Valley of the Dolls (23 page)

“I want to get back now.” Anne took a ten-dollar bill from the thick wallet. “I’ll mail you a check.”

Jennifer shook her head. “No, wait till I get back to New York—then you can take me to lunch. I want to hear the end of this.”

“This
is
the end.”

Jennifer smiled. “Sure, with Helen—and possibly Allen. But not with Lyon. Not the way you look when you mention his name.”

“But how can I go back to him now, after what Helen said?”

Jennifer looked incredulous. “You mean that bothers you? You didn’t think he was a
virgin,
did you?”

“No, but
Helen
. . . He seems to think so little of her as a woman.”

“Maybe he thought more of her six years ago. He was probably impressed with her. You know, working for Henry Bellamy, trying to be a success. I don’t blame him if he did it with Helen—he probably had to. But I blame her for being such a rat as to throw it at you when she knows you care.”

“But she says he hits and runs . . .”

“Anne, I’m sure every man hits and runs with Helen. And she salves her pride by believing that the man acts that way with everyone. She’ll even con herself into believing that Gino adored her. Anne, I’m sure Lyon is really stuck on you. Maybe not in love, but really stuck.”

“But I’ve ruined everything now. He walked out on me.”

“He probably feels you walked out on him. In a way you did, choosing Helen over him.”

“I didn’t choose. I felt sorry for her. She was my friend.”

“Some friend!” Jennifer made a face. “Look. Tomorrow when you see Lyon, be really nice. Let your eyes fill with tears. Tell him you just learned how stupid you were to feel anything resembling friendship for Helen. Play it sweet—sweet and wounded. And for heaven’s sake, don’t dare mention what Helen told you about him!” She followed Anne to the door. “Remember, there’s only one way to own a man—by making him want you.
Not
with words. Now sleep on it. In fact, I should chain you up here for a few days so you don’t mess things up.”

“No. I want to go back.”

“Anne . . .” Jennifer followed her to the door. “I like you. We’ll be good friends. I want a real friend too. Trust me—do it my way if you want Lyon.”

Anne smiled weakly. “I’ll try, Jennifer, I’ll try. . . .”

The ride back to New York seemed endless. The sun was shining when she finally reached Penn Station. It was morning . . . people were pouring out of the Long Island section. She’d just have time to bathe, have breakfast and get to the office. Her eyes felt gritty in the cab and her legs were like lead as she climbed the stairs to her room.

She saw the telegram sticking out under her door. Lyon! It had to be! She tore it open.

AUNT AMY PASSED AWAY IN HER SLEEP LAST NIGHT. FUNERAL WILL TAKE PLACE WEDNESDAY. IT WOULD BE NICE IF YOU COULD ATTEND. LOVE. MOTHER.

She stared at the telegram. How like her mother. Not “Please come,” or “I need you,” but “It would be nice . . .”

Well, she wouldn’t go. Her mother didn’t really care. Didn’t really want her there. It would just “look nice” for Lawrenceville. But she belonged here . . . she belonged to Lyon. She reached for the phone and impulsively dialed him. After four rings he answered. His voice sounded sleepy. She felt a twinge of anger. She had sat up all night on a cold train while he had been
sleeping. . . .

“Hello?” He was awake now, and irritated. She realized she was holding the receiver and not speaking.

“Hello . . . is someone on?” Lyon’s voice clipped through the wires.

She was frightened. He sounded angry.

“Is it Elizabeth?”

Elizabeth!
She stared into the phone stupidly.

“Come now, this is a juvenile thing to do,” Lyon said coldly. “Elizabeth, if you want to talk, say something or I’ll hang up.”

He waited a moment, then put the receiver down with a click.

Elizabeth? Who was Elizabeth? She felt sick at the sudden realization that Lyon had a complete life she knew nothing about. She had really only known him four days. God, was it just four days! Of course there was an Elizabeth—probably many Elizabeths.

She called Western Union and wired her mother that she would come immediately. Then she checked the trains. The next train to Boston left at nine-thirty. She threw some things into a bag. It was eight-thirty—she would have time to get to the bank and cash a check. But the office wasn’t open yet. She had to let Henry know she wouldn’t be in. She dialed Western Union again.

DEAR HENRY. PERSONAL CIRCUMSTANCES CALL ME AWAY. WILL RETURN AND EXPLAIN ON FRIDAY. ANNE.

