Valley of the Dolls (27 page)

Anne laughed. “Let her be ambitious, Jen. It’ll be nice having a star in the family.”

Neely made a wry face. “I’m doing it strictly for the money. In June, when Mel and I get married, I wanna have enough cash saved to furnish a place as nice as this.”

“When does he get a chance to write for Johnny Mallon?” Jennifer asked. “He seems to be working full time as press agent for you. I’ve never seen anyone get so much publicity.”

“Why shouldn’t he?” Neely insisted. “After all, everything I earn is for our future.”

“You really don’t care about making it—the star bit?” Jennifer asked.

“For what? To wind up alone on New Year’s Eve with some faggot as a date? Oh, I’ll keep working after I’m married—but my marriage will always come first. And you’re a fine one to talk—didn’t you just turn down a contract at Twentieth because of Tony?”

Jennifer shrugged. “It wasn’t a good contract. Only one-fifty a week.”

“But Henry thought you should have taken it,” Neely insisted. “If it had been bigger would you have signed?”

“Maybe . . . I guess so. But I have no talent, Neely, and you have.”

“Yeah, but it takes more than talent. Hey, let’s clean up this place. Zeke will be here any minute.”

“It’s neat as a pin,” Anne insisted.

Neely ran around emptying ashtrays. “Jen, you use every ashtray in the place. Zeke says he’s glad I don’t smoke. Even in a room, smoke hurts a singer’s voice.”

Jennifer raised her eyebrows. “Will cigarettes be barred at your club opening?”

“No, but why do I have to have my home contaminated?”

For the next three weeks Zeke Whyte took over the apartment. He rehearsed Neely relentlessly. Anne and Jennifer never arrived without finding him there. He was femininely attractive, aware of his own importance, a hard taskmaster and an excellent musician. He drove Neely unmercifully.

“What does he want from me?” she’d demand, bursting into the bedroom in tears. “I never had a singing lesson in my life and I’m doing okay. All of a sudden he’s trying to turn me into a Lily Pons—in three weeks! Anne, go in and tell him to get off my back!”

Then Zeke would appear at the doorway. “Okay, Neely . . . hysterical time over. Let’s get back to work.”

“I can’t,” she would sob. “You expect too much.”

“Of course I do. Why be good if you can be great?”

Neely would always go back . . . the scales would continue . . . there would be more hysterics . . . more scales . . . it seemed endless.

But the loudest argument came at the end of the second week. Neely came tearing into the offices of Bellamy and Bellows. “Where is he?” she demanded of Anne.

“Where is who?”

“Henry! I want him back as my manager. I need him. He’s got to get Zeke off my back.”

“Henry’s at N.B.C. What’s Zeke done now?”

“He wants me to burn all my clothes!”

“What?”

“You heard me.
Burn
them! He says he won’t even let me
give
them away, they’re so awful. Including this new coat.” She stroked the red fox collar lovingly. “I paid seventy dollars for it at Ohrbach’s.”

Anne hid a smile. “Well, the coat is a little sophisticated for you.”

“Look, all my life I’ve worn my sister’s hand-me-downs. I have a right to pick my own clothes now.”

“What does Zeke want you to wear?”

“Who knows? I’m supposed to meet him later at some designer’s place. That’s why I need Henry—to talk to him—to tell him I have some rights.”

“Now Neely, you don’t need Henry. You can tell him yourself.”

“No, I don’t want to fight with him. He might walk out. Geez, Anne—he’s done such great things with my voice. Sometimes I don’t even believe it’s me. And in just two weeks. You know, for the first time I feel maybe I could be great. I can hit notes I never dreamed existed, and hold them with real power. He’s a genius.”

“Then maybe he’s right about the clothes.”

Neely sighed. “Well, I’m gonna let him pick my dress for the opening. It’s being specially designed because he’s making me dance and move a little on some numbers. But I’ll
never
give up this coat. . . .”

The following week she sent the coat to her sister, along with the purple taffeta and the six new dresses she had bought since the show had opened. Zeke made her buy an evening dress for the opening, two wool street dresses for everyday and a tailored navy blue coat. She stared at her sparse wardrobe in disgust. She alternated the two dresses, afraid to eat when she wore them—one spot and half her wardrobe was out of commission.

