Valley of the Dolls (38 page)

He had stayed until the last camera had clicked and the last congratulation had been accepted. Then he had driven her home, said good night in front of the door and left her—an Academy Award-winning star—to go to the arms of that tramp! That had done it!

The next morning she had called The Head and demanded he come to her bungalow. She could throw her weight around now. And The Head had come, too! This time
she
announced the terms. She wanted a divorce—immediately—and she wanted Ted Casablanca dropped by the studio. The Head had humbly agreed to her demands. God, the power of an Oscar!

It also made her realize that it wasn’t life or death to report for work every day. She was the biggest star in Hollywood, and the Oscar proved it. If she had a bad night, fuck ’em! She was Neely O’Hara! And if she gained a few pounds on caviar, fuck ’em. So it took a week to get it off—so what! Her pictures made them a fortune. . . .

She sat in the air-conditioned studio bungalow trembling. It was the third time she had walked off the set in five weeks. Goddam that John Stykes. He might be the greatest director in the world, but he was crucifying her in this picture. She tore off the strip of false eyelashes and violently dabbed cream on her face.

“Miss O’Hara, don’t! It will take an hour to get the makeup on again,” the maid pleaded.

“No more work today,” she said grimly, erasing the pancake.

“But we’re behind schedule—”

“We!”
Neely turned on her. “Where do you get that
we
stuff? Christ! Everybody’s in show business!”

There was a knock on the door. It was John Stykes. He was handsome in a craggy, weatherbeaten way. “Come on, Neely, let’s get going.”

She saw his look of despair at her naked face. “Yes, buster—no more work for today!” She grinned maliciously.

He sat down. “All right. It’s three o’clock. We’ll knock off early.”

“Only I’m not okaying that last take,” she snapped.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You know damn well. All the closeups were on our feet.”

“Neely, the studio is paying Chuck Martin fifty thousand just for that dance he does with you. He’s a great dancer. What should we shoot? His ears?”

“No, dammit, you shoot
me!
Body shots—my feet can’t keep up with him. I’m not that good a dancer.”

“I can’t believe my ears,” he said with mock wonder. “You mean you actually concede someone might have more talent than you?”

“Listen, Chuck Martin’s been dancing in Broadway shows for thirty years. But that’s all he can do—dance. He’s old enough to be my father. I’m only twenty-five, but I can sing, dance and act. I’ll put my singing and acting up against the best of them. No one can touch me when it comes to singing. No one! As for dancing, okay, so I’m no Ginger Rogers or Eleanor Powell. But all Chuck Martin can do is dance. He’s almost as good as Astaire. But is that any reason I should look bad?”

“If you admit he’s that good, why not let us give five minutes to his feet?”

“Because it’s
my
picture. That’s something I learned in my first Broadway show, from an expert. No performer feathers his nest on my talent. Look, who needs Chuck Martin anyway? I’ve used chorus boys in all my other pictures.”

“The Head picked Chuck personally.” John Stykes lit a cigarette. Neely reached for one. He lit it for her. “Since when did you start smoking?”

“I took one the day my divorce became final. I’ve found they keep me from eating.”

“Bad for the voice, Neely.”

“I only smoke about ten a day.” She inhaled deeply. “Well, is it settled now?”

The director looked toward the maid. “Neely, could we talk alone?”

“Sure.” She motioned the maid to leave. “You’re through for the day, Shirley. See you here tomorrow, at seven.”

John smiled when they were alone. “I’m glad you’re not planning to play hookey.”

“Why should I? You just sit up tonight and figure a new way to shoot that scene so that it stars me—not Chuck Martin’s feet.”

“Neely, has it ever occurred to you why The Head didn’t use a chorus boy?”

“Sure, sure. Television! Everybody panics easily these days. But that’s not my worry. If The Head thinks sending for Chuck Martin and paying out an extra fifty G’s is gonna lick television, that’s his business. Only don’t do it on my time.”

“Neely, your last two pictures lost money.”

“C’mon! I read
Variety.
I saw the grosses. They were terrific! My last picture grossed four million and it hasn’t played Europe yet.”

“But it cost over six million to make.”

“So what?
Variety
says my picture will be the top grosser of the year.”

