Valley of the Dolls (43 page)

“Don’t be so lah-de-dah with me. I read the papers. You’re a girl without a contract now. You’ve gone far for the little guttersnipe I gave a break to, but—”

Neely jumped up and stared at Helen with blazing eyes. The attendant moved closer, thrilled with this unscheduled break in the monotony.

“Come on, Neely,” Anne said quickly. “Kevin is waiting.”

Neely brushed Anne’s arm aside and glared at Helen. “What did you call me!”

Helen stood up and faced her squarely. “A guttersnipe. What else were you? A third-rate vaudeville tramp who never even went to school. I was surprised you could even read the lyrics. I only gave you that break because of me and Anne being so buddy-buddy.”

“Buddy-buddy! All you cared about was having her pimp for you,” Neely snapped.

“You’re fulla shit! Anne and I were real good friends. We had a misunderstanding, but I was only being a friend, trying to keep her from getting involved with some limey bastard. I did it for her own good.” She turned to Anne. “He did turn out to be a bastard, didn’t he? I was right, wasn’t I, Annie? I’ve always thought of you as one of my real friends.”

“Come on, Anne,” Neely said. “This hearts-and-flowers bit is getting me here.” She patted her middle.

Helen ignored Neely and flashed the remnants of her old smile at Anne. “I mean it, Anne. I never had a real friend. Everyone uses me and walks out. I always liked you, angel, and I’m so thrilled about your success. Now that I’m back in town, let’s see each other and do a little hooting, like in the old days.”

“Anne, let’s go!” Neely snapped.

“What’s your rush?” Helen said innocently. “Where’ve
you
got to go? From the way I hear it, you’ve got nothing but time on your hands.”

“After the reviews come out, you’ll have a lot of free time too,” Neely answered.

Helen shrugged. “My show may get lousy notices, but I’ll have six new offers by noon tomorrow. What’s on your agenda? More free concerts like tonight?”

“With that vibrato you got, in a little while you won’t even be able to sing for free,” Neely replied. “And I didn’t hear any clamors for your services tonight.”

A slow flush spread up Helen’s neck. When she answered her voice was shrill. “What would a washed-up little has-been like you know about a vibrato? I’ve been on top for thirty years and I’ll stay on top as long as I like. But you better keep singing for free, because that’s all you’ll get. Sure you’ll get applause—any audience will applaud for something extra they get for nothing. But you’re finished, washed up.

“Now, out of my way, has-been. You may have no place to go, but I got a guy out there waiting for me.”

“Guy!” Neely laughed derisively. “You call
that
a guy? But maybe you better not keep him waiting at that, because from here on in all you’ll be able to get is a fag to take you out—that is, if you pay the tab.”

“You should know all about that! You were married to one,” Helen snapped. “Christ, you couldn’t even hold your faggot. Not even with twins as a bargaining point. Hey—are they faggots too?” She started to leave, but Neely blocked her way.

“What did you say about my children?” Neely’s voice was quivering.

“What’s wrong with having little twin faggots? I hear they’re very good to their mothers. Now out of my way . . .” She shoved past Neely and headed for the door.

“No you don’t, you old bag!” Neely shouted. She leaped after Helen and grabbed her by the hair. Helen pulled away, but Neely held fast.

Suddenly Neely let out a gasp of amazement and stood staring at the thing in her hands. At the same time Helen’s hands flew to her head in horror.

“A wig!” Neely yelled, holding the long black hair up for Anne to see. “By God, her hair’s as phony as she is!”

Helen reached out for her wig, but Neely jumped back.

“Give me back my hair, you little bitch,” Helen yelled. “It cost me three hundred bucks!”

Neely put it on and danced around the room. “Hey! Dig me as a brunette!”

Helen chased after her. “Give me that, damn you!”

“It looked awful on you, Helen. I think you’re much more interesting this way—crew-cut.”

Helen fumbled with her own short, ragged hair. “I’m letting it grow in,” she said sullenly. “Those lousy operators in Jamaica didn’t know how to use dye, and when I got a permanent here, it all broke off. Now come on, Neely—give me that wig!”

In a sudden quick movement, Neely dashed to one of the enclosed toilets. Helen lunged after her, but Neely was too fast. She locked the door. In a moment they heard the toilet flush.

