Valley of the Dolls (2 page)

“Anne! How dare you ask your mother such a thing!” said Aunt Amy.

“Unfortunately, kissing isn’t all a man expects after marriage,” her mother said stiffly. Then, cautiously, “Have you ever kissed Willie Henderson?”

Anne grimaced. “Yes . . . a few times.”

“And did you enjoy it?” her mother asked.

“I hated it.” His lips had been soft—almost slimy—and his breath had smelled sour.

“Did you ever kiss any other boy?”

Anne shrugged. “Oh, a few years back, when Willie and I first started dating, at parties we’d play Spin the Bottle. I guess I got around to kissing most of the boys in town, and as I recall, each kiss was as repulsive as another.” She smiled. “Mother, I don’t think we have one decent kisser in all of Lawrenceville.”

Her mother’s good humor returned. “You’re a lady, Anne. That’s why you don’t like kissing. No lady does.”

“Oh Mama, I don’t know what I like or what I am. That’s why I want to go to New York.”

Her mother shrugged. “Anne, you have five thousand dollars. Your father left that specifically for you to use as you wished. When I go, there will be a good deal more. We’re not rich, not like the Hendersons, but we’re comfortable and our family stands for something in Lawrenceville. I want to feel that you’ll come back and settle in this house. My mother was born here. Of course Willie Henderson may want to add a wing—there’s plenty of ground—but at least it will be our house.”

“I don’t
love
Willie Henderson, Mama!”

“There is no such thing as love, the way you talk about it. You’ll only find that kind of love in cheap movies and novels. Love is companionship, having friends in common, the same interests. Sex is the connotation you’re placing on love, and let me tell you, young lady, that if and when it does exist, it dies very quickly after marriage—or as soon as the girl learns what it’s all about. But go to your New York. I won’t stand in your way. I’m sure Willie will wait. But mark my words, Anne, after a few weeks you’ll come running home—you’ll be glad to leave that dirty city.”

It
had
been dirty—and hot and crowded—the day she arrived. Sailors and soldiers joggled along Broadway with a reckless holiday spirit in their eager stares, and a convulsive, end-of-the-war excitement. But mingled with the dirt, humidity and strangeness, Anne had felt excitement, and an awareness of living. The littered and cracked pavements of New York made the trees and clear air of New England seem cold and lifeless. The unshaven man who had removed the “Room for Let” sign from the window, after accepting a week’s rent in advance, looked like Mr. Kingston, the mailman back home, but his smile had been warmer. “It’s not much of a room,” he’d admitted, “but the ceiling is high and it kind of stirs the air. And I’m always around to fix anything you want.” She felt he liked her, and she liked him. There was an acceptance at face value in New York, as if everyone had just been born, with no past heritage to acknowledge or hide.

And now, as she stood before the imposing glass doors engraved
Bellamy and Bellows,
she hoped she’d find the same kind of acceptance from Henry Bellamy.

Henry Bellamy couldn’t believe his eyes. She couldn’t be for real. In her way, maybe she was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen, and he was accustomed to beautiful girls. And instead of wearing the outrageous pompadour and platform shoes that had come into style, this one just let her hair hang loose, natural, and it was that light blonde color that looked real. But it was her eyes that really rattled him. They were really blue, sky blue—but glacial.

“Why do you want this job, Miss Welles?” For some reason he felt nervous. Dammit, he was curious. She was dressed in plain dark linen, and there wasn’t a sign of jewelry except the small, neat wristwatch, but there was something about her that made one certain she didn’t need a job.

“I want to live in New York, Mr. Bellamy.”

Just that. A straight answer. Why did it make him feel like he was snooping? He was entitled to ask questions. And if he made it too easy, she might not take the job. That was crazy, too. She was sitting here, wasn’t she? She hadn’t just dropped by for tea. Then why did he feel as if
he
were the applicant, striving to make a favorable impression on
her?

He glanced at the form the agency had sent along. “Twenty years old and a B.A. in English, eh? Radcliffe. But no office experience. Now tell me, what good is this fancy background going to do around here? Can it help me handle a bitch like Helen Lawson or get a drunken bum like Bob Wolfe to turn in a weekly radio script on time? Or convince some fag singer to leave the Johnson Harris office and let me handle his affairs?”

