Valley of the Dolls (42 page)

“What could go wrong? It’s not as if she’s a no-talent hothouse flower created by the Hollywood cameras. Neely grew up in vaudeville, she played Broadway—she’s a trouper. Television’s loaded with no-talent performers. Every day someone you never heard of jumps into television and becomes a star, and only because the real talents like Neely are holding out. It’s not as if I’m asking her to do a weekly series. Just one shot, a spectacular—and she’d do herself a lot of good, too.”

“I agree, Kevin. But you’re the super salesman—it’s up to you to convince her. I’m her friend, and I intend to remain just that.”

Kevin brought up the subject several times, and each time Neely good-naturedly turned him down. She was enjoying her first real holiday, her first contact with the adulation of the fans, a long-overdue payment for the years of cloistered grind in the studio factory.

Kevin seized every opportunity to get Neely involved in watching performers and reliving her own past. He bought tickets for the opening night of Helen Lawson’s new musical, hoping that seeing Helen would reactivate Neely’s ambition and revive the excitement of working to an audience.

Helen’s opening was a major event. She had disappeared from the Broadway scene in another unsuccessful attempt at marriage, this time as mistress of a large estate in Jamaica. She had retired with ecstatic interviews. She had found “the only true love of her life.” There had been pictures of an overblown Helen clinging to the arm of a nondescript, gray-haired man. She was selling her New York apartment and furniture and going to Jamaica to live a wonderful life as a simple housewife. The wonderful life lasted six years. Then Helen returned, and there were more front-page stories. Jamaica was “a tropical small town filled with rich, idle people and bugs.” There was nothing to do but drink and gossip. The wonderful man was “a louse who drank too much and had ’liaisons’ with other women.” She got a Mexican divorce and immediately accepted the starring role in a new musical.

It was a typical Helen Lawson opening. All the right people were in the audience, waiting to cheer her, to welcome home the Queen. The applause had been deafening on her entrance, but after ten minutes the air was heavy with “flop sweat.” Kevin had felt a surge of hope as Neely sat on the edge of her seat, mentally taking every bow with Helen. But his hopes were dashed when Neely whispered, “I thought she was old when I first met her. Geez, she was a kid in comparison.”

Kevin had to admit Neely was right. Helen was no longer skirting middle age; she
was
middle-aged. She had put on a good deal of weight. But her legs were still good, and she still tossed her long mane of black hair.

“Boy, has she been dipping into the dye pots,” Neely whispered. “I like black hair, but she must be kidding with that color. It’s ebony.”

“She should use Gillian’s color black,” Kevin commented. “Gives a more natural look.”

“Nothing could help her,” Neely hissed. “And now she hasn’t even got a good script going for her. Why did she ever take this show? She’s got loads of dough.”

“What else is she going to do?” Kevin said carefully. “An actress is only alive when she’s on stage.”

“Eh!” Neely waved him aside. “That’s an old cliché.”

“It’s just started,” Anne whispered. “It might get better.”

“It’s a flop. I can smell it,” Neely answered.

Neely was right. Anne watched Helen struggle valiantly. She felt a surge of sympathy for this blowsy-looking middle-aged woman trying to play a romantic role. Her voice was as vital as ever, with only the trace of a vibrato; but either the lyrics missed or the tune wasn’t there. As the show progressed her energy increased, as if she were trying to put her own life’s blood into the dying show.

There were numerous curtain calls. The first-nighters gave the Queen dutiful homage. But the comments as they filed out of the theatre were more truthful. “Helen’s first flop.” . . . “It wasn’t Helen’s fault, it was a bad book.” . . . “The direction was lousy.” . . . “Ah, but the old Helen would have pulled it out. Remember
Sunny Lady?
No book or score—just Helen, and it was enough.” . . . “Listen, everyone is entitled to one flop.” . . . “Yes, but at her age it’s too late to make a comeback. Why didn’t she let well enough alone?” . . . “They’re kinder to racehorses—at least they put the champions out to stud.” . . . “Yeah, and from what I hear, that’s what Helen would really like.” . . . “But who’s the old bag going to stud with?” . . . “Aw, she still has great legs and magnificent hair.” . . . “Well, she’s got to have
something
left.” . . . “And my dear,
I
studied voice in college. There
was
a vibrato.” . . .