“Hey—what the hell are you doing?” Helen screamed. She turned to Anne. “Jesus, she’s throwing it in the can, I bet. I’ll kill her, that little bitch!”

Helen shouted oaths while Anne and the attendant tried to reason with Neely. Their only answer was the ominous flushing and reflushing of the toilet. Helen pounded on the door. Inside, Neely giggled and flushed the toilet again. This time there was a strange gurgling, followed by the splash and gush of overflowing water. A pool rushed out from under the door and spread across the room.

The door opened and Neely tiptoed out gingerly, giggling hysterically. “Oh . . . hell . . .” she gasped. “The silly thing won’t even go down the crapper!”

The attendant gingerly held up the sopping wet mass—it looked like a drowned animal.

“It’s ruined!” Helen shrieked. “Now what can I do?” She turned to Anne, her face streaking with tears. “How can I go out there now?”

Anne stared at her, speechless, as the water spread across the room.

Then, in the silence, the attendant cleared her throat. “Miss O’Hara—that wasn’t nice. You’ve probably ruined the plumbing.”

Neely laughed. “Send me the bill,” she said. “It was worth every penny of it.” She picked up her purse and rummaged in it, pulling out a five-dollar bill. “Here,” she said, “you run the best john in town.” She turned to Anne. “Come on, let’s leave the old bald eagle to cry in peace. I hope your faggot doesn’t get cold out there all alone,” she said sweetly to Helen.

Anne followed her through the door. Outside, she said, “That wasn’t fair, Neely.”

“Fair! I should have murdered her.”

“But it wasn’t right. She actually
can’t
come out of there until everyone goes.”

“Okay, so she’s stuck for tonight. Tomorrow she can buy another wig. But tomorrow I’ll still remember the things she said about my kids—and me. So I’m washed up—I can only sing for free, huh? Why, that miserable . . .” She strode over to the table. “Kevin, you still want me to do that spectacular?”

Kevin’s face broke into a big grin.

“All right. You got yourself a deal,” Neely said. She slumped into a chair and poured herself some champagne. “Draw up the contracts and let my agents and lawyers okay them.”

“First thing tomorrow,” Kevin said happily.

As they talked about the show, the room began to empty out. Neely and Anne watched the anxious young man sitting at Helen’s table, his eyes fastened on the door.

“I wonder what happened to Helen Lawson,” Kevin said as he paid the check. “Probably got involved with some of her fans.”

“Yeah, maybe one of them scalped her,” Neely said innocently.

As they passed the powder room, Anne looked back across the nearly empty room to Helen’s table. The young dancer was hysterically searching his pockets, trying to forage enough bills to pay the check the captain had presented. Kevin squeezed Anne’s arm happily. “You won’t have a change of heart about this television deal, will you, Neely?”

She tucked her arm gaily into Kevin’s. “Nope. I’ll sing my heart out for you and your little old product—but you’re gonna pay me a lot of money.”

“With pleasure,” Kevin answered. He looked at Anne with mute gratitude. Women sure were funny—you could talk your head off and get nowhere, but then let them spend ten minutes alone together in a powder room and anything could happen. . . .

Kevin flooded the newspapers with stories about the coming television spectacular. Neely was interviewed by several major magazines, and television columnists heralded it as a major breakthrough. The medium was coming of age. At last the viewers would be given genuine talent.

Kevin engaged a top choreographer, a top director and producer. He stepped up production on new products to be introduced on the show, and special sets were built for Anne to demonstrate the new glamour line. The show was to be aired the beginning of November. It promised to be the most spectacular event on television that season.

Neely moved into a hotel, installed a piano and spent the entire month of October between her hotel suite and Nola Studios, rehearsing, dieting, working with the old discipline. She was determined to show them in Hollywood and make Helen Lawson eat her words. Washed up, was she? Unreliable, only able to sing for free? She’d like to have seen Helen’s face when she read the papers. Every paper stated it was the largest single salary ever paid on television. They also applauded Neely’s courage for leaping into the new medium.

Neely had no fears. True, there were no retakes on a live show. Well, all the better. She’d show Hollywood—she’d show them all. In interviews she played the gurgling, nervous, eager young Neely. “Sure she was scared” . . . “sure she was biting off a lot.” But secretly she knew it was a cinch . . . a wrap-up. How could she miss—twelve standards, six of them songs she had introduced; no untried material and not even one scene to learn—you just read all the lead-ins off idiot cards. Geez, if those Hollywood squares knew it was this easy, they’d be crowding the networks. But these opinions she kept to herself.

