Valley of the Dolls (16 page)

“New Haven. Jesus, that’s hours on a train. I must a been drunk. Look—she wasn’t too hot for us coming there anyway. Tell her I’ll come to Philadelphia.”

“Will you?”

“No, but that’s a long time off. I’ll think of something by then.”

“No, Gino. She’s a friend of mine. I won’t be part of a deception like that.”

“All right, then I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her she’s an old cow and to leave me alone.”

“If you do that I’ll never forgive you.” Anne’s voice was quiet, but her eyes were dark with anger.

Gino looked at her. He smiled. “Anne, Anne. What do you want from me? I don’t want to hurt her. But I can’t be a loverboy with her, either.”

“You can go to Philadelphia for the opening.”

“And then what? It’ll only encourage her.”

“I wouldn’t take myself that seriously,” Anne said coldly. “You’re a very attractive man, but I hardly think Helen will wither from your neglect. It’s just that I introduced you, and when someone makes a promise I think it should be kept. Once her show opens on Broadway you’ll have to stand on line at the stage door to see her.”

“Okay, okay. God forbid I should cause a situation with a coming member of my family. I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll go to Philly—there’s a late train I can take back the same night—but only if you promise to get her off my back until then. Is that a deal?”

“All right, Gino, it’s a deal.”

Helen had been even more difficult. Anne invented a story about Gino being involved with some new business deal. He was too busy to see her, but he would come to Philadelphia for the opening.

“Whaddaya mean
he’s
in the middle of a business deal?” Helen had shrieked. “What the hell do you think
I’m
doing, peeling potatoes?”

“But you
wanted
him to come to Philadelphia rather than New Haven.”

“Yeah, but this jazz about a business deal. Listen, no matter how busy I am, if I like someone I can find time to see him.”

“Well, then forget Gino,” Anne said wearily. “He’s not worth all this trouble.”

“But I need a guy—and I don’t have anyone, Annie.” Her voice was small. “So I’ve just gotta get Gino.”

“Helen, maybe Gino doesn’t really want a steady girl. . .”

“Sure he does. I got all the dirt on him. He goes with a showgirl, a big broad named Adele something.”

“You know that?”

“Sure, I read the columns. But look, he took me out while he was going with her, didn’t he? So he’s not that hot for her. I heard he’s been keeping her for about six months, but you notice he hasn’t asked her to quit her show to spend full time with him. So I figure he’s ready for a change. And it’s gonna be me! We had a ball both nights we were together. I could tell he digs me. I think maybe because of who I am he’s a little afraid—the legend and all that shit. I’m gonna call him now!”

“Helen!”

“Well for Chrissake! So he’ll say no and I won’t see him tonight. Just sitting and not calling isn’t gonna bring him to me.”

“Helen, he’s coming to Philadelphia.”

“How can I be sure?”

“Because Allen and I are also going. I promise you he’ll be there.”

“Okay.” Helen was cheerful again. “Maybe it’s for the best. The next ten days will be kind a hectic. And there’ll be a big party after the opening in Philly. Gino and I will make a fast appearance and then sneak off to my suite and have a ball. Boy, Annie, once I get him in the feathers . . .”

The week before “Getaway Day,” as Neely tagged the New Haven opening, was one never-ending crisis. The office was filled with hysterical meetings on the Ed Holson show as writers came and went. Helen called several times a day, sometimes just to chat, but mostly to complain about Gino. He’d been at El Morocco with Adele Martin three nights in a row—her designer had seen them. What was with his business deal?

“But Helen . . . he doesn’t have to meet her until after eleven. Perhaps it was just for a quick drink.”

“I’d meet him for a quick drink.”

“I’m sure he thinks too much of you to make you wait around like that . . .”

Then, in the middle of the chaos, Allen took a sudden stand. With Helen temporarily out of the picture, they had returned to their easy relationship. They were at the Stork Club; she was idly stirring a wooden stick in champagne and making a pretense of sipping it.

Suddenly he said, “Anne. How long does this go on?”

“What do you mean?”

“When are we going to get married?”

“Married?” She repeated the word tonelessly.

“Well, it
has
been the general idea.”

“But Allen . . . I thought you understood. I mean . . .”

“I said I’d wait. And I’ve waited. It’s been a month.”

“Allen, I don’t want to get married.”

