Jacqueline Susann's Shadow of the Dolls (3 page)

“My husband isn’t like that. And I’m only thirty-four! Really, it’s just these little lines coming in around my eyes and on my forehead that I wanted you to take a look at. I’ve been reading about all these new procedures, and, well, I don’t know. I probably just should
have gone to my dermatologist. My husband would probably laugh if I’d told him I was coming here. He thinks I’m perfect.”

“Those are the ones who put the most pressure on their wives. Men think they’re marrying a perfect physical specimen, they’re really into this idea of their wives being the most beautiful woman in the room, and then when things start changing, as they inevitably do, sometimes the men can’t make the transition.”

“My husband isn’t like that,” Anne said. “This is for me.”

“You used to model, didn’t you?” the doctor asked.

“You have a good memory,” Anne said. “That was a long time ago. I was the Gillian Girl. I did all their makeup and perfume ads for years. In the seventies? You might have seen me on television, in a little white bikini, dancing around to really bad disco music.”

“No, that isn’t it. People used to bring in your print ads. To show me what they wanted to look like. ‘I want Anne Welles’s nose’ is what every third woman used to ask. Elegant, not too small, absolutely straight.” He moved her chin to the side and inspected her profile. “I finally get to see the original.”

“You said ‘used to.’ What nose do they ask for now?”

“Oh, same nose, pretty much, just some other model’s name. Someone who’s in all the magazines this year.”

Someone a lot younger, Anne thought. Someone who still has everything ahead of her. Someone who still jumps out of bed in the morning looking forward to her day. Someone who doesn’t know what it’s like to bury a best friend. Someone who hasn’t met her Lyon yet.

A
nne decided against the injections recommended by the doctor and spent the summer covered in sunscreen, under a broad-brimmed hat, drinking gallons of water and eating huge salads and drinking only wine, only at night. It wasn’t so hard to do. Jenn was
away at camp, and Lyon was up in Maine, where two of his most important clients were starring opposite each other in a movie about an archaeologist who falls in love with a prostitute.

Here in Southampton everyone looked like Anne’s mother, or one of Anne’s aunts, or someone Anne’s aunts would have approved of. The house was small, but the property was lovely and close to the ocean. Anne had bought it two years ago, right after Jenn’s seventh birthday. Lyon had argued for East Hampton, but Anne said there were too many movie people buying houses in East Hampton, which was another way of saying East Hampton was a place she was likely to run into someone who had slept with Lyon, or wanted to sleep with Lyon, or was friends with someone who knew the woman Lyon was thinking of sleeping with next. On bad days, Anne felt as if all the women in the world fell into one of these three categories.

Today was a bad day. Lyon hadn’t telephoned in nearly a week. She knew better than to try telephoning him in Maine. Ages ago, they had made an agreement never to call each other on a shoot. Anne hadn’t worked in years, but she still held up her end of the bargain. If she called his hotel, the receptionist would tell her that everyone was on the set. If she called the set, they would tell her that Lyon was in a meeting.

It was a typical Southampton day. Jogging at seven, breakfast at eight, correspondence at nine. Lists at ten (a local girl came in for light cleaning and the grocery run), dance class at eleven, then lunch with friends, friends being the wives of men Lyon did business with, at a restaurant that served nothing but hamburgers and half a dozen salads chopped into pieces so fine that you could barely tell what was in them.

And then the afternoon, the long horrible August afternoon, the house too quiet, the telephone ringing every twenty minutes with an invitation to someplace she didn’t want to go, the sun beating
through the wide picture windows (the sun was her enemy now; what she would give to undo those two California summers of tanning and gin), the beautiful beach spread out before her, and absolutely nothing to do.

The hour between three and four was the hardest. It was too early to start getting ready for dinner. It was too late to start anything new. In the city this was the best hour of the day; it was when Jenn came home from school, friends in tow, giggling, telling dumb jokes, spilling cookie crumbs across the carpets. Anne curled up on the couch and tried to read a book, but she kept falling asleep after just a page or two.

She smelled him before she saw him. Lime cologne, sandalwood soap, unfiltered cigarettes.

“Lyon,” she said. She opened her eyes. He was holding a small red box tied with a silky white ribbon.

