Valley of the Dolls (45 page)

“The sleep cure. That’s for nervous breakdowns, isn’t it?”

“Also good for weight. I’ve informed them you wish to lose ten pounds. They’ll put you to sleep for eight days. You sleep . . . and you awake thin, rested and beautiful. After that, there will probably be more slack to your face. Then you will have the lift.”

Traveling through the hills of Lausanne, she thought of Maria and wondered about her. It all seemed such a lifetime ago, yet she remembered it with such clarity.

The clinic was beautiful. She entered under an assumed name, and only a handful of trusted people knew her true identity.

“You must not worry,” the head physician said. “You will sleep. But we will awaken you for your meals, and at all times a nurse will be in constant attendance. You will eat without realizing it, you will be walked around the room and taken to the bathroom, but you will not be aware of any of this. However, this bit of exercise is necessary to keep the lungs from filling. A nurse will change your sleeping position every hour. And when you wake up, you will have lost your ten pounds.”

Jennifer smiled. “But I’ll also have lost a week of my life. Besides, I was under the impression the sleep cure was for emotional disturbances.”

“True. Of course, it cannot cure a deep-rooted disturbance, one that took years to form. For that we need psychiatric therapy and possibly even electric shock. But it is excellent for the situational depression. Let us give you an example. A married woman from Hollywood is here now. Her husband is a big director. One of their small children wandered into the swimming pool and was drowned. She is inconsolable. She could not face the days ahead. Her husband and friends were sympathetic, and she knows time will heal, but meanwhile she cannot go on. She feels she cannot live through the necessary months or years that will ease the memory. That is where the sleep cure helps. You see, the brain has little niches. Each niche is a thought or a memory. If we think of the same thing repeatedly, the niche grows deeper and the thought is ingrained. It is the way an actor learns his lines. But when the thought stops, the niche begins to fill in like a cut. And in time it is erased. The deep tragedy and love for the child is cut deeply in this woman’s mind. Three weeks of the sleep cure will help the gash to heal over. When she awakens, she will be aware she has lost her child, but the hurt and inconsolable ache will be gone. The release that five years of time might give will have come in three weeks—saving her years of anguish.”

Jennifer grinned. “Well, if I’m ever a fat, unhappy girl, I’ll take the three-week job. Now I just want to lose ten pounds.”

He nodded. “Eight days will do it.”

It was that simple. A smiling nurse brought her a glass of champagne, “for the good sleep and happy thoughts.” She sipped it slowly. Soon a young doctor appeared. He checked her pulse and blood pressure, then gently slid a hypodermic needle into her arm. She put the glass down. She had never experienced such a feeling. It began at the tip of her toes; it eased through her legs; it rushed through her hips . . . and then suddenly she floated off into space and she felt nothing more.

She must have slept through the night, she decided. The sun was shining when she opened her eyes. The nurse appeared with a breakfast tray. Jennifer smiled. “They said I’d sleep through the meals, but I’m wide awake.”

“But you
did
sleep.” The nurse was grinning.

“How long?”

“Eight days.”

Jennifer sat up. “You mean . . .”

The nurse nodded. “Mademoiselle weighs twelve pounds less—one hundred and six.”

“Oh, how divine!” Jennifer exclaimed. “God, what an invention!”

She returned to Paris and Claude was delighted. “I have arranged the face-lifting,” he said. This time she did not argue. The drastic loss of weight had made her look haggard. Suddenly he said, “Undress.”

She stared at him. “Claude—that’s been dead between us for years.”

“I have no desire to make love to you,” he said with irritation. “I want to see if the loss of weight has hurt your body.”

She slid out of her clothes. “Nothing’s happened. Besides, what difference does it make? I’m not doing nude roles in America.”

He inspected her breasts clinically. “I have arranged for you to take a series of hormone shots to maintain the firmness of your breasts. They will be given while you recuperate from the face lift.”

“And where does all this gloriousness take place?”

“It was not easy. But it is arranged. You go to the Clinique Plastique tomorrow, under an assumed name again.”

