Valley of the Dolls (20 page)

Anne sat in the fourth row with Henry and Lyon. Jennifer North entered in a rush, apologizing to everyone for oversleeping. The director turned from a huddle with the orchestra leader and nodded good-naturedly. “Nothing’s changed for you, princess. If you like you can go back to bed for a few hours.”

Jennifer smiled and came down into the darkened theatre. Henry motioned her to sit beside them. She recognized Anne and smiled warmly. “Isn’t it wonderful,” she said enthusiastically. “We have a hit! I shouldn’t say
we
—I do nothing. But it’s such a great show, I’m thrilled to be in it.”

“You’re very lovely in it,” Anne said sincerely.

“Thanks, but I don’t think my name will bring any customers to the box office.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Henry answered. “Once this show hits New York you’ll get plenty of newspaper space. I guarantee you a picture deal within six weeks of opening night.”

Jennifer dimpled. “Oh, Henry . . . honestly, I’d adore it.” Then a slight frown came between her eyes. “But only if it’s a big contract. Not one of those starlet deals.”

“Starlets often turn into stars,” Henry said carefully.

The frown grew deeper. “Starlets with talent. I have no talent, Henry. That’s why I’d need a good contract. If they pay you enough, they have to use you. And they have to teach you—and train you.”

“Let me decide on that. If it’s short money with a good studio and I say take it, you take it. With the smell of television in the air, they’re not handing out those big contracts so easy.”

“Then perhaps I’m better off in New York. I’ve had offers from Powers and Longworth to model, and I could earn quite a bit with that, along with the show.”

Henry turned to her suddenly. “Level with me, Jennifer. Do you want a picture deal? Or a career? I don’t want to knock myself out if you don’t really care. And what’s with Tony Polar? How serious is it between you?”

Jennifer smiled. “The newspapers blow it up. I adore Tony, but I don’t think either of us wants to rush into marriage. Besides, I’m still legally married to Prince Mirallo.”

“The papers are practically signed for the annulment. Just remember the lines when you go before the judge—you’re a nice Catholic girl and you wanted children and this bastard didn’t want any.”

“Are you Catholic?” Lyon asked.

Jennifer shrugged. “My mother was, but my father wasn’t. They divorced. I was never even baptized. But no one will check, will they, Henry?”

“Just do as I say. You’re a Catholic. You wanted to be married by a priest, but the Prince picked a civil ceremony. From then on you’re halfway home. Then you talk about the children you wanted. Anne will be your witness.”

“I
what?”
Anne burst in.

“We have to have a witness. I meant to tell you. Don’t worry, it will be a closed court. You just have to say that you’re a friend of Jennifer’s and that she confided to you before she married this prince how ecstatic she was about marrying the jerk, that she was even willing to go to Italy to live and that she wanted dozens of children. But be sure and remember the children part.”

“But I’d be lying under oath,” Anne argued.

“Cross your fingers,” Henry said. Then, turning his attention to the stage, he whispered, “Hold your hats . . . here we go!”

Terry King was standing in the center of the stage staring at the director in complete disbelief.

“Cut the
ballad!”
she yelled. “Are you mad? Did you read the reviews?”

“The show’s running long, honey, and we have enough ballads.” The director’s voice was casual.

“So what? Cut some other ballad. You know damn well mine is the best song in the show!”

“Those are my orders,” he said wearily.

“Where’s Gil Case?”

“He’s not here. He’s busy with the writers. Bill! Hey, Bill Towley!” A thin young juvenile appeared. “Bill, the love scene you and Terry have is out. We’re working on a new solo dance routine for you to go in its place for Philly. Instead of telling Terry how much you love her, you do a dance. It’ll speed up the action.”

Bill nodded in delighted acceptance and disappeared.

“And what do I do while he does this dance, sit in my dressing room?” Terry shrieked. “Do you realize if the love scene is cut and the ballad goes, it leaves me with two lines in the first act and a rhythm number in the second and that’s all?”

“The rhythm number stays in,” the director answered. “But we’re putting the chorus behind you. They’ll do a dance to the second chorus.”

“And what do I do?”

“Instead of singing the second chorus, you’ll go to stage left. You’ll stand there . . . then the light will go off you and you’ll slip offstage while the chorus takes over.”