When he spoke his eyes were strange. “I’d like to know something. To settle it in my own mind. Is it marriage you dislike—or me?”

“You know I don’t dislike you. I think you’re very nice.”

“Oh, God . . .” It was a groan.

“I can’t say I love you if I don’t,” she said miserably.

“Tell me something. Have you ever loved anyone?”

“No, but—”

“Do you think you’re capable of loving someone?”

“Of course!”

“But it isn’t me.”

She swizzled the champagne again and stared at the bubbles. She couldn’t bear to see his eyes.

“Anne, I think you’re afraid of sex.”

This time she looked at him. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that I’m unawakened. . . that you will change all that.”

“Exactly.”

She sipped the champagne to avoid his eyes.

“I suppose you’ve been told this before,” he said.

“No, I’ve heard it in some very bad movies.”

“Dialogue is often trite because it’s real. And it’s easier to sneer at the truth.”

“The truth?”

“That you’re afraid of life—and living.”

“Is that what you think? Just because I’m not rushing into marriage with you?” There was a hint of a smile in her eyes.

“Do you think it’s natural to reach twenty and still be a virgin?”

“Virginity isn’t an affliction.”

“Not in Lawrenceville, maybe. But then you said you don’t want to be like the people in Lawrenceville. So let me give you a few facts. Most girls of twenty aren’t virgins. In fact, most of them have gone to bed with guys they weren’t even crazy about. Their curiosity and natural sex drive led them to try it. I don’t think you’ve ever even had a decent necking session with a guy. How can you know you don’t like something if you haven’t tried it? Don’t you ever have any urges or feelings about anything? Isn’t there anyone you ever unbend with? Have you ever thrown your arms around anyone? Man, woman or child? Anne, I’ve got to break through to you. I love you. I can’t allow you to shrivel away into another New England old maid.” He grabbed her hands. “Look—forget me for a minute. Isn’t there someone you care about? Sometimes I want to shake you, to see if I can’t rattle some feeling into that perfect face of yours. Didn’t last Thursday mean anything to you?”

“Thursday?” Her mind raced back.

“It was Thanksgiving, Anne. We celebrated it at ’21.’ Jesus, doesn’t anything reach you? I was hoping you’d invite me home to Lawrenceville for Thanksgiving. I wanted to meet your mother and your aunt.”

“Someone had to be in the office on Friday, and Miss Steinberg went to Pittsburgh to see her family.”

“What about you? You’re an only child. Aren’t you close with your mother? What does she think about us? Do you realize you never mention her?”

She played with the swizzle stick again. In the beginning she had written every week. But her mother’s replies had been forced and dutiful, so after a few letters she had stopped writing. Her mother really wasn’t interested in New York, Neely or Henry Bellamy.

“I phoned my mother after the newspapers carried our engagement.”

“What did she say?”

(“Well, Anne, you probably know what you’re doing. Everyone in Lawrenceville read about it in the Boston papers. I suppose one New York man is the same as any other. No one knows anything about their families. I don’t suppose he’s related to the Coopers in Plymouth?”)

Anne smiled faintly. “She said I knew my own mind. As usual, she was wrong.”

“When will I meet her?”

“I don’t know, Allen.”

“Do you want to work for Henry Bellamy the rest of your life? Is that the height of your ambition?”

“No . . .”

“What
do
you want, Anne?”

“I don’t know. I only know what I
don’t
want to do! I don’t want to go back to Lawrenceville. I’d rather die.” She shuddered. “I don’t want to get married—until I fall in love. And I
do
want to fall in love. Allen, I want that desperately. And I want children. I want a daughter. I want to love her . . . be close to her . . .”

He beamed at her. “Good girl. This is the most you’ve opened up since I’ve known you. You may not love me, but you want everything I want. We’ll have that little girl—now, no objections.” He put his fingers to her lips as she tried to speak. “And that little girl will go to the best schools and make a debut. With your looks and background, I’ll get us to the people we should know. I’ll get a social press agent, and we’ll play up your family background. You watch—we’ll really move. Newport, Palm Beach—no more Miami for me, no more Copa.”

“But I don’t
love
you, Allen . . .”

“You don’t love anyone. But I saw a spark in your eyes when you said you wanted to be in love . . . wanted to have a child. It’s there, buried, just waiting to get out. You’re the kind who will be a wild woman in bed once you’ve tried it—”

“Allen!”