She left for Boston, never realizing her formal wire would be misinterpreted.

Henry had crushed the wire angrily. “Goddammit—she probably eloped with Allen Cooper.” He kept his suspicions to himself, but found himself being unusually short with Miss Steinberg and the rest of the office staff. On Friday, when he walked in and found her at her desk, he stared in delighted astonishment.

“You’re back!” he shouted.

“I said I would be back on Friday.”

“I was positive you were married,” he said.

“Married?” She stared in amazement. George Bellows had come in. He seemed surprised to see her, too. “Married?” she repeated. “To whom?”

“I just thought . . .” Henry looked foolish. “I was afraid you had eloped with Allen.”

“Eloped?
My aunt died. I had to go to Boston. The office wasn’t open, so I sent you a wire. Who said I eloped?”

Henry threw his arms around her. “Never mind. You’re back. And I’m so glad.”

It was at this moment that Lyon entered. He stopped abruptly when he saw her. Henry released her and turned in boyish relief. “She’s back, Lyon . . .”

“Yes, I see.” Lyon’s voice was emotionless.

Anne dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry if you all got the wrong impression.”

“Her aunt died,” Henry said jubilantly. Then, forcing a sober expression, he added, “I’m sorry, Anne.” He turned to Lyon. “She only went to Boston for the funeral.”

Lyon smiled and went to his office.

“Come on in,” Henry said insistently. “Here, want some coffee? A Danish? A raise? Anything—I’m so happy—just name it.”

The buzzer on his desk sounded. He flipped a switch and Anne heard Lyon’s clipped voice. “Henry, could you please send Anne in with the management contract for Neely O’Hara?”

Henry winked and clicked off the intercom. He opened his file cabinet and shuffled through some papers. “We’re handling your little friend. She hasn’t any agent. She has only a small kind of future—strictly on the stage—but we’re taking her on because of you.” He handed Anne the papers and motioned her toward Lyon’s door.

Lyon stood up when she entered. “I suppose Henry told you we’re taking Neely on. She insists—says it will make her feel like a star.”

Anne kept her eyes on the contract. “Yes, Henry told me.”

He came over to her and took the papers. “Has he also told you that I’ve been a lost soul for the past four days?”

She looked at him and he took her in his arms. “Oh, Lyon, Lyon . . .” She clung to him.

“I’m sorry about your aunt. None of us knew why you had gone—Henry acted as if you were actually never coming back. I couldn’t believe that. I refused to believe you had gone out of my life. I know I acted badly, Anne—I should have waited that night. Helen is your friend, and . . .”

“No, I was wrong. I’ll never put anything before you again. Helen wasn’t worth it. No one is worth it. Oh, Lyon, I love you so much.”

“I love you, Anne.”

“You do! Oh, Lyon, do you really?” She clung to him even harder.

He kissed the top of her head. “Really, really,” he said lightly. But when she looked at him she knew he meant it. And once again she told herself she could never be as happy as she was this moment.

She spent the weekend at Lyon’s apartment. She responded eagerly to his lovemaking. On the second night she fell back, shaking and weak. He held her gently and stroked her hair.

“Oh, Lyon—it happened.” She shivered a little.

“For the first time,” he said.

“I was beginning to worry about myself.”

“Not at all—it’s very rare for a girl to actually feel anything or reach a climax in the beginning.”

She kissed his face eagerly. “I function, Lyon—I’m a woman!”

That night she was aggressive in her lovemaking. She had never dreamed her physical passion could match her emotions, and she was glad and frightened at the same time. She not only loved Lyon because he was Lyon, she hungered for him physically. Her love seemed insatiable.

There was only one nagging thought that crept through the perfect weekend. On Monday she was to go to court and testify for Jennifer’s annulment.

“I know you hate to do this, Anne,” Henry had said. “But you’re the only one I can trust. Jennifer’s a stranger in New York. She doesn’t know any girls. It’ll be over and done with before you know it. Don’t worry about it. Just be in the office at nine-thirty. We’re due in court at ten-thirty. Jennifer is coming in from Philadelphia for the day. We’ll rehearse the whole deal before we leave the office.”

She mentioned it several times during the weekend. And there were times she even thought about it when she was in Lyon’s arms.

“Look, if it really bothers you, you don’t have to do it,” Lyon said.

