Valley of the Dolls (62 page)

“Get away from that mirror!” Henry had come into the room. “That little monster has dark circles under her eyes down to her chin. And I’m glad to hear she thinks she can drink. Her liver is shot.”

Anne began to shake. Henry grabbed her and held her close. “Come on . . . she was only talking for effect. She knows I’ll talk to you.”

“Maybe she’s right, Henry. Maybe Lyon does want out.”

“Lyon hasn’t said anything. Listen, Anne—you told me he rumples the bed. At least he’s still lying to you. He’s still making excuses.”

“Be thankful for small favors,” she sobbed.

“Hang on, Anne. Neely said nothing can ever destroy her talent. Nothing can—except Neely. She’ll destroy herself—you watch.”

She shook her head. “It’s the end of the line. I can’t stick it out.”

“Yes you can! And you will. You’ve got class, and you can be as strong and as tough as that little snit.”

Lyon didn’t even phone in an excuse that night. He just stayed away. She was about to take the pill at midnight when she heard the baby cry. Jen was a good baby—she usually slept through the night. Something must be wrong. Oh, God, and it was Miss Cuzins’s evening out. She rushed into the nursery. The baby was red-faced and screaming. Anne lifted her tenderly out of the crib. She searched for an open safety pin. Jen was wet, but no pins were sticking into her. She changed her and offered her some water in a bottle, but Jen refused and screamed louder. Her skin felt hot. She was teething—it could be that. She rubbed some paregoric on the little gums. Miss Cuzins swore by it. But the baby remained fretful and sobbed. Then, for reassurance, she took Jen’s temperature. 103! Carrying the baby, she rushed down the hall and banged on the maid’s door. The sleepy woman obligingly put on her robe and held the squalling baby while Anne tried to reach the doctor.

It was Friday, and the service said he was out of town for the weekend. They gave the number of the relief doctor. His service said he had not checked in, but he might be reached in an hour. Oh, God, she thought, what do I do? Where was Lyon? She called Henry, but the endless buzz told her he was out, too. Of course, he had a place somewhere in Westport. Was everyone away?

Resolutely, she dialed the hotel where Neely was staying. She announced herself to the operator. After a pause Neely answered.

“Hello, Neely.” Anne made her voice impersonal and calm. “Is Lyon there?”

“Nope.”

“I have to find him. It’s urgent.”

“Well . . .” Neely was yawning. “If he calls me I’ll tell him.”

“Neely, the baby is sick.”

“Call a doctor.”

“I did. He’s away for the weekend. She’s screaming and has a hundred-and-three fever.”

“Don’t panic. Babies always run high fevers, mostly over nothing. Give her half an aspirin.”

“But if Lyon calls you, please tell him.”

“Sure, sure. Now good night. I got a recording session tomorrow. I got to sleep. The twins often ran big fevers—it’s nothing.” The receiver clicked.

She believed Neely. Even Neely couldn’t be that heartless. God, where
was
Lyon?

Neely picked up the phone and left a do-not-disturb order. Where in hell
was
Lyon? Oh yeah, he was at the Victoria Hotel with the arrangers, writing some new lyrics for her theme. He had said he’d be there until two, and then he’d come by. Should she call and tell him about the baby? Aah, it was nothing. Babies always ran temperatures. This was just Anne, using the only hold she had on him. How desperate could a broad get? Well, she wasn’t going to fall for it. She’d be asleep when Lyon came by. Then she wouldn’t be able to give him the message. Yeah, she’d leave a note on her pillow saying she had taken pills at twelve. Let’s see, it was now one-fifteen. If she was bombed out with pills it would be normal to forget about Anne’s call when he came in. He’d probably just go to sleep. Or maybe if she was asleep he’d go home and see his stinking wife and baby. Oh, hell. She swallowed three pills and drank a glass of Scotch. Okay, so he could go home one night—she’d have him all the others. Drowsily, she hoped the new theme would be good. Her name was on it as lyricist, a gimmick Lyon had thought up. Every songwriter wanted her to record their songs or sing them on TV. Now she’d demand billing as co-author. Soon she’d have a real good rating at ASCAP. She smiled contentedly as the pills began to work. Finally she slept.

The baby had been rushed to the hospital at two in the morning. The relief doctor had finally checked in with his service. At first they had feared polio, but it was finally diagnosed as pneumonia.

