Valley of the Dolls (17 page)

“He probably took the same train we did.”

“No, he came up last night.” After a pause Neely said, “Anne . . . I. . . we did it.”

“Did what?”

“You know.”

“Neely . . . you mean . . .?”

“Uh huh. It hurt a lot and I didn’t come. But Mel made me come the other way.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He went down on me.”

“Neely!”

“Now Anne, stop acting so prissy. Just because you’re not hot for Allen doesn’t mean I’m a tramp. I happen to be in love with Mel.”

“And that makes it right.”

“You’re darn right it does! We both want each other. Nowadays people don’t get married just to do it. Mel respects me and loves me just as much today as he did yesterday. Even more, because now he
really
loves me. And I love him. Besides, we can’t get married yet. He helps support his folks. But if the show’s a hit and I can count on my hundred a week, then we’ll get married.”

“But Neely . . . what you did . . .” Anne choked with embarrassment.

“You mean let him go down on me? Listen, Mel says anything two people do together when they’re in love is normal. And besides, it feels sensational! Oh, Geez, I can hardly wait until tonight. And Anne . . . when he touches my breast I can feel it down there. I bet coming the other way won’t be half as great—”

“Neely, for God’s sake!”

“Wait till it happens to you. You’ll see. See you after the show. Watch for me. I have three lines in the second scene.”

Lyon was waiting at a table in the bar. “Henry’s still at the theatre.” He grimaced in sympathy. “I ordered a ginger ale for you. Right?”

She looked at the glass with a smile. “Maybe I should learn to sip at a Scotch. I feel even the waiters stare at me with disapproval.”

“Then stare right back. Never let anyone shame you into doing anything you don’t choose to do. Keep your identity.”

“I don’t think I have an identity yet.”

“Everyone has an identity. One of their own, and one for show. I rather think you enjoy playing the passive Girl Friday role for show while you look for the real you.”

“I recall that you said I was a fighter . . .”

“I think you are—but for others.”

She sipped at her ginger ale. He offered her a cigarette. “Have I said the wrong thing?”

“No, I think you’ve hit on a very big truth.” Then she looked up brightly. “But I did fight for one thing. I—”

“Yes, you came to New York. But tell me, Anne, is that going to be the one glorious achievement in your life?”

“What about you?” Her eyes suddenly flashed in anger. “The war is over. Life goes on. Are you going to fight again?”

“I’m fighting right now,” he said quietly.

“I never seem to say anything light and airy when I’m with you,” she said wryly. “But I didn’t start it this time. And I think I will have a Scotch.”

He signaled the captain and got two drinks. She raised the glass in a toast. “Perhaps if I down this I can say something that will make you laugh.”

“I’ll be delighted to laugh. And you needn’t drink the Scotch.”

She gulped down half the drink. Then she said weakly, “It tastes awful and I still can’t think of anything funny to say.”

He took the glass from her. “Why is it important to make me laugh?”

“I saw you that night at La Ronde—with Jennifer North. You were laughing a great deal. I thought about it. . .” She reached for the drink. What was she saying? She took another swallow.

“Go ahead, finish the drink. It was a good idea at that. At least you’re fighting for yourself now.”

“And what are you fighting for, Lyon?”

“You.”

Their eyes met. “You don’t have to fight,” she said quietly.

He took her hand quickly. Allen’s diamond cut into her finger with almost a personal rage of its own. But she made no sign that she felt its sharp edge. Lyon’s eyes were close . . .

“Well, I can see you two have had a few.” Henry Bellamy was striding cheerfully toward them. He motioned the waiter for a drink.

Anne withdrew her hand hastily. The ring had actually cut into her flesh. Henry sat down and sighed.

“Go back to your handholding,” he said nonchalantly. “Don’t let me stop you. Hell, you’re both young, enjoy it. I mean it—when you’re young you think you’ll always be young. Then one day you suddenly wake up and you’re over fifty. And the names in the obituary columns are no longer anonymous old people. They’re your contemporaries and friends.” The drink arrived. He drained it without stopping for breath.

“Come on, Henry,” Lyon said, laughing. “Nothing can be that bad.” He reached under the table and recaptured Anne’s hand with a warm intimacy.

