Valley of the Dolls (19 page)

“Lyon . . . I want to stay,” she said, almost humbly.

He looked at her curiously, as if measuring the meaning of her words. Then suddenly he flashed one of his quick smiles and tossed off his jacket. He crossed the room and held out his arms. “Come here, you beautiful golden wench. I tried being noble, but you’ve ripped away my last shred of resistance.”

She felt her lips twitch as she tried to match his smile. He hugged her lightly and released her. Now what? He was taking off his tie. What was she supposed to do? She truly wanted to go to bed with him, but there must be a certain etiquette involved. She couldn’t start pulling off her clothes like a burlesque queen. Oh, Lord, why hadn’t she worn her new slip—and why hadn’t she asked someone how one went about this? Now he was taking off his shirt. She had to do something—she couldn’t just stand there . . .

He unbuckled his belt and nonchalantly pointed toward the bathroom. “Want an undressing room?”

She nodded dumbly and rushed in. Safely behind the closed door, she undressed. Now what? She couldn’t just stalk into the bedroom naked. She had dreamed of just such a moment, of giving herself to a man she loved. But
not
like this—not in a small hotel room in New Haven! In her daydreams she had envisioned a lush double bed, had pictured herself floating, in a white gossamer nightgown, into her husband’s arms. The lights would be dim, and she’d glide ethereally under the sheets and into the tender arms of her lover. Her dream had never gone beyond that, had never progressed to the actual act of making love—she had only dreamed of the emotion and the romantic setting, and her lover had been a vague, faceless man. Now he had a face—and she had no gossamer gown. She was standing naked and shivering under a harsh bathroom light and she didn’t know what to do.

“Hey there! It’s awfully lonesome out here,” Lyon called.

She looked around frantically and grabbed a large bath towel. She draped it around her and timidly opened the door.

Lyon was in bed, with the sheet up to his waist. He squashed out the cigarette he was smoking and held out his arms. She turned to grope for the light switch in the bathroom.

“Leave it on,” he said. “I want to see you . . . to believe it’s really you in my arms.”

She approached the bed and he took her hands. The towel dropped to the floor. “My lovely Anne,” he said softly. His admiration and the natural, easy way he appraised her body dissolved her embarrassment. He tossed aside the sheet and drew her into his arms. The strength of his body against her own suddenly seemed the most natural feeling in the world. Like the impossible and delirious new sensation of feeling his mouth on hers, kissing her deeply, searchingly. She felt herself responding to his embrace with an ardor she had never dreamed she possessed, her mouth demanding more and more. She couldn’t kiss him deeply enough. His hands caressed her body, gently, then intimately. Yet her emotional excitement dominated all physical sensation. To have him in her arms . . . to be close, to feel free to kiss his eyelids, his brow, his lips . . . to know that he wanted her, that he cared . . .

And then it was happening. Oh God, this was the moment! She wanted to please him, but the pain caught her unaware and she cried out. He pulled away immediately and released her.

“Anne . . .” She could see the surprise in his eyes.

“Go on, Lyon,” she begged. “It will be all right.”

He lay back with a groan. “Holy God! It can’t be . . .”

“But Lyon, it’s all right. I love you.”

He leaned over and kissed her gently. Then he lay back with his arms behind his head, staring into the semidarkness.

She was very still. He reached out for a cigarette and offered her one. She refused, and watched him silently, miserably. He inhaled deeply and said, “Anne, you must believe me. I never would have touched you if I had thought—”

She jumped out of bed, dashed to the bathroom and slammed the door. She buried her face in a towel to muffle her sobs.

He followed her instantly and pushed open the door. “Don’t cry, my darling. Everything is still intact—you’re still a virgin.”

“I’m not crying because of that!”

“Then what is it?”

“You! You don’t want me!”

“Oh, my dearest. . .” He took her in his arms. “Of course I want you. I want you desperately. But I can’t. You see, I never dreamed. . .”

A faint show of anger burned through her tears. “What did you expect? I’m not a tramp!”

“Of course you’re not. I just assumed that somewhere along the line—in college—or certainly with Allen. . .”

“Allen never touched me!”

“So it would seem.”

“Does it make so much difference to you? My being a virgin?”

“All the difference in the world.”

