Valley of the Dolls (32 page)

It was the worst Christmas she could remember. And she held Lawrenceville personally responsible. There were no more logs for the fireplace, so she turned the oil burner up. The house was well heated, but cold and dead. She sipped tea. She ate a few crackers. The radio didn’t quite drown out the endless chiming of the church bells, and the Christmas carols depressed her even more. This was the day to rejoice. And she was alone. Jennifer was with Tony, Neely was in California with Mel. But she was alone in Lawrenceville.

She spent the next few days with Mr. Walker. Everything was tagged, and gradually some order prevailed. She would be free to leave at the end of the week. But where was Lyon? Five days had passed. In desperation she tracked Henry down at the Beverly Hills Hotel in California.

“Henry, where is Lyon?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” His voice crackled through the wires.

“Isn’t he out there with you?”

“No, I assumed he was with you.”

“I haven’t seen or heard from him since Sunday.”

“You’re kidding!” Henry was suddenly concerned. “I called the office yesterday afternoon. George said he hadn’t been in since Monday. I just naturally assumed he took off to spend Christmas with you.”

“Henry, we’ve got to find him!”

“Why? Is anything wrong? I mean—what could be wrong? A guy doesn’t just disappear. I’ve tried his apartment three nights in a row. He’s not there.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Henry, find him!
Find him!”
She was suddenly frightened.

“Now calm down. You two have a lovers’ quarrel?”

“Not really. A misunderstanding—but I didn’t think it was
this
serious.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow, too,” Henry told her. “Unless the weather is bad. I’m booked on a four o’clock plane this afternoon. Now relax. Lyon wouldn’t just run out on us. He’ll probably be in Monday with a logical explanation. Why don’t you relax there over the weekend?”

“Relax! I can’t wait to get out of here!”

She arrived back in New York to find a letter from Lyon waiting at her hotel.

Dear Anne,

Thank you for the moment of reckoning. I should say the five hours of reckoning. It was quite a long train ride, and gave me sufficient time to think things out. If I want to write, there’s only one thing to do—write. Until now I was constantly searching for excuses. I had to work for Henry, then your house—the perfect setting. Seems I want things tied up in a neat bundle—want the entire world to conform so I can write. Now who the hell am I? Kind of a cheeky attitude, wanting you to slink about like the self-sacrificing little author’s wife one reads about. As I see it, at the moment I am in limbo. I am not the driving Lyon Burke that Henry once knew, but neither am I the dedicated writer. I see nothing ahead but half truths—half an author, half a manager, putting off leaving Henry until I am a commercial success as a writer, putting off marriage because I cannot be a full-time husband, putting off writing because I must stay with Henry. Until now I have only given a part of myself to you, Henry and writing. It’s obvious I’m not capable of giving to all three. If not, I should at least pull out of the lives of the two people I care most about. I have written most of these same thoughts to Henry. George Bellows is a good man—he is the man for Henry. And somewhere in your wonderful New York, my dearest, there is the right man for you, just waiting for you to find him.

I told you I have a bit of money. I also have access to a large, unheated house in the north of England. It belongs to relatives, but no one uses it. I shall open a few rooms. I could live there for years on a few quid, and I shall write even if my knuckles turn blue. We have only a few hours of daylight during the winter. Lawrenceville is the tropics in comparison. But no one will disturb me.

I have enclosed the keys to my apartment, dear Anne. It is the one practical thing I can do for you. With Jennifer married you are alone, and a flat is still hard to find. And I did inherit this with all the furniture due to your largess. I think it only fitting that you wind up with it. It’s not much. I’ve taken your wonderful gift, the typewriter. But if the flat pleases you, take over the lease. And don’t do anything silly like waiting for me. I warn you—I shall marry the first plump English maiden who will cook and tend for me. And years from now, if I do turn out any book that is halfway good, we can both say, “At least there was one thing he did whole-heartedly.”

I loved you, Anne. But you are too wonderful to accept such a small part of a small person who tried to scatter himself in so many directions. So I shall concentrate on writing—at least in that way I can hurt no one but myself.

Thank you for the most wonderful year of my life.