“Sure, and it would have made the studio a fortune if it had been made for the two million five it was slated for. The studio’s kept the real figures a secret—so far. No one ever heard of a picture running that much over. The Head was afraid to let the reports get published. His stockholders would hold an emergency meeting. He has to make it up with this picture. Your first loss was a small one, but this last one . . . honey, no picture has ever cost six million.”

“I had the flu. People can’t help it if they get sick.”

“Neely, you were out ten days with sleeping pills.”

“And then I got the flu.”

“I wasn’t on that picture, but I know the facts. You boozed and ate. . . . All right, so you got run down and got sick. But when you recovered, it took three weeks to get the weight off you. And even then you still were ten pounds over and all the costumes had to be redone.”

“All right! I was upset. My divorce became final that week. And Sam Burns, my favorite cameraman, got sick. I won’t work without Sam. I wasn’t ten pounds overweight—I weighed ninety-eight. But the clothes were so lousy I looked heavy.” She stopped, then turned on him violently. “And that’s another thing. They’ve got to get me a new designer. The clothes stink. Ted would never have let me wear this crap!”

“Ellen Small has won nine Academy Awards.”

“Well, let her make clothes for her Oscars, not for me.”

“Neely, I like you. That’s why I’m talking to you instead of The Head. I won’t let on that you walked out today. Oh, he’ll hear about the early dismissal, but I’ll say we were through with the scene earlier than we expected and it was too late to set up the next. But how long do you think he’ll put up with this?”

“With what?”

“With your walkouts, your tantrums . . .”

“I didn’t work this hard to become a star and have to worry about the front office. Once you’re a star, everyone has to worry about you. You rate it. I learned that from Helen Lawson.”

“Helen Lawson is a pro,” he snapped. “That’s one thing you aren’t.”

“So where is she now?”

“She can star on Broadway whenever she wants—”

“What’s Broadway? That’s all she can get!”

“Right. And she knows it. But Helen Lawson was never a second late for rehearsal in her life. She only has one thing—a big voice. And she knows it. She might be careless about everything else, but she’s a businesswoman with that voice. She’s a different kind of a monster than you are, Neely—”

“Monster! Why you. . . you . . .”

He laughed and tweaked her nose. “Sure you’re a monster,” he said good-naturedly. “Every star is one. But Helen is a mechanical star, a voice. You have . . . well, sometimes, honey, I think you border on genius. You feel things—too deeply at times.” He leaned over and took her hands. “Neely, they don’t come like you. You’re rare. But this is no art form—it’s dollars and cents. Stockholders aren’t interested in genius, just box-office receipts. Look, baby, we’re ten days behind, but if you cooperate, we can make it up. We can shoot the nightclub scene in one day instead of three. I’ve got it all set for tomorrow. The extras have been called. I know how to lick it. I’ll work a few nights . . . do the crowd scenes with your stand-in. We can shoot from the back. Neely, we can do it. We can still bring it in on time.”

She wavered for a moment, then she shot him a metallic smile. “You almost got to me, Johnny-boy. This was the daddy of all pep talks. But like you said, I’m a monster—and monsters know every angle. Seven years ago if someone had talked to me like this, I’d have jumped and said, ’Yes sir, yes sir, yes sir.’ I worked my ass off, half killed myself . . . and I made the studio a fortune.”

“And you made yourself a star.”

“Yeah, and what does that get me?” she said. She walked across the room and poured herself half a glass of Scotch. “Want a drink?”

“Beer, if you’ve got it.”

She went to the bar and got some beer from the small refrigerator. “This is what I’ve got,” she said as she handed it to him. “The best booze in town—only I’m not supposed to drink it. It puts weight on me. I also got a swimming pool I can’t use because I’m not allowed to get tan. Bad for technicolor. I got two closets full of clothes and no place or time to wear them because I have to stay home each night and study the next day’s scenes. John . . .” She knelt on the floor and sat at his feet. “How did it happen?”

He rubbed her head. “You just got there too fast.”