“I’m sorry.” She heard her own words with utter disbelief. The entire situation was insane. Here they were, standing naked in the bathroom under the ugly, unshaded little light, arguing about something that should be sacred. She grabbed a towel and covered herself. “Please get out and let me dress. I never thought I’d have to apologize for being—inexperienced. I thought the man I loved would be . . . pleased . . .” Her voice broke and she turned her head to hide fresh tears of humiliation.

With a quick gesture he swept her up and carried her into the bedroom. “He
is
pleased,” he whispered. “Just overcome . . . and handling it all like a blundering idiot.”

He placed her gently on the bed and lay down beside her. “I’ll try to be gentle,” he said softly. “And if you find you don’t want to go through with it, just tell me.”

“I want to . . .” She buried her head in his neck. Her voice was muffled. “I love you, Lyon. I want to make you happy.”

“But it must work both ways—and this may not be easy for you. The first time rarely is, I understand.”

“Don’t you
know?
I mean, haven’t you ever—had a virgin before?”

“Never,” he admitted with a smile. “So you see, I’m just as nervous about this as you.”

“Just love me, Lyon, belong to me—that’s all I ask.”

She clung to him. She didn’t care about the hurt or discomfort—just to belong to this wonderful man was the greatest happiness she could ever know. When the pain came, she clenched her teeth and made no sound. And when she felt his body go tense, she felt only surprise that he had drawn away from her. But he had groaned in satisfaction. . . . Then suddenly she understood, and her happiness doubled. At the height of his passion he had thought to protect her. She leaned over and took him in her arms. His back was moist with perspiration. All at once she knew—this was the ultimate in fulfillment, to please a man you loved. At that moment she felt she was the most important and powerful woman in the world. She was flooded with a new sense of pride in her sex.

Later, he held her in his arms with a new tenderness. “It wasn’t much fun for you tonight,” he said. “But it will get better—I promise you.”

“Just promise to hold me close. Oh, Lyon, I love you so!”

“And I adore you. I could spend the rest of the night telling you how wonderful you are.” He stroked her hair. “How beautiful you are. . . . But I think we both should get some sleep. There’s that eleven o’clock rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Rehearsal?”

“Well, that’s what they call it. You come along and tell me what
you
call it.” He reached down and pulled up the sheet. “Now. Let’s both get some sleep.” He held her gently and shut his eyes.

“Lyon . . . I can’t sleep here.”

“Why not?” He sounded drowsy already.

“I don’t know . . . In case Helen or Neely call in the morning.”

“Forget about them. I want to find you in my arms when I wake up.”

She kissed his face, his brow and his eyes. Then she slid out of his arms. “We’ll have that, Lyon, many, many times. But not tonight.” She went into the bathroom and dressed quickly. It wasn’t because of Helen or Neely—it was just too much, all at once. She wouldn’t have slept a wink, lying there beside him. And in the morning . . . Well, things like this had to be taken in stages. Men were much more casual about it than women. But the most important thing in the world had happened. She knew the feeling of love—and she knew it was the whole reason for living.

She came out of the bathroom and walked over to the bed. She started to speak, then saw that he had fallen asleep. Smiling, she went to the desk, found a piece of hotel stationery and scribbled,
Good night, sleeping beauty. See you tomorrow. I love you.
She propped the note by the phone and quietly slipped out of the room.

In her own bed she lay awake, too excited to sleep. Her mind relived the entire evening, recalling every word he had said, every expression on his face. “It will get better—I promise you.” Would it? Would she ever shudder and tremble and stiffen with the ecstasy he had felt? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was Lyon, to hold him in her arms, to please him—to know that she could feel love, that this remarkable man wanted her body against his. . . . She drifted off into a soft, dark sleep.

She was out of bed at nine. It was a clear, windy day. She looked out of the window, saw a man walking against the wind, holding his hat, a girl waiting for a bus. She felt sorry for them. She felt sorry for everyone in the world because they couldn’t feel as she did. “Oh, you poor people! You think this is just another cold day. Look up at me—I want to tell you how happy I am. The whole world belongs to me. In this very building there is a man—the most wonderful man in the world—and he belongs to me!” The watery neon sign on the diner seemed to blink at her. She winked back. It was a beautiful day! A beautiful diner! A beautiful town!