Lyon

May, 1947

Jennifer sat beside the pool in the shade. She read Anne’s letter again. She sounded happy enough—it was the first letter without a mention of Lyon. Maybe she was finally over it. But how could she live in his apartment? Did she still hope he’d come walking in one day? After five months? Imagine, not one word from him! Just showed, you could never tell what really went on inside a man’s head. Take all those pictures of her with Tony. They looked so happy—the perfect young Hollywood couple!

The sun crept under the umbrella. She reached out and bent the framework down to shield herself. Sure—a girl who got hives if she sat in the sun had to wind up in California. She glared angrily at the blazing orange ball. It was always there. It was the one thing in California you could count on. On occasion there might be a slight fog in the morning, but inevitably the lemon disc would make an appearance, timidly at first; then, as if inflating itself, it would brighten and inhale the mist and clouds and emerge triumphant and alone in a china-blue sky.

She sighed. Every day here since her arrival in January had been like the middle of July. How did those damn oranges grow if it never rained? It was May in New York. In the East you appreciated good weather when it finally arrived. She thought about New York. The first balminess must be in the air. The heavy winter coats had been stored away and people were sitting outside the cafeteria in Central Park. And you could walk in New York! You never appreciated the privilege of walking until you lived in California. You could even walk at night in New York. If you had nothing to do you could walk down Fifth Avenue and look in the stores, or go to a late movie, or walk down Broadway and buy a hot dog. Here, if you walked down Beverly Drive at night, a prowl car picked you up.

Well, at least Anne had New York. According to her letters she was going out a lot, but she never mentioned anyone special. Probably still waiting for Lyon. Well, at least that was something tangible.

But what was
she
waiting for? Another day to pass? There was a party for tonight. It didn’t thrill her, but it was better than playing gin with Tony. He couldn’t even concentrate on that, because Miriam kept hanging over him, telling him every card to play. If Miriam would only let him think for himself once in a while.

She sipped her Coke. The ice had melted. Why did warm Coke taste like a laxative? She was too lazy to go back in the house for a fresh one. She was too lazy to do anything. And the party—that wouldn’t be any fun. It was business. Tony was up for the lead in Dick Meeker’s new picture, so she had to be pleasant and polite. “Pleasant and polite.” Miriam constantly drummed those words into her ears. “Don’t try and be a big personality out here. Out here you’re nothing. Everyone is a big shot here, so you just be pleasant and polite.”

She did her best. She floated through parties like a grinning zombie. She made no friends. Miriam was right, beauty was a cheap commodity in Hollywood. There were millions of beautiful nobodies. The girls who hung out at Schwab’s were beautiful, the carhops were beautiful—yet most of the big stars were not the spectacular beauties. Jane Wyman was pert looking. Barbara Stanwyck was smart, chic; so was Rosalind Russell. Joan Crawford was striking. Boy, this was a pistol. All these years thinking she had something special because her teeth were good, her nose was straight and she had big boobs. Big boobs weren’t even in style. Adrian and Ted Casablanca and all the other big designers had created the broad-shouldered look. Big boobs only got in the way.

It would be another nothing evening. She was no one, just Mrs. Polar, the wife of a promising newcomer. Oh yes, he was on radio, someone might say. But that didn’t mean a thing out here. You had to be in pictures—and a wife didn’t mean anything. In fact, a wife held the same social status as a screenwriter—necessary but anonymous. Even the starlets rated more attention at parties. Starlets were always available, ready for any kind of action. Starlets knew producers and often had hilarious inside stories to tell—the big screen star who always yelled “Mother!” when he reached the climax, the movie mogul who wanted his wife to watch. . . . Sure, starlets could garner plenty of attention at parties. But a wife—a wife lived in limbo. Too respected to be approached, too unimportant to rate respect. At most parties she wound up at the bar, discussing old times with the hired bartenders, who all hailed from New York, talking nostalgically about Sardi’s and Lindy’s. It was easier than talking to the other displaced wives, who cared only about the servant problem and tennis.