“I can’t go backstage,” Neely said. “I know she musta heard I was out front, but Geez, what can I say? Like maybe the sets were great?”

“Want to go to Sardi’s?” Kevin asked. “She’ll come there to take her bows.”

“Wanna bet?” Neely answered. “Listen, no one knows better than Helen what a bomb this was. She doesn’t want to be sitting around Sardi’s with egg on her face when those early editions of the
Times
and
Tribune
come out. Besides, Franco Salla is opening at the Persian Room tonight. He was a sensation at Ciro’s. I went every night. I wouldn’t miss his New York opening.”

Wearily, Kevin called the Persian Room and booked a table. It was mobbed with the same columnists and many of the same people who had attended Helen’s opening. When the captain saw Neely, a new table was placed ringside in front of a disgruntled group who had tipped lavishly to insure an unhampered view. A surge of excitement ran through the audience as Neely entered.

Kevin ordered champagne, but Neely barely sipped at her glass. Anne watched the crowd and thought about the new commercial she was to do the following day. It was late, and she could see the show was not going to start on schedule. Tomorrow she’d have to use the “idiot cards.” She watched the people milling at the door. Nothing ever changed at openings—the same impatient people waiting to be shown to their tables, offering folded bills for better locations, the same perspiring busboys scuttling around placing makeshift tables at ringside, trying to ignore the complaints of the occupants of tables they eclipsed. People who had started at ringside were now three rows back. The dance floor was half its original size. And just as it seemed impossible to squeeze another person into the room, Anne saw a busboy rushing another platter-sized table to the ringside. It was placed directly opposite them.

Helen made her entrance, accompanied by a slim young boy. He was a minor dancer in her show, effeminately beautiful and ignorantly proud to be the center of attention. Helen must have known all about his “roommate,” but he played his role of escort with flawless perfection. He held her hand, listened raptly to everything she said, laughed on cue and reveled in the introductions Helen engulfed him in as she turned to the tables around her and loudly greeted friends. The captain answered her bellowed summons with a look of patient resignation. Anne could hear her across the room as she shouted, “I know this is one of those fancy-Dan rooms that don’t serve booze while the act is on, so set up a few bottles of the grape fast, before it’s too late.”

The lights finally dimmed. Franco Salla was introduced. He was a strong singer, especially good in his Italian numbers. The audience had read his out-of-town notices and was eager to make him a star. He was forced to do several encores. Then, after a charming speech of gratitude, enhanced by his accent, he turned gravely to the ringside, and with an air of solemn awe, introduced “the giant of musical comedy, the queen of them all, the great lady who has been a star for decades . . . Helen Lawson!”

Helen forced a mechanical grin. She rose and waved good-naturedly to the audience. The applause was loud and hearty with respect.

Then Franco turned and looked at Neely. The audience followed his gaze. His voice was soft and his eyes grew tender with admiration. “And now, the once-in-a-lifetime star . . . the girl everyone loves . . . the singer every singer worships . . .” He stopped, groping, as if there were no superlatives strong enough to describe Neely. Then he smiled and said, simply, “Miss Neely O’Hara.”

The applause was deafening. A few people stood up to cheer. Then, suddenly, in a body, the entire audience was on its feet, clamoring, applauding, demanding a song. Kevin stood, too. Anne didn’t know what to do; everyone was standing except Helen Lawson and her young dancer. Helen sat there with a glassy smile clamped on her face and clapped noiselessly. The dancer stared at her dumbly, awaiting any command.

Neely finally rose and walked to the microphone. She thanked everyone graciously and tried to beg off. When the audience stormed an insistent demand, she shrugged helplessly and turned to the orchestra. After a quick discussion of key and chords, she took center stage and sang.

She was brilliant. Her voice was clear and soaring, and the audience reacted with the frenzied adoration of worshippers at a revival meeting. She did six songs before she could beg off. She returned to the table ecstatic, her eyes shining with tears of excitement. Columnists came over to congratulate her, and well-gowned women demanded autographs “for my daughter.” Neely good-naturedly signed menus, cards and bits of paper. When the deluge finally died down, she gulped a glass of champagne. “You know, I could get to like this,” she said.

“Singing in a supper club?” Kevin asked hopefully.