“That’s what you think!” She grabbed her coat and rushed off the stage and out of the theatre. The director went on giving cuts and blends as if nothing had happened.

Ten minutes later Terry reappeared, armed with a small man who looked like a raccoon. The raccoon bristled down the aisle. “Now what’s this all about?” he demanded.

The director turned and looked down. “What’s what about?” he asked innocently.

“Listen, Leroy!” the raccoon hollered. “Don’t think your innocent girlish face is going to fool me. I know this routine. Helen’s scared of Terry. Only this time Terry has a little luck going for her. She’s got the biggest hit ballad of the show. You can’t tell me the boys are going to let Helen cut their best song from the show.”

“Call them,” Leroy suggested.

“I have. They’re in conference with Gil Case. Besides, you mean Case is willing to pay Terry four hundred bucks just to do two lines and half of a rhythm number?”

“If she wants to remain and do that, I suppose he’ll have to.”

“Oh, so that’s the bit. The Equity dodge. You’d love her to quit. Then you could put someone else in the part for chickenfeed. But if you fire Terry, you’ll have to pay her till next June
plus
her replacement.”

“No one is firing Terry King.”

“You can’t afford to. That’s why you’re trying to make her quit.”

The director sat on the edge of the stage and said, with exaggerated patience, “No one is trying to make Terry quit. We’re not thinking in personalities now. We’re looking at the show as a whole. As an agent, you’re only thinking of your client. I don’t blame you, Al, that’s your business. But my business is to think of the show. It runs too long. I’m cutting where Gil Case, the writers and all of us think it should be cut, regardless of who it affects.”

The raccoon stamped out a cigarette on the thick carpet of the theatre. “Don’t give me that bullshit! You’re following orders Case got from Helen Lawson. He has no choice—he has to protect Old Ironsides. And with that brassy voice of hers she needs protection from a good singer.”

“Let’s not get personal about this,” Leroy snapped.

“Why? You and I both know she’s dated and corny. If that old bag was trying to get started today she’d never get past the first audition—”

“I think we can cut this out!” Henry’s voice shot out of the darkness.

The agent whirled around. “I didn’t see you, Mr. Bellamy. Hi. Say, look, it’s nothing personal. I’m just fighting for my client—the same way you probably did for Miss Lawson twenty years ago.”

“I didn’t fight for Helen by knocking a great star when she wasn’t there to defend herself,” Henry thundered. “Who in hell are you—a weasel with desk space on West Forty-sixth Street. How dare you stand there and insult one of the greatest living stars in the theatre?”

The little man cringed. “Mr. Bellamy . . . what would you do if you were in my place?”

“It would depend on who my client was. If it was Helen Lawson, we would have handed in our notice and walked out with dignity. Because with a Helen Lawson—even a Helen Lawson who was just beginning—there would always be another show and a better part. But with your client, I’d take whatever crumbs were offered. I’d stay with two lines and half a chorus and milk the producer for the salary. So what if she’s a joke to all the other producers at the Broadway opening? It’s her funeral, not yours. Maybe you’ll find someone else after you bury her. But you’d better make her stick in the show and grab your lousy ten per cent, because it’s obvious you’re scared. This may be the only show she’ll ever get, and you’re not about to pass up an easy buck.”

Terry King suddenly came to life. “Listen, I can outsing Helen Lawson anywhere! And Al and I aren’t afraid. This lousy show isn’t the only one—and I’ll be a bigger star than Helen Lawson. You bet I’ll walk out! And with dignity! Right now!” She was practically screaming.

“Honey, wait . . .” Al pleaded. “This is exactly what they want you to do!”

“And what do
you
want me to do?” she snarled. “Open in Philadelphia and New York looking like a bit player? Just so you can collect your lousy ten per cent!”

“That has nothing to do with it. You know that. We can make double this money playing clubs. But we both agreed that a Broadway show would get us a picture deal.”

“Picture deal!” This was Henry. “God, that kind of thinking went out with Ruby Keeler movies. Any agent who thinks all you have to do is get on Broadway and it means a picture deal is small time. Sure Broadway helps, but you’ve got to
do
something on Broadway. Unless your client wants a stock contract—I can get that for her without this show. But a real picture deal, no. Only a star gets that. And an agent builds a star by never allowing her to appear
anywhere
unless she looks like a star, whether it’s on Broadway or in a saloon. But as I say, you obviously don’t think your client has it, because you’ll let her walk on looking like a bit player.”

