

Neely went to her dressing room. She made a hurried phone call and contacted a bellboy at her hotel. He arrived ten minutes later. A twenty-dollar bill and a small bottle exchanged hands. Neely stared at the bottle. “You little red dolls,” she said softly. “Now for God’s sake do your work. I’m relying on you. I can’t even help you with the booze—they’d say I was drunk.” She quickly swallowed six. “Come on, babies,” she cooed as she lay down. “Come on . . . I haven’t eaten anything. You little dolls can work fast on an empty stomach.”

In ten minutes she began to feel the familiar light-headed reaction. She let it seep through her. It wasn’t enough. They’d be able to rouse her with black coffee. She staggered over to the sink and took two more. “Come on, dollies, make Neely groggy so’s she can be sick . . .” She heard the muffled sounds of the audience filing in, the musicians tuning up. She gulped down two more. Dimly she heard someone calling her name, but she was floating far away. . . .

The network had to run a kinescope of a past show. They announced that due to technical difficulties the Neely O’Hara show would not be aired. Kevin did not bring charges against Neely, but the network did. Neely had to be a test case, they said. Too many big names had been scheduled for spectaculars in the new season, and if Neely got away with it there might be other disasters. She received a one-year suspension from all work—pictures, stage, nightclubs and television.

At first she didn’t care. She went back to California and holed up at her pool. The newspapers and trade papers attacked her without mercy. They called her temperamental; they hinted that she had been drinking; they unanimously declared she was washed up.

Sometimes she spent day after day in bed, until her housekeeper would force her to the pool. Sometimes at midnight she’d leap into her car and head for a bar. There she’d stand, with a bandana around her hair and no makeup, unrecognized, lost in soft anonymity, sipping beer, happy to be with people. She didn’t care; she had enough money; she could sit out the year. It would blow over, and then she’d get back into shape and maybe do a Broadway show. That would be fun. She’d show them. Meantime she could eat anything she wanted . . . and drink. There were always the wonderful red and yellow dolls—and now there were even some new blue-striped ones!

Anne was badly shaken by Neely’s behavior. Her first instinct had been to follow her to the Coast. Neely was in no condition to be left alone. But her own television commitments could not be ignored . . . and there was her loyalty to Kevin, too. She felt a personal guilt about the Neely walkout, which had been very costly. He had been forced to pay for the time, the advertisements, the musicians and the overtime, with no high-rated program to show for it.

But as the weeks passed, her anxiety about Neely was submerged in the constant daily crisis of live television. New color tests were being done, and sometimes the hot lights were almost unbearable. Yet she never thought of quitting—there was nothing else she particularly wanted to do.

Sometimes items about Neely—blind or real—appeared in the columns. Everyone seemed convinced that Neely was going through some kind of deliberate self-destruction, yet it was impossible for Anne to reconcile the image of the nervous, tortured Neely with the bright-eyed child who had once lived below her on Fifty-second Street.
That
was the real Neely. This phantom that Hollywood had created would eventually disappear and the real Neely would return.

It seemed impossible that a place could really change people. More than a decade had passed, yet in some ways she felt no different than she had when she first arrived in New York. If she sat and analyzed herself she knew she would find New York was no longer a pulsating fairyland. Broadway was a Coney Island arcade and Forty-second Street was a tenderloin. Fifth Avenue no longer thrilled her. Even the giant tree at Rockefeller Center at Christmas was no longer a spectacle. An opening of a show or nightclub brought out the same stale faces.

But it was still a better world by far than the world of Lawrenceville. In Lawrenceville people hibernated and life passed them by. At least she was on the scene, where things were happening. Yet something was lacking. Sometimes she looked in the mirror very closely and tried to see herself objectively. Had she changed? She used makeup now—had she really gone to El Morocco in those early days with just a dab of powder and lipstick? Now she felt undressed without the subtle pancake, the eye shadow and mascara. And her clothes—she still insisted things be simple and muted in color, but name designers created the well-cut suits and she had long since discarded Jennifer’s mink coat for one of her own, designed by New York’s leading furrier.

But once, for a fleeting moment, the passage of time was wiped out by the expression in Allen Cooper’s eyes. They met accidentally at the Colony. She was with Kevin. Allen introduced his wife, an attractive young girl who wore a large emerald-cut diamond, identical to the one Allen had given her. At the moment a crazy idea hit Anne—maybe he had a drawer full, in all sizes for the proper occasions.

She had often wondered what she’d do or how she’d feel if she ran into Allen. And like most long-anticipated meetings, the actual happening was uneventful and far from dramatic. Allen was losing his hair, but he still wore striped ties and he still traveled with Gino. Age had suddenly caught up with Gino. He had developed the palsied fragility that afflicted so many elderly people. He seemed to be shriveling away before her eyes.

She knew Allen had wanted to be indifferent and curt, but the old admiration welled in his eyes. “Anne . . . you look marvelous.”

“You look well too, Allen.”

“We see you all the time on television, don’t we, Gino?”

“Yeah, sure,” Gino answered.

There was a pause. God, was there nothing to say after ten years?

“Allie always points you out when you do those commercials.” This was Allen’s wife.

“I’m glad to hear that you watch. Most people run to the refrigerator for beer while I’m on.”

“No, I always watch, even though I don’t use the Gillian products. My beautician says—” She stopped suddenly, alerted by the pressure Allen put on her arm.

Kevin came to the rescue. “I’m sure anyone so young and lovely doesn’t need much help from cosmetics.”

The girl blushed with pleasure and giggled.

“What’s with our table?” Gino complained shrilly. “If we’da gone to Morocco instead of this fancy place we wouldn’t be standing around like this.”