“No, drinking champagne. It’s good.” She poured another glass. “It’s safer to stick with Scotch or vodka, but tonight is an exception. Only I better not make a habit of it—too fattening. Look at Old Ironsides over there—all that blubber is solid vintage wine.”

“Neely, you were great tonight,” Kevin began.

“Sure. It’s easy to be great with old standards. They don’t write songs like that any more.”

“But that’s what you’d do on my spectacular.”

She grinned. “Oh, we’re back to that, huh?”

“Neely, the public adores you—”

“Sure. They adore my movies, too. Is it my fault that unions and costs are so high they can’t break even in Hollywood?”

“They say it’s not just the costs and unions, Neely.”

Her eyes narrowed and lost some of their good humor. “And what
do
they say, Mr. Bones?”

“They say
you
run the costs up . . . that you’re unreliable . . . that you’ve lost your voice.”

Anne shifted nervously and tried to catch Kevin’s eye to signal a warning, but he ignored her and riveted his gaze on Neely.

Neely managed a smile. “Well, you just heard me sing. So don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

“I
don’t
believe it, because I heard you tonight. And no one in this room believes it. But that’s only a handful of people. The public believes what they read, Neely. So do a lot of movie producers.”

Her smile vanished. “Listen, Mr. Killjoy, I’m having a perfectly marvelous time. I got up and sang for my supper. What do you want from me?”

“A spectacular.”

She sighed. “Here we go again, Charlie.”

“I mean it, Neely. You convinced everyone here tonight that you can still sing like an angel. Why not convince the world? Do you know how many people you’d hit with one big television program? I’d give you national publicity for weeks in advance—the whole country would be watching—”

“Forget it.” She reached for the champagne. “Hey, the bottle’s empty. Let’s get some more.”

Kevin signaled for another bottle. Anne looked at her watch. Neely caught her glance and grabbed her arm good-naturedly. “Come on, don’t be a crepe hanger. This is my big night.”

“But it’s one-thirty and I have a show tomorrow, with a very early rehearsal.”

“So what?” Neely laughed. “Anne, they
are
only commercials. It’s not like you’re starring in a De Mille epic. Besides, I know your boss—I’ll put in a good word for you.” She winked at Kevin. “We’ll just finish off the new bottle . . . please? But first, let’s go fix our faces.”

Anne sighed and trailed along to the powder room. The attendant gushed over Neely, and a few of the women who were patching their makeup fell on her with endless platitudes of praise. Neely managed a gracious modesty. Anne stood by patiently while the room slowly emptied out. Finally Neely sat down in front of a mirror and started to comb her hair.

“Listen, Anne, get Kevin off my back. He’s very nice and all that, but he’s like a broken record. Tell him once and for all I’m not gonna do a television show!”

“You can’t blame him for trying,” Anne said.

“Well, enough’s enough already. Besides—”

The door opened and Helen Lawson swept in. For one tense moment she stared coldly at Anne; then, with a sudden change of heart, she nodded and said, “Good to see you, Anne. I hear you’ve become a big television star.”

Anne managed a smile and tried to think of an answer. Helen spared her the problem. She sat down beside Neely and patted her heartily on the back. “You were great out there tonight, girl. Wish I had some Cole Porter or Irving Berlin in that turkey I did tonight. I heard you were out front—why didn’t you come back to say hello?”

“Ah . . . we were . . . ah . . . rushing to get here. You know how hard it is to hold a reservation,” Neely stammered.

“C’mon, don’t give me that shit,” Helen said. “But what the hell, no one likes to come back after a flop. Why I ever let myself be talked into doing this dog . . . But that’s the story of my life. I was trying to give two unknown composers a chance.”

Neely’s grin was friendly. “Someone has to give them a chance. And if you can’t put them across, nobody can.”

“I always take a chance—that’s how someone like you gets born. I took a chance and unloaded a used-up nightclub singer to give a young kid a break. But no one ever thanks me—you included, sweetheart.”

Neely’s smile faded. “It wasn’t your show that got me to Hollywood, Helen. It was my nightclub appearance.”

“And how’d you get that? By using me as a springboard.”

“All right—thanks, Helen. As I recall I used to thank you every night—but thanks again. I’m grateful. C’mon, Anne.”