Valley of the Dolls (35 page)

Jennifer looked at her strangely. There was something in Miriam’s voice she had never heard before. “Tony may be childish,” she admitted, “but perhaps you’re to blame, Miriam—”

“Jennifer—Tony is a child, mentally and emotionally.”

“Only because you overprotect him.”

“No, that’s
why
I protect him. And that’s why I don’t want you to have his child. For your sake as well as his.”

“I don’t understand. . .”

Miriam sat beside her. “Jennifer, listen to me. When he was a baby he had convulsions. Something was born wrong inside his brain. The doctors at the hospital explained it to me, but I was too young to understand at first. I couldn’t believe anything was that wrong. They warned me he would never be normal, but he was just a year old and so beautiful. I refused to understand. But when he was seven and couldn’t get past first-grade work, I began to understand. I was older then, and I had all kinds of tests made on him. This time I got the full picture.

“Haven’t you noticed, Jen? Tony can barely read comic books. He can’t add past fifty. But he has no idea of his inadequacy. I’ve kept it from him by managing him, letting him think he doesn’t know all these things because I handle them for him. That’s why I keep telling him his only duty in life is to sing.”

“But you said he had a convulsion when he was little. That probably did it. There’s no reason why our baby shouldn’t be all right,” Jennifer argued.

“The kind of condition he has is passed on. The doctors don’t really know what causes it, but there’s a good chance that Tony will be completely insane by the time he’s fifty. And his child will be born with the same condition. If it’s lucky it might have the mentality of a twelve-year-old, but it could have even less.” She paused, remembering. “Jennifer, you don’t know what it’s like. When I found out about Tony I got religion. I used to pray. I went to church—any church—and I dragged Tony along. I got him into a choir. That’s when I found out he had a voice. I knew then that it was his only chance. Every dime I made I put into lessons. . . .” She sighed. “But that was a long time ago—this is now. That baby inside you probably won’t inherit Tony’s voice—but it will inherit his sickness.”

“What about you?” Jennifer asked. “Will you go insane?”

Miriam shook her head. “We had different fathers. Tony doesn’t know that either. Please, Jennifer—for your own sake—get rid of the baby.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“I have the medical reports with me.” She fumbled in her bag and took out a bulky envelope. “I didn’t figure you’d believe me. Why should you? I never been especially nice to you.” She handed over the envelope. “Take these to any neurologist. But do me one favor, Jennifer. Please don’t blab this around town. It would finish Tony’s career. And that would finish Tony. I know he’ll probably wind up in a mental institution some day, but if this got out it would send him there now. That’s why I save. You thought I was cheap, but I’m building an annuity for him. I stash every cent I can into it. I don’t want him landing in some terrible charity place after I’m gone. I want him to have enough to keep him at a fancy joint for the rest of his days. But meanwhile, maybe he’s got fifteen good years—I hope, anyway . . .”

Jennifer handed back the envelope. “I believe you, Miriam. No one could invent such a terrible story.”

Miriam had tears in her eyes. “Jennifer . . . I really wish you well. You’re welcome to come back to Tony, but you deserve a better life. And please keep it a secret, for him. You’ll find someone else. Please be kind to Tony. Get rid of his baby and forget him.”

Jennifer sat and stared into space for several hours after Miriam had gone. Then she took three red pills and went to sleep.

She never gave Anne or Henry any reason for her sudden decision. She found the doctor by herself, a nice, antiseptic-looking man in New Jersey. There was a clean operating table and an efficient nurse. It cost a thousand dollars. The nurse jabbed her arm with the needle—sodium pentothal, it was called, and it was a greater sensation than even Seconals. When she woke, it was over. Two weeks later it was as if it had never happened. Her waistline returned to normal and she flew to Mexico for the divorce. On her return she entered into the excitement of the new fall openings and went on a shopping spree for new clothes. Dresses were getting longer and everyone was fascinated with an eight-inch screen called television. You couldn’t see much except wrestling matches, ball games and roller derbies on it, but everyone went around saying it would kill radio.

Jennifer registered with the Longworth Agency again and began modeling. Soon Anne’s closets were bulging once more with Jennifer’s discards. The phone was always ringing and Jennifer was firmly entrenched in her new social life, dragging Anne along.