“Imagine, a hundred and twenty-five bucks for this,” she told Mel as she spread a napkin carefully over the blue wool. They were sitting in Sardi’s, where Neely now rated a front table—a fact that never ceased to amaze her.

“It’s smart looking,” Mel said. “But it doesn’t look like that kind of money.”

“Zeke says I have to create an image and look that way all the time.”

“What kind of an image is this dress supposed to create?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. What does it do to you? You went to college.”

Mel bit into his sandwich and stared thoughtfully at the dress. “Well, you don’t look like a rising young Broadway star, that’s for sure.” He studied her. “More like a schoolgirl. Yes, that’s it—like maybe you’re fresh from some fancy girls’ college.”

“Is that good?”

“I don’t know, honey. I love you in anything—even that awful purple job.”

“Mel! You never told me you didn’t like the taffeta.”

“You had it when we first met, and I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“What about my black coat with the red fox collar?”

“Well, it
was
ordinary looking . . . and sort of old for you.”

“And this plain navy coat is unusual?”

“I don’t know, honey, but I think it’s right for you. Fags have pretty good taste.”

“Oh, all right.” She sighed and bit carefully into her sandwich.

March, 1946

No one was prepared for the impact of Neely’s opening night. Anne was there with Lyon and Henry. Jennifer sat across the room at a large table with Tony Polar, his sister, his writers and some song pluggers. Helen Lawson arrived with an assistant stage manager. She waved hello to Henry and pointedly ignored Anne.

It began as a typical club opening. The newspapermen came because it was an assignment. The celebrities came to be seen by the newspapermen. No one expected very much. It had happened before—a new little girl, using the handle of a hit show to augment her slim pay check. They came respecting her energy and ambition; they left a raving, worshipping cult.

Anne couldn’t believe it. She caught Jennifer’s eye during the show and they exchanged stares of delighted amazement. Henry Bellamy was sitting on the edge of his seat.

Neely was fantastic. The lighting made the childlike face almost beautiful and the dress—a plain white satin shirtwaist and a short navy satin skirt—showed off her marvelous legs. Anne was surprised she had never noticed them before, or her perfect little figure with its small waistline and childish breasts.

“The star that got away,” Henry whispered. “Jesus, Lyon—how did we ever let her slip through our fingers?”

Lyon shook his head. “When we make a mistake, it’s a beaut!”

“She’s really great, isn’t she?” Anne whispered.

“Great isn’t the word,” Lyon answered. “She’s unbelievable. There’s no one around like her.”

After that, the excitement that generated around Neely made life chaotic at the apartment. The phone rang constantly, and the living room was taken over for interviews, picture sessions, rehearsals. Neely had guest shots on all the radio shows. She signed with a major record company. Metro wanted her. Twentieth wanted her. And Helen Lawson stopped talking to her.

Neely felt awful. “Imagine. She just cuts me dead,” she told Anne.

Jennifer grinned. “That means you’re a star. She’s still adorable to me.”

“I was gonna stay with the show into next season,” Neely explained. “But I won’t now. Gilbert Case offered me a new contract starting June first with bigger billing and a hundred-dollar raise. But I can’t work when Helen treats me like this.”

Anne laughed. “Come on, Neely—you have no scenes together. You’re just salving your conscience about leaving the show June first.”

“Why should I feel I owe Case anything? I’d have never got the job if it wasn’t for you, Anne—and if Helen hadn’t been scared of Terry King.”

She finally signed with Century Productions. “It’s a smaller studio than the others,” she explained, “but the Johnson Harris office thinks it’s best for me. Two of their pictures were up for Academy Awards last year. They’re getting all the new stars, and I’ll get the real star buildup.”

Mel wasn’t happy about her picture deal. “But it’s wonderful,” she insisted. “I stay with the show till the last day of May. Adele wrote and says she’s coming back the middle of June and wants the apartment back anyway, so—”

“What about Jennifer and Anne?” Mel asked.

“Well,
Hit the Sky
will run another year. Jennifer will stay in until she marries Tony, though nothing seems to be happening that way. They just date—no marriage talk.”

“But where will they live?”

“Oh, things are easier now. They might move to the Orwin Hotel temporarily. They can get a suite there fairly reasonably.”

“And what about us?”

“We’ll get married—June first, like we planned.”