“It’s worse,” Henry insisted. “In fact, this one promises to be the daddy of them all. Either Helen’s getting tougher or I’m getting older.”

“Helen’s always a barracuda until the show opens in New York,” Lyon said easily.

Henry pulled out a notebook and stared at a scribbled list. “Want to hear a few beefs? And these are just for openers. Bad light on rhythm number; second scene evening dress stinks; orchestra too loud on ballad; Terry King’s ballad holds up show and she sings it like a dirge; dream sequence chorus number too long; all my songs end with blackout—want to take my bows in one; want ballad with guy made into solo for me—he’s tone-deaf; Terry King plays part too tough, throws show off balance.” He shook his head and signaled for another drink.

“God, I hate this bar,” he said, looking around and waving affably to a few agents and producers who had arrived for the opening. “I hate every sonofabitch who comes up here hoping to see a flop.” He smiled at someone across the room. “And Gil Case draws them all. They love to see a ‘gentleman’ producer flop. He’s crammed that Harvard background down their throats so much . . .” He sighed again. “This is the most miserable bar in the world, and I’ve spent some of the most miserable nights of my life in it.”

Anne and Lyon exchanged an intimate smile. She looked around. It was the most beautiful room in the world. If I could just hold this moment, she told herself. No matter what happens to me the rest of my life, this will be the happiest moment I will ever know.

They had a quick dinner in the old-fashioned hotel dining room. Henry and Lyon knew almost everyone in the room. None of the cast was present. They were busily grabbing a sandwich in their rooms and resetting limp hair. Through the chatter and excitement she watched Lyon constantly. Occasionally their eyes would meet and hold for a quick, personal moment. She could hardly believe this was happening to her . . . happening exactly as she had hoped it would . . . feeling as she had dreamed she would . . .

Henry signaled for the check. “Anne, I can see you’re all nerves before an opening. You haven’t touched your food. Well, you can eat later. Gil Case is having a big spread after the show.”

The theatre was sold out. With the flood of theatrical people on hand, the audience took on the excitement of a New York opening. Anne sat between Lyon and Henry in the third row. The lights went down and the orchestra burst into the overture. Lyon reached for her hand. She returned the pressure, dizzy with happiness.

The show opened with a bright musical number. The costumes were clean, colorful and new; the chorus girls, who had been limp and unattractive just a few hours back, looked beautiful in their peach-colored makeup. Within minutes, the air became charged with the electricity of a hit—an intangible current that passed between the audience and the performers.

When Jennifer North walked on, spotlighted apart from the other girls, an audible gasp rolled through the entire house. She walked slowly, undulating to the music, in a gold-beaded dress that seemed molded to her incredible body.

“Jesus,” Henry hissed under his breath. He leaned across Anne. “Lyon, we can’t miss. Weiss is here from Twentieth, and Meyers is here from Paramount. She’s a cinch for a five-year deal.”

“It will have to be a good one,” Lyon answered. “She’s hung on Tony Polar. She won’t leave him unless the contract is too big to pass up.”

“Tony’ll never marry her. Leave this to me.”

“There’s your little friend,” Lyon said quickly. Anne looked just as Neely disappeared across the stage, accompanied by two chorus boys.

When Helen made her entrance, all action suspended as the audience stampeded a reception that bordered on hysteria. Helen stood quietly, half smiling, and accepted the acclaim. Everyone was on that stage because of her; the theatre was filled because of her; every musician in the pit was there because of her; the book had been written just for her. Protected by footlights, Helen received love on a mass scale. If Gino were here, he’d be screaming and applauding like the others. After the show he would beg Anne to “get her off my back,” but for this moment she was everyone’s love.

It was Helen’s show from start to finish. Each song brought on a new and stronger frenzy of applause. They were no longer an audience, they were a cult, united in the worship of Helen Lawson. The raucous laugh, which made Anne wince in public, seemed wholesome and vibrant across the footlights. Neely sparkled in her tiny bit. Jennifer North reappeared in a new revealing gown, and the audience thundered its approval. Terry King received appreciative applause for her two songs, delivered in a voice sweeter and more appealing than Helen’s. But Helen was compelling; her authority was an art in itself.

“I think Terry is good,” Anne whispered to Lyon. “But she’s no competition for Helen. She’s just an average performer.”