“I know it’s silly, Lyon, but I’m scared. It
is
perjury, isn’t it?”

“Technically, yes. But it’s done every day. I mean, no one really cares. Not even the judge. But if this is against your principles, just tell Henry so. If necessary, he can get Miss Steinberg.”

“Why didn’t he ask her in the first place?”

“He thought about it. Naturally she was our first thought. But how far could we go, even with a sympathetic judge? Would Jennifer North look like the kind of girl who made Miss Steinberg her chum and confidante?” He reached for the phone. “But don’t fret about it. I’ll ring Henry now. You don’t owe Henry or Jennifer North a bloody thing, so why should you—”

“Oh, Lord!” She sat up in bed. “Lyon, don’t call Henry.”

“Why not?”

“I owe Jennifer a great deal—ten dollars among other things. I completely forgot. She loaned me money for train fare from Philadelphia.” She had told him the Helen Lawson incident, carefully omitting Helen’s reference to him. But she had forgotten to tell him how Jennifer had sympathized and bailed her out. “I meant to send her the money. But when I got back to New York, there was the wire, and I just took off for Lawrenceville.”

“Well, you can relax. I’m sure Jennifer isn’t worried about ten dollars. I’ll give it back to her tomorrow.”

“Still, she was awfully nice to me that night. I guess the least I can do is testify for her.”

“Very well, if you think it will even the score.”

She looked at him. “That’s such a final expression, Lyon. As if it finishes you off with a person, like a paid bill. I remember when you used it with me. It was like closing a door in my face.”

“With you? When?”

“When I thanked you for Neely, for getting her the job. You said it evened the score for getting you this apartment.”

“Our
apartment now,” he said.

She looked at him mistily “Our apartment?”

“Why not? Unless you’re attached to that room on West Fifty-second Street. I think we have ample closet space here. And I’m quite neat to live with.”

She threw her arms around him. “Oh, Lyon! We haven’t known each other long, but I think I knew. I knew the moment we met that you were the only man I’d ever want to marry.”

He broke the embrace gently. “I’m asking you to move in, Anne. That is all I
can
ask—for the present.”

She turned away from him, more embarrassed than hurt. Lyon took her by the shoulders and turned her gently to face him. “Anne, I do love you.”

She tried to blink back the tears. But they choked through her words. “When people love one another they get married.”

“In Lawrenceville perhaps—where things are settled at birth and futures are all in place.”

“Your future is very much in place. Henry believes in you. . . .”

“I’m not sure I want to stay with Henry. I suddenly don’t seem to be sure of anything—but I am sure I don’t want Henry’s kind of life.” He looked thoughtful. “You see, I had decided after the war that I wasn’t coming back to Henry, and to the old way of life. But I did come back, and Henry’s enthusiasm got to me. I almost slipped into the old pattern. And then we had lunch in the Barberry Room. You gave me quite a jolt that day—started me thinking. Then the weekend in New Haven—and the Terry King business.” He shook his head. “Then the smashing blow when you disappeared. I started to evaluate things carefully—and I made a decision. I’m going to have a go at writing that book.”

“That’s wonderful, Lyon. But how would marriage change things?”

“Let’s say I still have a few old-fashioned ideas. I do think a husband should support his wife. If I married you, I’d throw myself into the action at Henry’s one hundred per cent. I’d make a lot of money, but we’d have a bad marriage.”

“Are you going to leave Henry?”

“Unfortunately, I can’t. I have enough money saved to take a few months off, but it’s too big a risk. I’ll stay with Henry and write the book on the side. A few snatched hours at night . . . weekends . . . It’s not the ideal way, but unfortunately at the moment it’s the only way—there is no country home to retreat to. And I’m aware of the hazards ahead. Even if it’s accepted, the advance for an unknown writer is small. It takes six or eight months to come out, and sometimes, even with a good book, an author makes very little money. The runaway best sellers are the rare exceptions. So I have two alternatives—remain with Henry and work in my free time, or find a rich old woman to subsidize me.”

“I’m not old or rich, but I have some money, and I could go on working.”

He ran his hand through her hair, watching the heavy silk fall between his fingers. “With your marvelous stipend from Henry and my savings, we still couldn’t swing this apartment.”

“But I told you, I have money. I have five thousand that my father left me and I just inherited seven thousand from my aunt. That’s twelve thousand, Lyon—it’s more than enough.”