She took a hot bath, and when the water penetrated the soreness within her, it became a tangible memory of him. Her spirits soared.

She took pains with her hair. She changed her lipstick twice. And she alternated in watching the clock and staring at the telephone.

At ten-fifteen she began to feel uneasy. Did he mean to meet her at the theatre? But he had said, “We’ll go together.” Or had he said, “Come along”?

When the phone rang she dashed across the room. It was Neely. “You coulda at least come to say hello to me after the show,” she said.

“I thought you’d be at the party.”

“Me? I’m regarded as chorus. And now I got a rehearsal. Is that the end, calling a rehearsal before a matinee? Poor Mel—he’s beat.”

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs in the coffee shop. I’m meeting him there.”

“I’ll see you at rehearsal.”

“Why should you come? It’ll just be a drag.”

“Neely . . . now don’t say a word . . . but there’s a chance you may replace Terry King. You know her numbers, don’t you?”

“Know them?” Neely squealed. “Backwards! I know all of Helen’s songs, too. Anne, are you kidding me?”

“No, there’s some plan. I sat in on the conference last night. But don’t say a word, just sit tight.”

“Oh, golly! I can’t believe it. Oh, Lordy, wait till I tell Mel! ’By. See you at the theatre!”

Ten-forty-five. Lyon hadn’t called. Three times she had started for the phone to call him, but decided against it. She lit a cigarette and stood staring at the wintry sunlight from the window. The minutes ticked by. . . . Somewhere a steeple bell chimed. Well, now what? Was she going to stand around in the room all day? Or go to the theatre alone? No, that wouldn’t look right. If he was there and hadn’t called her, it would look as if she were running after him. Ridiculous! This wasn’t Lawrenceville, and Lyon wasn’t just a date. There were no silly rules now. She marched resolutely to the phone and asked for his room.

His voice was muffled at first. Then he shot into action. “Good God, darling! Is it really five of eleven? I thought I left a call for ten o’clock!”

“I don’t see how you could, unless you woke up somewhere in the middle of the night.”

His laugh was sheepish. “I’m just reading your note. Boy, I’m a real Sir Galahad! Come on down and keep me company while I shave.” She could almost hear him stretching over the phone. “I’ll order some coffee for us.”

The door was ajar and he yelled a cheerful “Come in” to her light tap. He was standing in his shorts in the bathroom. He pulled her over and gave her a careful kiss, avoiding the lather on his face. Then he turned back to his shaving. His very casualness seemed to enhance the new intimacy between them, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to be there, watching him shave while he stood in his shorts. She sat on the rumpled bed, happier than she had ever been in her life. He washed the remaining lather off his face and came in. This time he leaned over and kissed her tenderly. Then he began the business of putting on his shirt. He whistled as he knotted his tie. Her happiness was making her feel weak. She had never known anything like it.

She wondered whether Lyon felt the same intimacy. He couldn’t. So many girls had probably seen him stand in his shorts while he shaved. . . . She quickly pushed the thought from her mind. No girl had felt what she was feeling, and that made the difference. Nothing was going to ruin the most wonderful day of her life!

The waiter knocked and wheeled in a table. Lyon scribbled his name on the check. He motioned her to sit down as he gulped his orange juice standing. Then he carried his coffee to the phone and asked for Henry Bellamy’s room.

Henry was going to be late, too. Lyon laughed. “All right, coward, let’s synchronize our watches. I have eleven-thirty. Let’s say we both walk in at eleven-forty.” He hung up and turned to Anne with a grin. “Think you can face the execution?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. What’s going to happen?”

“Nothing much. Just a few strong men will gang up on a little girl and force her to quit.”

“You act like you’ve been through this before.”

“I have. It can be sloppy. Every now and then you run into a Terry King who turns out to be an embryonic Helen Lawson. You put the knife in her back but she doesn’t bleed. That’s when you lose.”

They met Henry in the elevator. If he was surprised to see her with Lyon, he showed no sign.

The entire cast, with the exception of Helen, was at the theatre. The chorus girls sat in slacks or huddled in their fur coats, their dark glasses concealing the lack of eye makeup. They sipped coffee from paper cups and looked disgruntled. Neely sat on the edge of a chair, tense, waiting to spring.