Neely took three Seconals the night before the great day. Dress rehearsal was scheduled for ten in the morning, and she arrived on time, well rested and eager to begin. The first hour was spent in testing her makeup. Then at eleven-thirty the actual rehearsal began. She did the opening dialogue smoothly, with youthful enthusiasm. Then she started her first song. She did three bars and the director called, “Cut.” He walked out of the booth and down the aisle. “Neely, you were singing to the wrong camera.”

“I don’t get you,” she said nicely. She was supposed to sing. The camera was the cameraman’s problem.

“Camera One was on you for the opening. But for your song you turn to Camera Two.”

“Which is Camera Two?”

“The one with the red light. You do the first half to it, then shift to Camera Three for the chorus, then wind up the last eight bars at Camera Two again.”

“Geez, I’d have to go through M.I.T. to figure that out. Why do we need all those cameras?”

“Honey, it sounds tougher than it actually is. Just remember the red light—that’s the camera that’s on you. You can’t miss.”

She began again, carefully watching the cameras. It went all right, but she lost her place on the cue cards. Next time she focused on the cue cards and missed Camera Three.

“Don’t worry about the cards,” the director pleaded. “He’ll follow you. You just follow the cameras.”

“But I’m used to the camera following me,” she wailed.

The director was patient. “You’ll get it. Now let’s try again.”

There were two more rehearsals. The director’s face took on the haggard look of quiet desperation. “Neely, you walked past the chalk marks twice, out of camera range.”

“But I have to move when I sing.”

“Fine, baby. But let’s mark it out so I can plan it with the cameras.”

“I
can’t.
I move as I feel it, and each time I feel it differently.”

And so it went, hour after hour of grueling camera rehearsals. Neely’s makeup began to run and her hair went limp. At five o’clock they had not done one complete run-through.

The director called a dinner break. He came to Neely and carelessly threw his arm across her shoulder. “At six we’ll go through it straight from the top. Keep going even if you make a mistake. I’ve got to time it. Then I’ll give you the mistakes and changes and cuts, and you’ll have time to fix your makeup and take a breather before air-time.”

To Neely the final dress rehearsal was a nightmare. The red eye of the camera seemed to be leaping constantly off and on, and the cue cards with the lyrics seemed to blur under the hot lights. She would be into a song, feeling it deeply, hitting notes she knew were perfect. . . . Her eyes would close, then fly open in panic. There was no wonderful Hollywood camera following her around, waiting to record every move; no one to splice and put all the best shots together. No, just those red-eyed monsters
she
had to follow, and those constantly shifting cardboards with the words. She lost them—she shouldn’t have closed her eyes. Where were they? She hummed a lyric. He said to go on . . . God where were the cards? And which camera? On the left—yes, the red eye was on. Thank God, the song was over. Jesus, now what? What was the card saying? Oh yes, introduce Anne and the product. Oh thank God! Anne was talking now—she had a breather. Jesus! She should have rushed to the wings! There was the frantic maid, waving her arms—this was the three-minute change. Only three minutes to change her dress, and Anne was half through already. . . .

“I can’t!” she screamed. “I can’t do it! I can’t really make a song come alive if I have to worry about chalk: marks, cameras and quick changes. If I want to shut my eyes, I
have
to shut my eyes. I feel it that way. I can’t do it—I can’t!”

Kevin had been in the control room. He dashed down the aisle and joined the director. Together they tried to calm her.

“I won’t go on. I’ll make a fool of myself!” Neely’s voice broke.

“Neely, you’re a pro,” the director begged. “Once that audience fills the theatre and you hear the applause, it will all come to you.”

“No,” she sobbed. “I’d need a week of this camera rehearsal. I can’t follow eight things at once and be good. I can’t stand on certain chalk marks and watch for cameras and cue cards. I can’t do it—I’ll blow higher than a kite!”

“Neely.” Anne put her arm around her. “Remember in Philadelphia, how you jumped into a part in
Hit the Sky
with just a moment’s notice?”

“I had nothing to lose,” Neely cried. “I was a kid. I had no reputation at stake. I’m a star now—if I look bad or blow up I’m through.”