“No, that’s not the answer. I kicked around in vaudeville all my life. I’m not some beauty-contest winner the studio had to teach to talk, walk and act. They signed me ’cause I had talent. Sure, they taught me some things. I dance better. I’ve gone through the reading bit—books The Head thought I should read. You know, the self-improvement bit. Now I don’t sound like a moron when I give interviews. But I came with my talent. I’m twenty-five and I feel like I’m ninety. I’ve lost two husbands. All I know is to study lines, songs, dance routines, to starve, to sleep with pills, stay awake with pills. . . . There’s got to be more than that to living.”

“Did you have more fun back in your early vaudeville days?”

“No, and I hate people who say it was all so wonderful when they were starving. It stunk. One-night stands, cold trains, dim-witted audiences . . . but there
was
something that kept you going and made you feel good—hope. It was all so lousy that you knew it had to get better, and you dreamed of the big time or security and thought it would be so wonderful if you could just latch onto a piece of it. And that hope kept you going so it didn’t seem bad. But when you sit here and think, Geez, here it is . . . this is it. . . and it stinks. Then what?”

“You’ve got the babies, Neely. Right now you’re caught up in the time-consuming job of being a star. But you’ll find a right guy again—and then you might have to make a choice between mass love and a private life. It’s not easy to give up the love of an audience and settle for one man. Not after you’ve had it like you have. You’ll have to weigh all this and ask yourself if the love you get from your talent is enough to compensate.”

“No, it isn’t. I can’t enjoy it. I mean, what has this God-given talent given
me?
All I can do is give it to others. Is that the end? I got it, but I have to keep giving it away—and I wind up with nothing. Boy, is this crazy? Wait till I tell this to Dr. Mitchell.”

“Your analyst?”

She nodded. “I don’t need one, really. That’s another crazy thing. He was Ted’s analyst. Imagine! Me—the most normal girl in the world—I wind up with a headshrinker. I went to see him when something awful happened with Ted, and the next thing you know, I found myself running to him every time something came up. At first it was always about Ted . . . but then he started groping in my past, like maybe it was my fault Ted had troubles. But I went along—and then I did learn a lot about myself. You know, John, I never knew what it was to have a mother’s love. He says that’s why it’s important to me to be a star—I need mass love.”

“That’s bullshit!” John was angry. “Listen, there are plenty of stars who love their mass love and who had some pretty doting parents. You’re a star because you have talent, not because you never knew a mother’s love. I’m tired of all these fancy doctors who blame everything on the poor mothers of the world. So your old lady kicked off early. Did she do it purposely just to get even with you? Listen, Neely, you’ll be a lot better off if you forget your headshrinker. You got where you are on your own.”

“But I
am
neurotic, John. I’ve found I have all kinds of neuroses.”

“So? Maybe that’s why you’re a star. If he cures them maybe you won’t be you. I got my own kinks, but I’m not about to plunk out twenty-five bucks a throw and have some guy tell me my father mistreated me and I miss my mother’s love. What am I going to do about it even if I find out it’s true? Go to Minnesota and punch my old man in the nose? He’s eighty. Or find myself a gray-haired call girl who’ll stroke my head and bottle-feed me? Listen, whatever happened is yesterday’s newspaper. It’s today and tomorrow—that’s what counts!”

She sighed. “It’s all so easy the way you say it. But when you spend that long night alone—God, the nights are awful—and you feel there is one person you can talk to . . . See, John, a psychiatrist has no angles. He’s out for you . . . to help you. He’s the only one I can trust.”

He stood up. “All right, see him tonight. But look, Neely. Do yourself a favor. Forget the costumes. Do the nightclub scene tomorrow. Learn the lyrics and let’s bring the picture in on time.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, so that’s what this whole big talk was for. Trying to soften me for the kill.”

He banged the glass on the table. “Maybe you’re right—you do need a headshrinker. Is that what this business has done to you? Made you suspicious of everyone? Listen, I’ve talked to you like a father because I
care
—because I don’t want to see you and your talent go down the drain.”

“How can it go down the drain? Just because I won’t wear a lousy costume?”

“No, because if you keep making pictures that lose money all the talent in the world won’t help you in this business.”

“I’m the biggest box-office draw there is. I was voted number one this year in all the polls.”

“Neely, when the stockholders add up the figures they don’t care about the line around Radio City or the movie-magazine polls. What good is it to them to make a big hit picture if it doesn’t make money?”