The captain motioned to Kevin that his table was ready. There were mumbled good-bys. Anne and Kevin walked away as Gino went into another tirade about the lousy service and why didn’t they go to Morocco.

Anne felt sad. People parted, years passed, they met again—and the meeting proved no reunion, offered no warm memories, only the acid knowledge that time had passed and things weren’t as bright or attractive as they had been. She was glad Lyon was in England. She’d hate to run into him like this, to find that his hair had thinned or that the girl he dated was too young, too insipid. It was better to keep a memory intact.

She wondered about Jennifer, too. Was Jennifer afraid to come back? At the last minute she had turned down Century’s offer and remained in Europe. Was she afraid of Hollywood? How could she be? She was the biggest star in Europe today, and her pictures were equally popular in America. She looked magnificent on the screen. Anne was well aware of the tricks and wonders of lighting, and of course Jennifer was thirty-seven, even though she was ten years younger in all her publicity releases and in her American image as well. Perhaps she was smart remaining in Europe. If Neely was any example, Hollywood could be frightening.

1957

Jennifer
was
scared of Hollywood—scared to death. Half a bottle of Seconals and a stomach pump had forced Claude to reconsider and not sign with Century the year before. But this year brought another fantastic offer, and this one was just too lucrative to pass up. A three-picture deal and one million dollars deposited tax free in a Swiss bank! Of course Claude would split it with her, but half a million clear! She couldn’t turn that down. And at thirty-seven her looks were still intact—the right lights dissolved all the tiny lines. Claude would have the entire say on everything, and he would see about the silk on the camera and the soft lighting. Of course, there were the candid photographs to contend with. There would be reporters at Idlewild in New York, and there would be an even bigger reception in Hollywood. Flash cameras couldn’t be fooled, but Claude would think of something. Maybe she could stage a Garbo-like entrance—hide from the cameras.

Early one morning, a week after she had signed the contract, Claude arrived at her apartment.

“I just got the cable—the money is deposited.”

“Separately?” she asked.

“Yes. Here is your number—put it in a vault. I have my own.”

She stretched in bed happily. “Isn’t it wonderful? I can have a three-month vacation before I leave. Maybe I’ll go to Capri, and then New York. I’ll wear a black wig. I’ll see all the shows with Anne and really have some fun. God, it will be good to speak English again.”

Claude threw back the covers and yanked her out of bed. Then he flung open the windows and let the daylight in.

“Are you crazy?” she asked.

“Stand just as you are—at the window.”

She shivered. It was September, but the sun was weak and cold as it grudgingly forced its way through a clouded Paris sky.

He sighed. “Yes, it must be done.”

“What must be done?”

“The face lift.”

“You
are
crazy!” She pulled away from him and threw on her robe.

He dragged her to the mirror. “Here, look at yourself in the daylight. No! Don’t hold your head up and smile—look at yourself in repose.”

“Claude . . . I’ll always be in makeup. And I know my best angles. Who would ever get a chance to see me like this?”

“Hollywood! The makeup men, the studio hairdressers . . . word will travel fast.”

“But I’m still not exactly a hag. I look pretty good for thirty-seven.”

“But you don’t look twenty-seven!”

She stared in the mirror. Well, there
was
a little slack under her jaw. Not much, really . . . if she held her head back and smiled, it disappeared. But in repose it was there. A wattle, Claude called it. Yes, she saw what he meant—that indefinable slackness in the skin that tells the difference between the twenties and the thirties. No actual lines, but the taut, young look was gone. No one noticed these things in a café, or with flattering lighting . . . but they were there. Maybe he was right. But Jesus! Face-lifting at thirty-seven! She had always thought of waxen-faced old crows of sixty when she thought of face-lifting. She recalled the heavily mascaraed, white-faced monstrosities she had seen in New York, with someone always whispering, “She’s sixty-five. Had her face done, but it doesn’t help.” No, it was too risky.

“Claude, don’t let Hollywood panic you. I’ve been there. It’s not as rough as you think. Everyone is scared of everyone else. I’ll get by.”

“I don’t want you to just get by!” he thundered. “You are
the
sex goddess of Europe. All Hollywood is waiting to see how you measure up to
their
sex symbols—Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor—and those girls are young.”

“I’m not Liz Taylor or Marilyn Monroe. I’m Jennifer North. I’m
me!”

“And
what
are
you?
A face and a pair of breasts! That’s all you are . . . all you’ve ever been!”

“I haven’t done a nude scene in my last seven pictures!”

“Because the image is planted. You could wear a burlap bag, but everyone knows what’s under it. They know every inch of your body by heart, and they see it no matter what you wear. Don’t ever get it into your head that you have anything else to offer.”

“Then the image exists in America, too. They’ve seen all my pictures.”

“Jennifer, don’t you trust my judgment?” His manner changed and he tried a gentle smile. “You do have something else. There are plenty of naked stars in Europe, but they cannot touch you. Because you have one extra ingredient. A sweetness, a youthful sweetness that no French girl seems to have. They can be piquant, mischievous, naive—but you have that American freshness. And that freshness can only be retained with youth. A young face. Despite the golden hair and the sexy breasts, there is something about your looks that conveys an impression of innocence, of girlishness . . . almost of purity. Now, we have no problems with your body. It’s still marvelous—but you’ve got to drop ten pounds.”

“Oh no you don’t! That’s what happened to Neely. As it is, I take three or four sleeping pills every night to keep the circles away. You’re not going to get me on the pep pills. I weigh one-eighteen and I’m five foot six—that’s thin enough.”

“For nude scenes, yes. But not for the high fashions they will put you in. But you will not take pep pills. I have it all arranged. You will go to Switzerland for the sleep cure.”