Mel smiled. “Gee, I thought you’d never ask.”

She squeezed his hand. “Then we’ll go right to California for our honeymoon. The Head is getting me a house.”

“The Head?”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you about him,” Neely babbled. “He was in town last week. Cyril H. Bean—but no one ever calls him Cyril or Mr. Bean. He’s called The Head. He’s a sweet little old man, about fifty, real tan, and nice white hair. He’s so kind—and real fatherly. He’s renting a great house for me in Hollywood—three hundred a month with a swimming pool, only he told me not to dare get in the sun because I got enough freckles. Then he said if things go great and I make it, I can get a house in Beverly Hills”.

“What’s the difference?”

“Who knows? Maybe it’s the wrong side of the street. He kind of apologized about the house being in Hollywood. I pretended I understood. But imagine, Mel—a house with a pool.”

“Neely.” Mel reached out and took her hand. “You know I love you—”

“And Mel, I start at one thousand a week! Just think of all the money we’re gonna have.”

“Neely . . . the Johnny Mallon show comes from New York.”

“Give it up.”

“Just like that?”

“Mel, are you crazy? You’re only making two hundred a week.”

“I’ll make three starting next year.”

“But I’ll be making a
thousand!
And that doesn’t count my money from records. The Johnson Harris office said I’ll make twenty-five thousand just on records alone next year. Imagine!”

“And what do I do, sit in the swimming pool?”

“Mel, you’re with me. We’re a team. I need you. I need all the publicity I can get—more than ever now.”

“The studio will assign someone to you.”

“Sure they will. But it won’t be like you. Their press agent will take care of me and all the other stars. I want you to work for me alone. And Mel, you’ll have to handle all the money. I never even wrote a check in my life. Even in the apartment with the girls, they tell me what my end is and I hand it to them in cash. And Geez, I wouldn’t know what to say to a maid or cook, or even how to hire them. I never had a house. You’ll handle everything. Mel, you’ve got to come. I’d be nothing out there without you.”

“No, Neely. It wouldn’t work.”

“Why? You’re responsible for all this anyway. How did I get La Rouge in the first place?”

“The Johnson Harris office booked it.”

“But Mel, the Johnson Harris office only got interested in me because of all the publicity you got for me. They didn’t rush and sign me after I opened in
Hit the Sky.
Maybe I wasn’t the singer I am today—Zeke did that—but you got me noticed.”

He took her hands. “Zeke didn’t give you your voice, and I didn’t make you. It was there all the time. We just helped draw attention to it.”

“Then keep helping me, Mel. I need you . . . I love you.”

“But Neely—I don’t know whether it could work. I’ve never been out to Hollywood, but I know how they operate out there. I’d be Mr. Neely O’Hara. No one would respect me”.

“You don’t think I’m gonna go to those fancy Hollywood parties or mix with those people, do you? It’ll be just like here. I get telegrams all the time to go to openings, and sometimes we go. They don’t call you Mr. O’Hara.”

“It’s different here, Neely.”

“But
we’re
the same! Look, Mel—I wanna work hard, make money, and maybe in five years chuck the whole thing. Everyone will know you’re responsible for me. Please, Mel. I won’t go unless you come with me.”

“Now, Neely—”

“Mel . . . please . . .”

He reached over and pressed her hand. “All right. I always dreamed of having a Hollywood tan. Boy, will I impress everyone in Brooklyn. . . .”

December, 1946

Jennifer stood on a chair and tried to shove the hatbox onto the top shelf of the closet, then ducked as two suitcases fell, just missing her head.

She groaned. “This closet situation is really impossible.”

Anne helped stow the suitcases back on the shelf. “I’d offer you my closet, but it’s filled—with your hand-me-downs.”

“How does a hotel expect anyone to live with just two small dinky closets? Why couldn’t Adele have found some big English lord and stayed in London? God, how I miss that apartment.”

“These are pretty large closets, Jen. It’s just that no one is supposed to have all these clothes.”

“And I hate them all.”

“Jen! Don’t you dare buy another dress! I have the best wardrobe in town already because you get tired of something the second you’ve worn it. Lyon’s eyes pop the way I keep turning up in new creations.”

“Well, if Tony gives me the new mink for Christmas, you’re taking my old one.”