Jennifer saw several men, but she favored Claude Chardot. He was a French film producer—Gallic, charming and amorous. Anne didn’t like him, but Jennifer plunged into a violent romance. There were three-hour luncheons, finger kissing, dancing at the St. Regis. He spoke little English, and Anne was amazed at Jennifer’s fluent French.

On Christmas Eve, Jennifer and Anne trimmed a small tree. Claude and a few of his friends were coming by.

“He leaves in ten days,” Jennifer said wistfully.

“Do you really care for him? I mean
really?”
Anne asked.

Jennifer wrinkled her nose. “Well . . . he’s different. What do
you
think of him? Now be honest.”

“I can’t say. Half the time I don’t understand him, and the other half you two are jabbering away in French while I sit trying to understand his buddy’s broken English. But I did manage to decipher from his pal François that your Claude has a wife stashed away.”

“Naturally. Probably a mistress, too,” Jennifer said easily. “Whenever I get stuck on a man you can be sure he’s some kind of a louse. He wants me to come to Paris.”

“You’re not thinking of going!”

Jennifer shrugged. “He wants to star me in pictures over there. Says I’d be a smash, looking so American and speaking French.”

“But you’ve always said you couldn’t act.”

“He wants me to do sex pictures. Artistic—but seminude.”

”What?”

“It’s accepted over there, Anne. A lot of the big stars do it. It means nothing. Oh, I don’t mean dirty pictures—I mean movies with a real plot. Only when you take a bath in a scene, they photograph it.”

“But why should you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? What have I got going for me here? I was last season’s sensation. Soon I’ll be twenty-eight, and I have two bad marriages behind me. I won’t meet any real guy here. I’ve got a reputation now. Married to a prince and then to a movie star—men feel I’m too rich for their blood. Maybe Paris is the answer. I know Claude is a phony. He’s been giving me this whole romance buildup just to get me to sign with him. He expects to make money with me. But so what? What have I got to lose?”

“But you’ve only been in New York such a short time—why not give it a chance?”

“I’m too well known. Nothing new is going to happen to me. Oh, I could get into another show, but it wouldn’t be a good part. And then what? I’m not that great as a model. I have enough money from my alimony, but I’m sick of Morocco and the Stork and the same stale faces. What about you? Are you still carrying on the love affair of the ages with New York?”

Anne shook her head. “No, it kind of fell flat after Lyon left. I read in the
Times
that his book comes out next month. He’s probably working on his next one.”

“Have you gone to bed with anyone since?”

“No. I couldn’t. I know it’s foolish, but I still love Lyon.”

January, 1948

There was a three-hour luncheon at “21” on the day of Claude’s departure. When Anne arrived the party was well on its way. There was a large tin of Iranian caviar and the inevitable iced bucket of champagne. Jennifer, looking radiant, played hostess to Claude, his friend François and another man Anne had never met.

“I’m Kevin Gillmore,” the stranger said.

Jennifer grinned. “Now, Anne, you must have heard of Kevin Gillmore. He owns Gillian Cosmetics.”

“Of course. Your products are excellent.” She helped herself to some caviar.

“Are you going to Paris too?” he asked.

“No, it’s Jennifer who’s going to be the new French sensation.”

“She will take the town by storm,” Claude said in his thick accent. “But please, Anne . . . I depend on you to see she get on the boat. She must be there by the end of the month.”

Jennifer laughed merrily and snuggled close to Claude. “I’ll be there, as soon as I get my passport and tidy up a few things.”

“Isn’t it exciting?” Anne said to Kevin, trying to hide her lack of enthusiasm.

“I suppose so. Are those your teeth?”

“What?”

“Yours? Or caps?”

Anne smiled. His directness was disarming. “They’re my own. Why?”

“And your hair?”

She felt the color come to her face. “It’s natural,” she said quietly.

“I know that. I know enough about coloring to realize that. But is it all yours?” He tugged gently at her long hair. “I mean, are you wearing a fall?”

“A what?”

“A fall. A false piece under to give it that thickness.”

“Why should I?”