Claude had been right; it had not been easy. The operation itself had been uncomfortable, but it was the recuperative period that had taken the most out of her. Six weeks of isolation; staring at her swollen, mottled face, her bloodshot eyes, the hideous black stitches behind her ears; wondering if she would ever return to normal, terrified that she had made a mistake. But gradually, as time passed, the stitches were removed and the scars went from a bright, angry red to a light pink that she knew would eventually fade.

The swelling went down, and her spirits soared. Claude had been right all around; it was an unqualified success. She doubted if she had looked this perfect at twenty. She didn’t look twenty, but she looked magnificent. Not a line in her face, and the tautness of the skin gave it a flawless appearance. She was sure she could pass Hollywood’s harshest scrutiny.

She arrived at Idlewild on a bright day in December. When the cameras flashed and the reporters crowded in, she was suddenly grateful to Claude. She noticed several women reporters eying her closely, and she smiled with easy confidence. She was not afraid of the strong sunlight or the close glances. She knew she looked perfect. And the newspapers noticed it, too. Every one of them commented that she was even more beautiful than her screen image.

She insisted on remaining in New York for a week while she renewed acquaintances with Anne. They spent long hours catching up on Jennifer’s adventures and many transitory romances. At last Anne told of her relationship with Kevin.

Jennifer sighed. “I don’t care how nice you say he is, he’s a louse for not marrying you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Anne insisted. “I’m not
really
in love with him. It’s better this way.”

“Still looking for the stars-in-your-eyes kind of love?” Jennifer asked. “You know, Anne, I guess a woman can either love or
be
loved, but it’s almost impossible to have both.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but it just doesn’t seem to work out that way. You should know. Allen loved you, even wanted to marry you. And Kevin loves you. Yet you could walk away from either of them and feel nothing.
You
loved Lyon . . . and he was able to walk away from you.”

“No,
I
was stupid about that. If you knew how many nights . . . Even now, I still lie awake and relive it in my mind. How I
should
have handled it. How it
could
have worked.”

“By going back to Lawrenceville?”

“Yes. It wouldn’t have been forever. His career as an author would have been the same. His first book would have gotten great reviews and made no money. Then he would have written that terrible commercial one—that was a gesture of defiance—then a few more, and finally movie scenarios. That’s what he’s doing in London. The same thing would have happened here. Only he’d be in New York writing for television, or out in Hollywood. Anyway, we’d be together. I just panicked. If only I had thought it out. . . .”

“But a man who could walk away like that. . . Anne, he never really cared.”

Anne set her jaw firmly. “He loved me. I
know
he did.”

“Sure, just like Allen thought you loved him. Like Kevin thinks you love him. He’s so sure of you he doesn’t even feel he has to marry you. Anne, if you really feel Kevin loves you, make him marry you. It’s a pretty rare thing to be loved. It’s never happened to me.”

“Oh, come on now, Jen. All of Europe loves you . . . and now you’ve got America as well.”

“They love my face and body. Not
me!”
There’s such a difference, Anne.” Then she shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not very lovable.”

“I love you, Jen—really.”

Jennifer smiled. “I know you do. It’s a pity we’re not queer—we’d make a marvelous team.”

Anne laughed. “If we were, maybe it wouldn’t work out this way. As you said, one loves and the other is loved. Or maybe it’s different with Lesbians.”

Jennifer had a far-off look. “No . . . even with queers, one loves and the other is loved.” She studied her face in the mirror. “Well, you’ve got Kevin—and I’ve got Hollywood.”

“But you
are
enjoying your success, aren’t you?” Anne asked.

Jennifer shrugged. “At times. But I hate the work. I never was a career girl. I’m no dedicated actress. And I always had my share of the limelight, first with the Prince and then with Tony. And it all adds up to the same thing—I really didn’t earn any of it—the Prince, Tony or my career. My face and body got it for me. Oh, God, I’d give my life for someone who would just love
me . . .”

“If that’s what you really want, Jen, you’ll find it. I’m sure you will.”

Jennifer reached out and grabbed Anne’s hand. “Pray for it, Anne. I want to get out of this rat race. I want a man to love me . . . I want a child. It’s not too late. Pray that I meet the right guy so I can tell Claude and everyone else to go drop dead!”