When Lyon found Neely asleep he had wandered home. To his amazement the lights were on, but there was no sign of Anne. The tearful maid mumbled the news. He flew out of the apartment and rushed to the hospital. Anne was sitting, pale and frightened, in the waiting room. She barely acknowledged him.

“What’s the matter with her?” he demanded.

“She’s in an oxygen tent. Two nurses are with her. They won’t let me in the room.”

“I was working with the songwriters on Neely’s new theme. We worked late, and when I got home and found you gone . . .”

“I called Neely hours ago,” she said listlessly.

“I wasn’t with her,” he said almost righteously. “Why should you call her?”

“Because I thought she might know where you were. You’ve been gone for a week—attending to her business, I presume.”

He looked at her carefully. “There’s a lot of work that goes into the preparation of a television show. We decided she should have a new theme song, a new identity.”

“Lyon, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about Neely’s show right now. I’m sick with fear about the baby.”

He reached out and took her hand. It was an unconscious and natural gesture, but it caught her off guard. Had they once been really close? Had this marvelous-looking stranger once belonged to her? He was a stranger now, bound to her by law but belonging to someone else. Yet she loved him. It was a shocking admission. She wanted to hate him. But if possible she desired him even more. She had no pride . . . she’d never let him go. Unless he asked for his release. Oh, God, don’t let that happen! And yet how terrible that it took a tragedy to bring him to her side.

It seemed an eternity before the doctor appeared. They held their breath. He was smiling! It was going to be all right. Yes, the fever had broken. Thank God for penicillin—and thank God that babies had fantastic strength.

Lyon came to the hospital each night at seven. Anne had taken a room adjoining the baby’s and spent the entire day and night at the hospital. Lyon would peek at the small figure in the crib and make affectionate clucking noises. He insisted on taking Anne down to the restaurant in the hospital for dinner each evening. He would remain at least two hours. At least it was interfering with Neely’s evenings, she thought grimly.

Ten days later they took little Jennifer home. Lyon had flowers all over the apartment. They dined at home and he played with the baby. That night he made love to Anne for the first time in weeks and they slept in each other’s arms.

It was four o’clock when the phone rang. Anne woke first. She groped for it in the darkness.

It was Neely. Anne could tell by the slurred words that she was loaded with pills. “Put that sonofabitch on the phone,” she growled.

“He’s asleep, Neely.”

“Wake him.”

“I won’t.”

“You heard me. Wake him—or I’ll come over there and do it myself.”

Lyon opened his eyes. Anne mouthed Neely’s name. He took the phone.

“What is it, Neely?” He was lying across Anne to reach the phone. She was able to hear Neely’s shrill voice.

“I’ve been waiting for you all night,” she hollered.

“The baby came home from the hospital tonight.”

“So? She goes to sleep at seven, doesn’t she?”

“It was her first night home.”

Anne shut her eyes. He was apologizing for stealing an evening with his wife.

“Well. . . come over now.”

“Neely, it’s four in the morning.”

“You’d better come over. I’ve taken seven pills. I’ll take ten more.”

“Neely! You have an interview with
Life
magazine tomorrow!”

“Fuck ’em! I won’t be around unless you get your ass over here!”

“All right, Neely. I’ll be there.”

Anne watched him get out of bed. I must hang on, she thought. He didn’t really want to go there tonight—she’s forcing him. If I can hang on, this will be my first victory. She lay back on the bed and kept her eyes closed. He came over to her fully dressed. “Anne . . . do you understand?”

“I know you don’t want to go,” she said.

“Anne—this has been rotten for you. I guess we’ll have to do something about it.”

The victory vanished. Could he choose Neely over her and the baby?

“Lyon, things will work out,” she said quickly. “It’s bad to make middle-of-the-night decisions.”

“But we can’t go on like this—you, Neely or myself,” he said.

“I can—because I know it can’t remain like this. Lyon, you’re in a bind.”

“Neely needs me. She’s a great talent, Anne, with no discipline. She had to be led by the hand. You’re strong.”

Tears came to her eyes. “No, I’m not strong. The only strong thing about me is my love for you.”

He turned and quickly left the room.