He smiled suddenly. It was a smile completely out of context with his bold questions. A humble smile. “Because most girls need one to get that kind of look.” He shook his head sadly. “That’s the big trouble in finding the right girl—either they have good hair and lousy teeth or good hair and teeth and a bad nose. I suppose you’re pretty well booked. I mean, you wouldn’t consider working for us on an exclusive basis?”

“As what?” Anne looked toward Jennifer for assistance, but she was busy whispering some French endearment to Claude.

“Well, you see, with television coming in, I figure radio will be finished in another year—as far as the big shows are concerned. I want a ‘Gillian Girl.’ I want to feature that girl in all my ads—hair, nail polish, lipstick, the works. I’ve seen several girls I like—” He reeled off the names of five of the top models. “But they make too much money to work for me exclusively. I don’t want the Gillian Girl posing for Ted Casablanca’s clothes in
Vogue
or for Chanel’s perfume in
Harper’s.
I want her to be identified with Gillian products only. And all I can pay to start with is three hundred a week.”

Anne sipped at her champagne. She didn’t know what to say.

He took her silence for refusal. “I’d give you a year’s contract, with an option for five hundred the second six months. And extra money if we use you when we go on television.”

Jennifer suddenly came to life. “Did I hear mon-ee?” she asked.

“I’m telling your friend I’d like to make her the Gillian Girl.”

Jennifer’s eyes widened. “But of course! Anne would be perfect.”

“She sure would. She’s beautiful, but not too sexy. The All-American Girl,” Kevin said.

Claude threw up his hands. “There is that word again! You Americans! You don’t know what to do with a beautiful girl. You keep trying to make everyone look like the girl next door. If that is what the public want, no one would go to the movies. Take Jennifer—she will be the big hit because she is not the girl next door—she is the girl every man dreams of having.”

“I agree. But it doesn’t work that way in advertising,” Kevin insisted. “Oh, we use sex—but in a subtle kind of way. Anne is beautiful. But she has the type of beauty women can identify with. A college girl or young matron will think she can look like Anne if she uses our product, but she would never think she could look like Jennifer. You’re selling escapism in pictures—I’m selling a product. Anne is right for my product. People won’t stop to think that it’s her fine bone structure that does it, or the way her eyes are spaced, or the thickness of her own lashes. They’ll think if they use the same product it will happen to them. Her kind of beauty doesn’t frighten them. Jennifer’s would.”

“Well, I’m taking my frightening beauty to Paris,” Jennifer said. “But Anne, I think you should take Kevin’s offer. You need a change. We all need one.”

Anne frowned. “I’m not a model, and I’m very happy working for—”

Jennifer nudged her and stood up. “I think it’s time to powder our noses. Come on, Anne.” As she followed Anne out of the room, she turned and tossed Kevin a reassuring wink. He nodded and held up crossed fingers.

They sat in front of the large mirror while the attendant stood by, carefully acting bored and disinterested.

“All right.” Jennifer began her attack instantly. “Why not?”

“I know nothing about modeling—”

“I know nothing about movies, but that’s not stopping me. And in Paris, yet!”

“You’ll be wonderful—”

“Don’t change the subject. What are you making with Henry?”

“A hundred and fifty a week now. But that’s not important. I just sold the house and got a wonderful price, and Henry invested that and my stock’s gone way up. Money is the last thing I need.”

“But this will be exciting.”

“I can’t leave Henry—”

“Henry?” Jennifer’s eyes were accusing. “Anne, you’re talking to me, Jen. You mean you can’t leave that office because it’s still a link to Lyon Burke. But he won’t come back to you. Stop dreaming that some day he’ll stride in, and whisk you off. That’s over! Finished!”

“How do you know? I mean, next week his book comes out . . . well . . . he’ll have to be here for it. Most authors do, don’t they?”

Jennifer studied her bag. She played idly with the handle. “Anne . . . I wasn’t going to tell you, but now I think, you should know. He’s—gone back to England.”

“Back?” Her mouth felt dry. She was afraid she was going to be sick. “You mean he was here?”

Jennifer’s nod was solemn. “For a week. To see his publisher. He did a complete rewrite—threw out practically everything he had written here, then went back there and wrote from scratch. That’s why it’s taken so long. But it’s a good book. Henry told me. He saw Lyon.”

“Henry saw him?”