1960

Kevin Gillmore suffered a serious heart attack in the spring of 1960. For two weeks he lay gray and lifeless in an oxygen tent. The moment he was strong enough to speak, he reached for Anne’s hand. “Anne, am I going to make it?”

He seemed reassured when she squeezed his hand and nodded.

“Promise me one thing,” he whispered. “If I do make it, will you marry me?”

She forced a noncommittal smile. “Don’t talk, Kevin. Just rest and get well.”

Tears came to his eyes. “Please, Anne. I’m afraid. I can’t face it alone. Please . . . I’ll make it if I know that you’ll marry me . . . that you’ll always be there.”

“Kevin, you must rest. You’re going to be fine.”

“It’s too late for those children you wanted, Anne, but I’ll give you everything else. I’ll sell the business . . . we’ll travel. Just say you’ll marry me and never leave me.”

She smiled. “All right, Kevin. I promise.”

She kept her vigil at his bedside for six long weeks. As he grew stronger, he talked incessantly about their marriage, about the things they would do, and how he would make everything up to her. She grew resigned. Why not marry Kevin? What was she waiting for? She was thirty-five—Good Lord, thirty-five! How did it happen? You felt the same inside, but suddenly you were thirty-five and time was racing on. One year blended into another. So much had happened—and yet so little. She had blown her chance for the great love and for children. But there were other compensations. She was independently wealthy. Her original investments had more than doubled, and Henry had put her in several other successful ventures. Each year Kevin had given her several hundred shares of stock in the company—and the stock was due to split two for one any day. No, money would never be a problem. If she never worked again—and without Kevin’s help—she was a rich woman.

But then, money had never been a problem. Even in the beginning there had been the five thousand in the bank. She had never been like Jennifer . . . Jen, who
had
to send her mother money; Jen, who
had
to make it. She was very proud of Jennifer’s whirlwind success in Hollywood. She had made five pictures—five beautiful, technicolor pictures, with someone singing for Jennifer. Someone else danced in the long shots, but it was always Jennifer in the closeups. And she was miraculously beautiful. Her name had been coupled with a director and a leading man, and her latest conquest was a producer. But from her letters and phone calls, Anne knew Jennifer was still searching.

Toward the end of his stay in the hospital, Kevin began planning their honeymoon. “You’re sure you won’t mind giving up your work?” he asked anxiously.

“My work?” she laughed. “Kevin, you handed me the whole thing on a silver platter.”

“No, Anne. I started you modeling, but you did the rest. You’re good. You’re an asset to the company.”

“Well, you can take the asset away from the company any time you like. I think both will survive.”

His hand clutched hers. “I love you, Anne. I’ll sell the company. . .”

She nodded. “Now you get some rest. Plan our honeymoon while I’m gone.”

He clung to her hand. “Must you go?”

She made her voice light. “I’m still working for you, and there’s a show tonight.”

“Anne . . . You know—there won’t be any sex. Not for a long while, maybe never again.”

“Don’t worry about it, Kevin.”

He started to sob. “I’ll lose you, I know I will!”

In spite of herself, she felt revulsion. The terrible strength of illness—it robbed a man of his dignity. She patted him gently. “I’ll be with you, Kevin. I promise.”

Kevin was back at his desk in August, strong, vital, with his old “take-charge” power. The fear-ridden days in the oxygen tent were a dim memory. Sure, he had had a little coronary, but it hadn’t gotten him down. He was better than ever. The rest had done him good. And he was going to marry Anne. Of course, being alone frightened him at times. If anything should happen at night . . .

“I want to make the best possible deal for the company,” he told Anne. “I’m holding out for twelve million and an honorary chairmanship of the board. As long as the company bears my name, I want to be sure it keeps its class. I figure I can wind up everything by the first of the year, February at the latest. Is that okay? But if you like we can get married right now . . .”

She smiled. “We’ve waited this long, let’s do one thing right. I want to get married and go on a honeymoon.”

“February then! That will be the deadline I set for myself. Then marriage and a long honeymoon trip. We’ll go around the world.”