“Darling.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost five. Happy to see me?”

“Oh darling, of course I’m happy to see you. I just—”

He sat on the edge of the couch and stroked her hair. “Kiss,” he said, leaning over. He tasted of cinnamon mouthwash. “Ah. I see. You’re angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. Just give me a minute. I just need to adjust. I wasn’t expecting—well, you haven’t called in over a week.”

“It’s hell on the set. A total disaster. You know what it’s like. We’re all wrecks. I’m a wreck.”

“Oh dear.”

“Here. I brought you this.”

It was a pair of enormous coral earrings, shaped like shells and swirled with gold.

“My God, Lyon, they’re gorgeous. I love them. What they must have cost.”

“You should read the business pages, darling,” he said. “We’re having a spectacular summer.”

“We are?”

“An unbelievably fantastically fabulous summer.”

“Lucky us,” said Anne. She had stopped following the stock market. They had long ago divided their labor. Lyon took care of the business and their stock portfolio and the taxes and all the insurance. Anne took care of Jenn’s trust fund, the co-op, and the house in Southampton.

“We are rich,” Lyon said.

Anne smiled. “We were rich before. We were rich in June.”

“Well, now we’re richer. Let’s go someplace wonderful for dinner.”

“Or let’s stay in. I’ll grill us some steaks.”

“I haven’t been to a decent restaurant all summer. Let’s go out. I’ve made a killing in the market, and I want to take my beautiful wife out to dinner.”

Anne changed into a white cotton piqué sundress and white high-heeled sandals. She twisted her hair into a knot at the nape of her neck and snapped the lever-back earrings into place. On each wrist, a wide gold bangle bracelet, and around her shoulders, a pale yellow sweater that set off her hair.

Lyon chose a restaurant in East Hampton that was crowded and noisy and filled with people they knew. They didn’t have a reservation and they hadn’t called ahead, but of course there was a table, in a good corner, with an excellent view of the room. The food was fair. The service was slow. The wine list was impeccable.

Every few minutes someone stopped by the table to say hello to Lyon, to exchange gossip, to ask how the movie was going, to introduce a new girlfriend, to show off a new wife.

“We haven’t had ten uninterrupted minutes since we got here,” Anne said when the coffee arrived.

“I forgot what a scene this place can be.”

“It’s always a scene.”

“We’ll catch up when we get home,” said Lyon.

“Let’s have a nice quiet weekend, just the two of us.”

“How I wish. I fly back the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh Lyon, not really.”

“No choice. I shouldn’t even have come down at all.” He took her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist.

“Maybe I’ll fly back with you.”

“Darling, how I wish you could.” He told her how miserable it was in Maine, how everyone was fighting, how the two stars weren’t speaking to each other, how someone threatened to walk off the set at least once a day.

“She’s a spoiled brat,” said Anne.

“A spoiled brat getting paid two million dollars to grin and bear it.”

“Why can’t you ever manage any normal people?”

“They’re all normal when I find them. Sweet and normal and cooperative and grateful for everything I do. Then I ruin them.”

“You ruin them, or success ruins them?”

“Can’t have one without the other. Listen. I go to London for a week in September. Come with me then. I’ll get us a room at the Savoy.”

After dinner they went to a birthday party for the wife of a producer Lyon occasionally worked with. There was a bar in the dining room, a bar by the swimming pool, and a third bar in the formal garden that led down to the beach.

The producer greeted them both with hugs. “Lyon, my man, I knew you’d make it. Anne. You look like a dream. As always.”

Lyon led her out to the pool. Couples were dancing to old Burt Bacharach songs on a wooden deck that had been built on the lawn. People wandered over to say hello. It was a gift Lyon had always had, making the party come to him.

A woman Anne knew from the tennis club came over with a gin and tonic in each hand.

“Have you seen Arthur?” she asked. “I’ve lost Arthur.”

“Haven’t seen him, Stella,” Lyon said.

“Well,” Stella said. She took a big swallow from one of the drinks. “Well, well, well. Anne, your earrings are adorable.”

Lyon excused himself to go make a telephone call.

“God, I love his accent,” Stella said. “I was always such a sucker for an English accent. How long have you two been married?”