Terry grabbed Al’s arm. “Come on, Al. Let’s get out of here.”

“Wait a minute. We still have a contract, and you have a matinee to play,” Al reminded her.

“I won’t walk on the stage with those cuts.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” Henry answered. “You still have to hand in a two-week notice and play Philadelphia.”

“I won’t be humiliated that way,” Terry insisted. “I won’t appear before the Philadelphia critics in a bit part.”

“What’s all the fuss about?” Gil Case called as he walked down the aisle. “Who’s not going to appear?”

“Mr. Case!” Terry rushed to him, almost in tears. “You’ve cut my part. I can’t appear on the stage as a bit player.”

“I’ve told her she has to,” Henry said slowly. “Even if she does hand in her notice right now.”

“Now wait a minute,” Gil said kindly. “No one wants to hurt anyone more than necessary.” He looked at Terry sympathetically. “My dear child, I hadn’t realized how small the part was after the cuts. It
is
hardly more than a bit now . . .” He looked concerned.

“I can’t play it.” Terry was insistent.

He suddenly smiled. “You don’t have to.”

“What about the matinee?” Henry asked.

Gil waved his hand. “Forget it. We can put on the understudy. The part’s such a small bit, it really doesn’t matter.” He put his arm around Terry. “Let’s go back to my suite—you too, Al. Terry can write her formal notice, and I’ll give her two months’ salary as a bonus.” He paused to consider. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll call my press agent and have him notify the New York papers, and you’ll come out of this with tons of publicity. Dear girl . . . by next week every producer in town will be after you. It gives you stature to walk out on a Helen Lawson show.”

He led her up the aisle and out of the theatre with the raccoon shuffling behind.

The moment they were gone Henry walked to the stage and had a quick consultation with the director. He nodded and sprang into action. “Neely O’Hara!” he called. Neely rushed up to him. “Can you learn the one chorus of the rhythm number by two-thirty?”

“I know both choruses now.”

He smiled faintly. “Okay, we do the one chorus and we put in the dance. Come on, kids, we got work to do. Neely, you go to wardrobe, see how Terry’s costumes fit you. Now, chorus, let’s take it from the top.”

Henry stood up. “Let’s go. I think we all need some fresh air.”

Outside, they stood in embarrassed silence. “I think I’ll take a nap,” Jennifer said. She walked away toward the hotel. Henry stood silently staring into space. Lyon pressed Anne’s hand.

“I think it’s revolting,” Anne said. Then, forcing a faint smile, she said, “But I suppose that’s show business.”

“It’s not show business,” Henry snorted. “It stinks. No matter how you slice it, it stinks. I want to vomit. I felt like Joe Louis in a ring with two crippled midgets. Jesus! Well, I’ll call Helen and tell her the good news.” He walked slowly to the hotel.

Lyon led Anne across the street to the diner. He ordered eggs for both of them. “Henry’s wrong,” he insisted. “We scratched the kitten and she didn’t scratch back. And the agent is just an agent, not a Henry Bellamy. Henry’s a champ, and twenty years ago he was a champ. And twenty years ago, if you’d scratched Helen Lawson, you’d have broken your fingers. Henry wasn’t a louse—they just didn’t have it.”

“But they cut the ballad out, and half the rhythm number. How could Terry fight back? What Henry said made sense.”

Lyon attacked his eggs. “Do you honestly think that ballad will remain out? Once Terry’s notice is signed and she’s on a train back to New York, everything goes back as it was. If Terry had stuck, they’d have held off till the end of the out-of-town run. Helen would have made everyone miserable, but everything would have gone back opening night, and Terry would have won. It’s like a game of poker. Terry had the winning hand, but Henry bluffed her out of the pot.”

Fifteen minutes later Henry joined them at the diner. He forced down a dry chicken sandwich, claiming his ulcers were acting up again. At one-thirty some of the chorus drifted over for a quick sandwich. They sat in little groups, gossiping about the new events. Neely was the big news of the day.

Anne decided against visiting Neely backstage before the matinee. Knowing Neely, she realized things must be chaotic. She stood with Lyon at the back of the packed house during the performance. Neely managed the part with professional ease. As far as Anne could see, she would neither hurt nor help the show. The part had been sliced to such proportions that it meant very little.