“Am I supposed to do all that?” she asked.

“No, I am. But you have to help.”

“But I thought you were an attorney.”

He saw her collect her gloves. He turned on one of his relaxed smiles. “I’m a theatrical attorney. There’s a difference. I draw up contracts for my clients. Contracts that have no loopholes, except in
their
favor. I also handle their taxes, help them invest their money, get them out of any and all trouble, arbitrate their marital problems, keep their wives and mistresses apart, act as godfather to their children and wet nurse to them, especially when they’re doing a new show.”

“But I thought actors and writers had managers and agents.”

“They do.” He noticed the gloves were back in her lap. “But the ‘jumbos,’ the kind I handle, they also need me to advise them. For instance, an agent naturally pushes them toward the job that pays the most. He’s interested in his ten per cent. But I figure which job will do them the most good. In short, a theatrical attorney has to be a combination of agent, mother and God. And you, if you get the job, have to be their patron saint.”

Anne smiled. “Why don’t theatrical attorneys replace all agents?”

“They probably would, if there were enough dedicated schmucks like me.” He caught himself quickly. “Excuse the language. When I get going, I don’t realize what pops out.”

“What language? Schmuck?” She repeated it curiously.

It sounded so outrageous coming from her that he laughed out loud. “It’s a Jewish word, and the literal translation
would
make you blush. But it’s become slang—for dope. . . . Oh, don’t let the fancy tag of Bellamy fool you, or even my freak Episcopalian face. I was born Birnbaum. When I was a kid I worked summers as entertainment director on cruises—wrote the ship’s column. And they didn’t like their fancy columns headed ‘Boating by Birnbaum,’ so one guy suggested Bellamy. I met a lot of important people on those cruises. A singer who was working the tour became my first client. A lot of people got to know me as Bellamy and I stuck with it. But I never let anyone forget that under Bellamy there’s always Birnbaum.” He smiled. “Now you have the whole picture. Think you can handle it?”

This time her smile was real. “I’d like to try. I type fairly well, but I don’t know much about shorthand.”

He waved his hand. “I got two broads out there who could win shorthand contests. I want someone who is more than a secretary.”

Her smile vanished. “I don’t think I understand.”

Dammit! He hadn’t meant anything like that. He ground his cigarette in the tray and lit another one. Jesus, she sat straight. Unconsciously he straightened in his chair.

“Look, Miss Welles, being more than a secretary means not sticking to the usual nine-to-five routine. There may be days when you won’t have to come in until noon. If I’ve made you work at night I wouldn’t expect you to come in. But on the other hand, if there was some crisis and even if you had worked until four in the morning, I’d expect you in before the office opened, because you would
want
to be there. In other words, you make your own schedule. But you’d also have to be available some evenings.”

He paused a second but she did not react, so he hurried on. “Say I was having dinner at ‘21’ with a prospective client. If I go for the right dinner and make with the right words, it’s a pretty good bet he’ll sign with me. But I may have to have six or seven drinks with him and listen to his gripes about his present management. Naturally I’ll swear on my life not to do any of these things. I’ll promise him everything—the moon with his name on it. Now I can’t give him all the things I promise. No one could. But I will want to make an honest effort to avoid the mistakes of his present management and keep what promises I can. Only the next morning I won’t remember a goddam word. That’s where
you
come in. You won’t have a hangover, because during this thrilling evening you will have sipped
one
sherry and you will remember everything I have said. The following day you will present me with a list of all the promises and I can study them when my head is clear.”

She smiled. “I’d be sort of a human Dictaphone?”

“Exactly. Think you could handle it?”

“Well, I have an excellent memory and I hate sherry.”

This time they laughed together.

“Okay, Anne. Want to start tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Will I also work for Mr. Bellows?”

He gazed into space and said quietly, “There is no Mr. Bellows. Oh, there’s George, his nephew, but George is not the Bellows in Bellamy and Bellows. That was George’s uncle, Jim Bellows. I bought Jim out before he went to war. I tried to talk him out of it, but no, he went to Washington and got carried away with that Navy uniform and a commission.” He sighed. “War is for the young. Jim Bellows was fifty-three. Too old for war . . . but too young to die.”

“Was he killed in Europe or the Pacific?”