“Unfortunately, her looks are above average,” Lyon answered.

At intermission everyone crowded into the small lobby. Gilbert Case motioned to Henry, and they followed him into the bar next door.

“Gil, it’s Helen’s biggest show,” Henry said, as they all sipped at the weak bar Scotch.

“That’s how I see it, dear boy,” Gil said with a hearty smile. “A little cutting here and there and it comes in exactly as it is. I won’t need Boston; we’ll be able to do it with just four weeks in Philadelphia.”

“Easy. If the cutting is in the right spots.”

They looked at each other silently. Then Case quickly forced a hint of a smile. “Come now, Henry, you know I’m in a bind. I can’t fire Terry King. She’s got a run-of-the-play contract.”

“How did she get that?” Lyon asked.

He shrugged. “An excellent question. Do you think any decent ingenue will sign for a Helen Lawson show without it? Look at the track record. Betty Mobile—fired in Boston. Notices too good. Sherry Haines—part written out in Philly. Notices too good. Need I go on? You can’t get an ingenue for a Helen Lawson show without a run-of-the-play contract. Not unless you’re willing to settle for a pig.”

“Helen won’t let her open in New York, I can tell you that,” Henry said quietly.

“Henry, I beg of you—talk to her,” Gil pleaded. “If I fired Terry, how could I justify it to my backers? I’ve got two more shows lined up for this season. I need those backers. If I fire Terry, I have to pay her four hundred a week until June first, and I have to pay the same salary to the girl who replaces her. With Helen’s salary, plus her percentage . . . well, I just can’t take on anything like that.”

“It’ll wind up costing you even more if you keep Terry, plus a lot of aggravation. If Terry King stays, Helen will gripe about the numbers and the orchestrations. You’ll have to book three weeks in Boston. Figure on trucking and traveling, you stand to lose eight thousand a week. Then Helen will suddenly become dissatisfied with all her costumes. She’ll also want you to get outside lyricists. I can see an extra twenty-five thousand right there. But get rid of Terry and Helen will start loving everything about the show, including you, and you’ll come in after Philly. It’s as simple as that.”

Gil shuddered. “Well, there’s always the other way . . .”

Henry nodded silently.

Gil sighed. “I’ll give it a try. But I’m getting too old for these executions.”

Henry left a few bills on the bar and they returned to the theatre.

The second act mounted in excitement. Helen belted out two show-stoppers in a row and was forced back for three encores. The show was an electrifying hit; the audience refused to let her leave the stage. They were still applauding when the curtain rang down for the final time.

Henry’s program was marked with curlicues and notations on cuts and changes. His forehead was crinkled as they stood in the crowded lobby.

“You’d think the show was a flop, from your expression,” Anne said gaily.

“No, honey, I just know the battles ahead.” Then he smiled. “It’s her biggest hit so far. She’s topped herself.” He stamped out his cigarette. “Well, let’s fight our way backstage.”

The entrance to Helen’s dressing room looked like a mob scene. The hall was crowded with well-wishers who waited patiently in line to give the star a hurried kiss and a congratulatory compliment. Helen stood at the door, the heavy makeup appearing grotesque up close. She smiled and accepted the accolades with a false heartiness. She saw Henry, Anne and Lyon as they tried to get through the crowd. “Hi!” she yelled gaily. “Get inside.” She nodded toward the entrance of her dressing room. As Anne passed, Helen whispered, “As soon as I get rid of these crumbs we’ll go to Gil’s party.” Then she turned brightly to the next person waiting in line, flashed her merry smile and continued with her boisterous greetings.

The party was going strong when they arrived, but at Helen’s entrance all activity stopped and everyone turned toward the door. There was a split second of silence that exploded into a frenzied ovation. Helen acknowledged it with a smile and a good-natured wave that commanded the party to return to the festivities at hand. The show’s press agent leaped forward to guide her to the local press and some of the important backers. Lyon led Anne to a quiet corner and brought her a ginger ale and a plate of listless, dry chicken sandwiches.

“There’s hot food across the room,” he said as he settled beside her. “I’ll have a go at it after the crowd clears a bit.”

“I’m not really hungry,” Anne insisted as she nibbled at one of the tasteless sandwiches. Her eyes roved around the room. “I don’t see Neely.”