“Ten years.”

“Me too! Lyon, what a catch. He always makes the party-game list.”

“What party-game list?” asked Anne.

“Oh, you’ve never played with us? This is fun. We can play now. Okay, how many people are here, would you say?”

“One-fifty, maybe two hundred,” said Anne.

“A lot of people. A lot of rich, beautiful, successful people.”

“That’s one way of looking at it.”

“Now. Think of all the men here. Imagine someone waved a magic wand and Lyon didn’t exist. Who else in the room would you want to be married to?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Oh come on, Anne, don’t be a stick-in-the-mud. I won’t tell. Who? How about him?” Stella pointed to a lawyer who had just successfully sued a national tabloid for libel.

“Don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Just because,” Anne said.

“Because even though he’s rich and smart and funny and probably great in bed, he’s also fat and short and probably has hair all up and down his back, right? You don’t have to say it. He never makes the list. Okay. How about him?” Stella nodded at a real estate developer who had just gotten divorced from his third wife.

“No.”

“You see, he’d be on my list. He’s totally charming and he’d take me all over the world and then he’d dump me, dump me in some horrible way, dump me the way he’s dumped all his other wives, but I’d get a great settlement, right? I could definitely stand to be married to him.” Stella had finished her own drink and was now starting on Arthur’s. She tilted her head at another lawyer, on the far end of the dance floor. “And also, to him.”

“Are you and Arthur having trouble?” asked Anne.

“Trouble? No trouble. He’s fucking my colorist, but this too shall pass.”

“You’re not serious.”

“What’s the point of being serious?” Stella said. “Anyway, she’s not such a great lay. I know this for a fact.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Arthur never feels like fooling around, I mean hardly ever, anymore. I can’t remember the last time we did it. It’s the great irony of life. Whenever Arthur is having a really hot affair, he turns into this absolute stallion. He just never stops. He’s like a teenager. It wears me out. So, you know, the girl can’t be much in bed.”

“Oh Stella. I’m so sorry.”

Stella shrugged. “But she’s a genius with foils.” She bowed her head and shook her long auburn hair across her shoulders. “She can fuck my husband all she wants, so long as she does this for me every six weeks.”

Lyon was back. “I found Arthur. He’s in the kitchen, they’re all singing Gilbert and Sullivan. Anne, I’m bushed, shall we?”

They rode halfway home without talking. Lyon whistled along with the radio.

He turned to her at a stoplight. “Do they all flirt with you this way when I’m not around?”

“They’re not flirting, they’re just being polite.”

“Oh, my dear, dear innocent girl. They are flirting. When a man looks at your knees, that is most definitely flirting.” He grinned. “Promise me you will never wear that dress when I’m out of town.”

“You’re always out of town.”

“You know, you flirt back. Just a little.”

“I don’t!”

“You do.”

“I do not flirt.”

“You flirt so well, you don’t even realize you’re flirting.” They were home now. “You flirt like a princess. Unapproachable and come-hither all at once.”

“Have you been flirting with princesses?”

“You see,” Lyon said. “There you go.”

She turned off the alarm while he got out the key. Inside, she bent over to take off her heels.

“Leave your shoes on,” he said.

Upstairs it was dark and warm and smelled of the sea. She sat on the far side of their bed and waited for him to tell her what he wanted. He ran his thumb back and forth across her mouth.
I’m too tired for this
, she thought, holding him against her lazy tongue, hoping he would come quickly. His sounds were the sounds of a man slipping into a warm bath after a day of hard physical labor. When it was her turn, he started at her feet. He took his time, kissing the backs of her knees and the hollows of her hips, and she read a hint of rebuke in his ardor. Afterward, they undressed slowly and silently, hanging their expensive clothes on padded hangers.

“I miss you,” she said.

“I miss you more,” he said. “How are you, darling?”

“In general?”

“Right now.”

“Right now I’m happily, deliriously satisfied, sir.”

“New pajamas?” he asked.

“Old. Just haven’t worn them in a while.”

“Lovely.”

She felt herself beginning to drift off. His fingers were pulling at her pajamas. She was as tired as he was eager. The combination seemed to excite him. In a few minutes it was over, and he was fast asleep, and she was wide awake.