“He died of a heart attack in a submarine, the damn fool!” But the gruffness in his voice only punctuated the affection he felt for the dead man. Then, with an abrupt change of mood, he flashed one of his warm smiles. “Okay, Anne, I guess we’ve exchanged enough of our life stories. I can start you at seventy-five a week—how does that set with you?”

It was more than she had expected. Her room cost eighteen, food about fifteen. She told him she could manage quite well.

October, 1945

September had been a good month. She had found a job she liked, a girl friend named Neely and a gentle, eager escort named Allen Cooper.

October brought Lyon Burke.

She had been welcomed with instant acceptance by the receptionist and two secretaries. She lunched with them each day at the corner drugstore. Lyon Burke was their favorite topic, and Miss Steinberg, the senior secretary, was the expert. She had been with Henry Bellamy ten years. She had
known
Lyon Burke.

Lyon had been with the office two years when war was declared, and had left to enlist the day after Pearl Harbor. Jim Bellows had often suggested that his nephew join the firm. Henry had nothing against George Bellows, but he had always refused. “Business and relatives don’t mix,” he had insisted. But with Lyon gone, Henry was left with little choice.

There was nothing wrong with George. He was a capable lawyer, but he lacked the chemistry of Lyon Burke—at least in Miss Steinberg’s eyes. Lyon’s activities in the war had been avidly followed by all of the staff, and when he had received his captain’s bars, Henry had taken off half the day to celebrate. The last letter had come from London in August. Lyon was alive, Lyon sent regards—but Lyon said nothing about returning.

At first Henry had watched the mail each day. When September passed without word he moodily reconciled himself to Lyon’s permanent withdrawal from the firm. But Miss Steinberg refused to give up. And Miss Steinberg was right. The wire came in October.

It was direct and to the point:

DEAR HENRY: WELL IT’S OVER AND I’M STILL IN ONE PIECE. VISITED SOME RELATIVES IN LONDON AND STOPPED OFF AT BRIGHTON FOR SOME SEA AND REST. AM IN WASHINGTON WAITING FOR MY OFFICIAL RELEASE. AS SOON AS THEY LET ME TRADE THEIR UNIFORM FOR MY OLD BLUE SUIT I SHALL RETURN. BEST. LYON.

Henry Bellamy’s face lit up when he read the wire. He jumped from his chair. “Lyon’s coming back! Goddam, I knew he would!”

For the next ten days the office was in a turmoil of interior decorators, excitement and speculative gossip.

“I can’t wait.” The receptionist sighed. “He sounds just like my type.”

Miss Steinberg’s smile was loaded with secret knowledge. “He’s everybody’s type, honey. If his looks don’t polish you off, the English accent does the rest.”

“He’s English?” Anne was surprised.

“Born here,” Miss Steinberg explained. “His mother was Nell Lyon. That was way before your time. Mine too. But she was a big English musical comedy star. She came here in a show and married an American lawyer, Tom Burke. She retired and Lyon was born here, so that makes him an American citizen. But his mother held on to her British citizenship, and when Lyon’s father died—I think Lyon was about five—she took him back to London. She went back on the stage and he went to school there. When she died he came back and went to law school here.”

“I know I’ll fall madly in love with him,” the younger secretary said.

Miss Steinberg shrugged. “Every girl in the office had a crush on him. But I can’t wait to see his reaction when he meets you, Anne.”

“Me?” Anne looked startled.

“Yes, you. You both have the same quality. A standoffishness. Only Lyon keeps blinding you with that smile and it fools you at first. You think he’s friendly. But you can never get really close to him. No one could. Not even Mr. Bellamy. Deep down Mr. B.’s a little in awe of Lyon, and not just because of his looks or manner. Lyon delivers. You watch, Lyon Burke will own this town one day. I’ve seen Mr. B. pull some pretty brilliant deals, but he has to fight every inch of the way because everyone knows he’s smart and they’re prepared for him. Lyon just walks in with the English charm and the movie-star looks, and wham! he comes off with everything he wants. But after a while you realize you don’t know what he’s really like—and what he thinks of you, or of anyone. What I mean is, he seems to like everyone equally. So you get the feeling that maybe deep down he doesn’t really care about anyone or anything—except his work. For that, he’ll do anything. But whatever you think about him, you still wind up adoring him.”