He smiled. “Now don’t knock anything you haven’t tried. I don’t like to brag, but I’ve been around. I’ll arouse you. I’ll have you begging for more—”

“I won’t sit and listen to this!”

“All right. I won’t say another word. I won’t press you about marriage . . . until Christmas. We’ll set a date then.”

“No, Allen . . .”

“I always get what I want, Anne—and I want you. I want you to love me. And you will! Now—not another word until Christmas.”

That had happened on Tuesday.

On Wednesday the cast of
Hit the Sky
left for New Haven to prepare for the Friday night opening.

On Thursday Henry Bellamy said, “Oh by the way, Anne, we’re taking the one o’clock train tomorrow for New Haven. I’ve booked a room for you at the Taft Hotel.”

“Me?”

“Don’t you want to go? Lyon and I have to make the opening, and I took it for granted you’d want to be there. After all, Helen is your buddy, and you’re also friendly with the little O’Hara kid who’s in the show.”

“I’d love it! I’ve never been to an opening.”

“Well, fasten your seat belt, because there’s nothing like a New Haven opening.”

December, 1945

They met at Grand Central Station. It was a cold, brisk day. Henry looked puffy and tired under his clean shave. Lyon Burke greeted her with a warm, quick smile.

They settled in the parlor car; both men opened attaché cases and hunched over contracts and legal papers. The train ride was merely an extension of their usual working day.

Anne tried to concentrate on her magazine. The bright sunlight that flashed through the window disclosed the wintry bareness of the countryside. It made her think of Lawrenceville. In New York you forgot how cold and bleak winter could be. The neon lights, the moving crowds, the taxi-filled streets stampeded the snow into slush and the slush into gray water that quickly disappeared and you forgot about the bare, desolate ground of the outside world. The loneliness of winter. The long evenings sitting in the large, clean kitchen with Mother and Aunt Amy. Or the occasional trips to the movies, or the bowling alley, or to play bridge. O God, she prayed, thank You for giving me the strength to run. Never make me go back—never!

When they pulled into the dark station at New Haven, both attaché cases snapped closed and the men stood to stretch their legs. Henry’s face took on a look of tired apprehension.

“Well, here we go—into the line of fire,” he said.

Lyon took Anne’s arm. “Come, my girl, you’re going to enjoy your first opening in New Haven. We won’t let Henry spoil it for you.”

“I’ve been to New Haven fifty times,” Henry said mournfully, “and I always forget how much I hate it until I get here. New Haven is always a trouble city. Except with a Helen Lawson show—then it’s total disaster!”

The Taft Hotel looked gloomy and forbidding. “Wash up and meet us in the bar,” Henry told her. “And if I were you I wouldn’t call Helen. She’s a killer in New Haven. She’s probably still at the theatre. I’ll go on over and check in with her. It’s right next door.”

Anne unpacked her bag quickly. The room was small and depressing. But nothing could dampen her exuberance. She felt like a girl on her first trip alone, and she was filled with a sense of expectancy—as if at any moment something very wonderful could happen.

She went to the small window and looked down on the street. The early winter darkness was closing in on the city, and street lamps began to show in the grayness. Across from the hotel a neon sign on a small restaurant flickered uncertainly. She turned quickly at the shrill ring of the phone.

It was Neely. “I just got back from rehearsal. Mr. Bellamy was at the theatre to see Helen. He told me you were here! I’m so thrilled!”

“So am I. How’s it going?”

“Awful!” Neely gasped in her breathless way. “Last night we had a dress rehearsal that lasted till four in the morning. Helen is trying to cut another number from Terry King. Terry ran out of the theatre in a fit, and her agent arrived this afternoon for a showdown with Gil Case. Terry says Helen can’t cut the song. And the dance with The Gaucheros is awful. I bet it gets cut and Charlie and Dick get the sack,” Neely added cheerfully.

“It sounds awful. Is Helen back yet?”

“No, she’s still at the theatre locked in her dressing room with Henry Bellamy. I don’t see how they’ll work it all out.”

“You mean the show won’t open tonight!”

“Oh, they’ll get the curtain up somehow,” Neely said happily. “But it’ll be a doozy. Hey Anne, Mel is here.”