When the new television season began, Anne returned to work. Henry had introduced her to the producer of a new panel show. She found it easy to play the game, and he engaged her immediately. It was a daily show and it kept her busy. It also kept her from noticing how Lyon spent more and more time with Neely.

At the end of September both Lyon and Neely left for the Coast to tape her first show.

Neely’s show was a sensation. The ratings placed her in the top ten, and Lyon was credited with masterminding the entire operation. Anne had to marvel at Neely’s power—several big stars immediately signed with Lyon and George.
Variety
ran stories about The Three B’s, the hottest agency in New York. And it was all spearheaded by Neely O’Hara.

Lyon managed a few brief trips back to New York. During these visits there were times Anne felt there was a chance. The nights he held her close, when she almost forgot he held Neely the same way. But there were always the harassing calls from Neely in California, reminders that Neely came first.

He arrived back in New York a few days after Christmas, loaded with toys for Jennifer and an expensive piece of jewelry for her. She was aware he had split himself again—Christmas with Neely, but back in New York in time to approximate a celebration with her and little Jen.

Three days later Neely called, demanding his instant return. Anne sat in the den, quietly listening in on the extension phone.

“I shall be there soon,” Lyon said with a trace of exasperation.

“Tonight!” Neely shrieked. “Do you know what day tomorrow is? New Year’s Eve!”

“And January first is my daughter’s first birthday,” he said firmly.

“Shit! Celebrate it today—the kid won’t know the difference.”

“But I will. Now you be a good girl. You’re invited to lots of parties, and one of the men from the agency will escort you. I shall be there no later than the fifth. I have to stay here and catch the opening of
Honey Belle.”

Neely sneered. “That Margie Parks will come up a big zero.”

“I saw her at the Blue Angel last year,” Lyon said. “She has a wonderful quality.”

“They’ll have to mike her up,” Neely insisted. “She sings great—listen, I’m the first to admit if someone’s good. She uses her voice like an instrument. But I heard the scuttlebutt. They almost replaced her out of town, until they decided to mike her up. She sings in her throat. She’ll never last. She’s gotta burn out in a few years. I would a too, if it hadn’t been for Zeke Whyte setting me straight.”

“Well, the office wants to sign her,” Lyon said insistently. “I’ve got to go to the opening.”

“You mean you’d waste your time servicing her?” Neely’s voice was dangerous.

“Of course not. George wouldn’t either. She’s only nineteen. She’d be handled by Bud Hoff. The women like him, and he’ll wet-nurse her.”

“Bud Hoff is a lox,” Neely said. “He sits around thinking he’s God’s gift to women. Him and those black suits and black ties. Geez, all the guys in your office look like they wear uniforms. Well, I guess you need guys like that. . . .” Neely yawned. “The damn pills are finally beginning to work. When will you be here?”

“The fifth, at the latest,” he promised.

“Love me?”

“You know I do,” he said quickly.

“How much?”

“Terribly.”

“More than you love Anne and the baby?”

“It would seem so. Now Neely, I must hang up. Anne is home. She could pick up the phone.”

“I hope she has.”

“Do you enjoy hurting people?”

“No, but if she knew, she’d give you up.”

“Perhaps she does know,” Lyon said.

“You’ve told her?”

“No, but Anne isn’t insensitive—or stupid. And the rumors are pretty thick around town.”

“Then why doesn’t she let you go?” Lyon was silent.

“Well, dammit, I’m gonna call and tell her. Then she’ll have to let you go. Her pride will make her.”

“Don’t do that,” Lyon said.

“I’m gonna—”

“Don’t. It won’t work, anyway. I’ve . . . you see, we’ve already had it out.”

“When? You didn’t tell me.”

“Just last night.”

Anne hoped she hadn’t gasped audibly. They had never been closer than they had been last night.

“What happened?” Neely asked.

“Nothing. She just said she knew all about it, but would shut her eyes. She said she will never give me a divorce.”

“Well, let’s make her. We’ll neck up a storm in public.”

“You tried that, Neely. Columnists like you. They try to protect you. They don’t print all they see.”

“I’ll call and give an interview. I’ll say you want to marry me and I want you, but you got a wife who wants to sit.”

“And do you know what would happen to your show? There’s a morals clause. Your sponsor sells breakfast food. You’d be canceled so quickly—”

“Who cares? We could go to Europe and make another picture.”