She couldn’t even go on shopping sprees like she had before she was married. She had been allowed to buy
one
evening gown in the five months she had been here. “You have more clothes than a department store,” Miriam had snorted. Maybe she did, but she got tired of them. Didn’t Miriam realize it was important to wear something new? But Miriam had only three dresses, and they all looked alike. Miriam went to parties in a five-year-old blue lace dress and white orthopedic shoes!

Miriam gave her an allowance of fifty dollars a week. She sent it all to her mother, and her mother kept writing that it wasn’t enough. She had tried to talk to Tony about the money situation, but she hardly ever saw him. He was either recording, learning new songs or rehearsing his radio show. And at dinner there was always Miriam. At night, alone in the large bed, he was the old Tony, grasping for her greedily. But after it was over, she couldn’t reach him. She had tried to explain that if she could be a part of his life and career she wouldn’t be bored, but he didn’t seem to understand. “Miriam takes care of all that—talk to her.”

When she mentioned money it was the same: “Talk to Miriam, she’ll give you all you need.” And Miriam had all the answers. “Whaddaya need money for? I pay for all the food and the booze. You can charge the gas. Fifty dollars is plenty for pin money.”

It couldn’t go on like this. How much longer could she just sit by the pool? She had read three books so far this week and it was only Friday. The sun had crept under the umbrella again. She jumped up. She had to do something, go somewhere. Maybe Neely would be home. She had just finished her second picture and the studio had promised her a month’s vacation. She went into the house and changed into slacks. She was glad for Neely. Her first picture had gotten raves and Jennifer had seen a sneak preview of the new one—it was great. She hadn’t seen much of Neely, though. They talked on the phone occasionally, but Neely had just changed her number again and she didn’t have the new unlisted one.

She drove the eight blocks—you just didn’t walk in California. Anyway, if Neely wasn’t home she’d go over to Schwab’s. Maybe Sidney Skolsky would be there and they could sit and talk. Sidney loved Hollywood, but he also understood how she felt.

Mel opened the door. He was in bathing trunks. He had filled out and the tan made him look almost healthy. He led Jennifer to the swimming pool. “Want some lunch? I’m having a sandwich.”

Jennifer shook her head. She sat down in the shade. Their pool was identical to hers. Same kidney shape, same cabana area, same tennis court and prop bar. She looked off to the purplish hills. Did Mel sit around all day, too?

“Neely’s at the studio,” he explained. “Wardrobe fittings.”

“I thought she had a month off.”

“Sure, a month off before shooting. That means a month of wardrobe fittings, makeup tests and publicity stills. But she should be home any minute. Hey, did you hear? Ted Casablanca’s doing her clothes.”

“She’s really in the big leagues,” Jennifer said. “Ted won’t design for anyone but the top stars.”

Mel hunched his bony shoulders. “Only in Hollywood could this happen. Women fainting because some fag deigns to dress them. Any place else, if you pay the money you get the article. In New York does Saks worry if a customer will do justice to their creations? But out here everything is a status symbol. Neely’s dieting now—is that a laugh?”

“Why? Has she gained weight?”

“She weighs one hundred and eighteen. She’s always weighed that. She’s five feet five—that’s a nice weight. But this Casablanca—he wants her to lose fifteen pounds. Says her face will be more interesting and the clothes will look better. She takes little green pills . . . doesn’t eat a thing.”

Neely suddenly arrived, her old breathless self. She was delighted to see Jennifer. “Have you heard?” she squealed. “Ted Casablanca’s doing my clothes! Oh, Jennifer, he’s divine! I’m going to be beautiful for a change. He’s making me some really glamorous things—real understated. Geez, when I remember that awful purple taffeta! Ted says I should have the gamin look, the mischievous little girl. But chic. After all, I’m eighteen now—it’s about time.”

“I hear you’re dieting.”

“Yeah. Mel, get me some skimmed milk. Want anything, Jen?”

“A Coke.”

“We only have club soda. I don’t keep anything fattening around. Mel, make Jen a lemonade. How’s that?” Neely watched him leave, then she turned back to Jennifer, her childish eyes wide with concern.

“Oh, Jen, I don’t know what to do. He’s changed so—he just can’t get with it. Everything he does he bungles.”

“I wouldn’t say that. He’s gotten you a lot of publicity. That story in
Screen World
is a great layout.”