Valley of the Dolls (63 page)

“Neely, I have a partner. It would hurt the agency. I cannot think only of myself.”

“Oh, you and that fucking agency. All right, when I make a million bucks, I’ll buy you out and we’ll tell ’em all to go to hell. I want you with me night and day, every second.”

He laughed. “See you on the fifth, Neely.”

“Hey, not so fast. Call me at noon, my time, tomorrow.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Love me?”

“I adore you.”

Then everyone hung up.

1964

Honey Belle
was the musical smash of the season. Anne watched the small, thin little girl with the crooked smile capture the audience. She was nineteen and untrained, but she exuded the excitement that spells “star.”

“We’re lucky,” George whispered. “Lyon insisted on signing her yesterday. Everybody in town will want her after tonight.”

“This one is strictly your headache,” Lyon whispered as he leaned across Anne.

George smiled. “Are you kidding? She’ll be happy to settle for Bud Hoff or Ken Mitchell or any of the guys in the office who’ll service her.”

Anne’s thoughts went back to that other evening, so many years ago, when she had sat beside Lyon and watched Neely open on Broadway. She had been a nice kid too, without temperament. Nineteen years ago . . . She had loved Lyon then, and she loved him now. In monitoring Neely’s calls she realized she had won—yet somehow the victory was tasteless. Lyon was lying to Neely, pretending he had asked for a divorce. He really didn’t want to leave her. He didn’t want to be stuck with Neely, now that the cobra in Neely was showing. Tomorrow was the fifth, but Lyon had made no announcement about leaving. In fact, he had spoken about a new opening he wanted to catch on the eighth. But had she really won, or was it a stalemate? Neely was still there—would probably always be there. Did he enjoy Neely’s body? Was it the same with Neely as with her? She would never know.

Even the crush backstage was the same. Margie Parks, looking so young, so vulnerable—awed by her brilliant new managers and struck dumb by the famous celebrities who came back to congratulate her.

Anne sat between Lyon and George at the opening-night party later in the evening. At one point, when Lyon had gone to another table to conduct some business, Margie moved over and took his seat. “I want you to know, Miss Welles, I’ve always been a fan of yours.”

Anne smiled. “The panel show? Good Lord, it’s nothing.”

“Oh, I love you on the panel show,” Margie insisted. “But when you were the Gillian Girl—that’s when I swooned. I remember, I was ten years old and I stole a dollar from my mother’s pocketbook to buy the Gillian lipstick. I wanted to look just like you.”

Anne smiled. Suddenly she understood how Helen Lawson had felt. It was so wonderful to be young, to think you’ll always be young. Yet she knew she was a symbol of success to Margie Parks. She was sleek, married to an important man and a small success in her own right. Margie was not pretty—she was wearing a green dress that failed to bring out any of her good points, and her coat was one of those black silk jobs, the kind she had once hunted down at Bloomingdale’s. She had noticed Margie’s awe at her mink coat. But did Margie know her thick, luxurious hair had to be tinted now? Or that the lines under her eyes had to be carefully hidden with the proper makeup? In a soft light like tonight’s she could be striking; in fact, she knew heads turned when she entered a room. She looked well on television, and she could probably go on for another fifteen years with the right makeup and lights. But she would never pretend to be younger than she was. Who would she be fooling? Everyone knew her age.

Margie chatted incessantly. Lyon was openly bored, and they left her in George’s care an hour later. That night Lyon looked tired.

There were several messages from Neely. Wearily he called her back. He made no effort to hide the conversation from Anne, but kept it brief and impersonal. Yes, the show had been a hit. Yes, they had signed Margie Parks. Of course she was a small talent. Yes, he’d be out in a few days.

But Margie’s success was like brushfire. Her album of the show sold phenomenally well, and the single sides she made hit the top ten. Then in April George signed her for an enormous television deal, to begin a weekly series the following season. The Three B’s represented the package.

Lyon continued to shuttle back and forth to California. Neely’s shows were doing well, and she was signed up for the following season. The Three B’s were opening a California office, and several good agents had left the Johnson Harris office to join them.

Neely was riding the crest of Hollywood’s new social wave. She had rented an enormous house and hired a full staff, and her large parties drew all the “in” people.

She was taping her last show of the season when George summoned Lyon back to New York. The network wanted a rundown of the format Margie Parks would use the following season. “You’re the creative one,” George said. “I made the sale—now you’ve got to put the show together.”

Lyon had slipped out of California quietly. He had left Neely a note promising to return in forty-eight hours. He hoped to avoid a scene this way, and he felt fairly safe. Two thirds of the show was already on tape.

Lyon met with the network and sponsors. Everything went well. The director called from the Coast. Neely was furious, but was cooperative so far. Lyon relaxed and decided against rushing back. He took Anne to the theatre . . . he took little Jennifer for her first pony ride in Central Park.

They were in bed watching the Late Show when the news bulletin interrupted: “Neely O’Hara rushed to hospital, close to death.”

George was on the phone seconds later. He had called California and been told that Neely might make it. She had swallowed half a bottle of pills. Lyon dressed while Anne packed his bags. There was a one-thirty flight to the Coast—he could just about make it. Neely’s show wasn’t all taped, but Joey Kling would fly out and take over. They’d piece together some kind of a show by airtime.

Neely was weak and hollow-eyed when Lyon came to her hospital room. She had come out of it—she would live. She held out her arms. “Oh, God, Lyon, when I found out. . . it was the end. I wanted to die!”

“Found out what?” He held her gently and stroked her hair.

“I read it in the trades while I was on the set. It said you were called back to give Margie Parks the star treatment.”

“And that’s why you tried . . .” His voice trailed off in amazement.

“Look, Lyon, I’ll stand for you giving your wife a hump now and then, and I might even forgive you if you took a flier with another girl—but I’ll never stand for you building up another star on my time.”

“But Neely, we’re not a one-woman office.”

“I
made
your lousy office—and I can unmake it. Just remember that! If I walk, half your lineup would walk with me. You need me, brother, so when I snap my fingers you be here from now on!”

Lyon rose and walked out of the room. “Lyon! Come back here!” she shouted.

He continued to walk down the hall.

Lyon went back to New York on the next plane. He called an emergency meeting with George. “One question,” he said. “Have you paid back your wife?”

George smiled. “No, and I don’t intend to.”

“I’ve just written the final check to Anne. I’m in the clear now. From now on, any risks I take I take on my own money. Nothing else is riding—”

“Except my share.” George smiled again.

“Of course. Even so, I’ve come to the conclusion we have to drop Neely. She’s not worth the agony. We don’t need her any more.”

“Don’t you think it will hurt us?” George asked.

Lyon shook his head. “Not at all. Margie’s show will bring in twice as much revenue—it’s a weekly show, don’t forget—and we’ve got Joey Kling going great guns. Neely has to go up in smoke eventually—maybe not next year or even the year after, but she’ll go—and we’re not going to be a part of it. We resurrected her and got the credit for that. Let’s quit her while we’re ahead.”

“What makes you think Neely won’t go on and on? That funny farm straightened her out pretty well.”

Lyon laughed. “How long can anyone last when they’re on two Demerol shots a day?”

“She said they were vitamin shots,” George said.

“Some vitamins! Look, we’re building up some good men in this office. We’re a great combination, George. You can sell—there’s no one who can touch you there—and I can manage to be fairly creative with talent and the agency people. We can’t piddle away half our strength in traveling back and forth across the country as trained nurse and lover to this octopus. God, George, she eats people alive! Heaven knows how Anne has managed to survive. But we’ve had it with Neely. I know Abe Kingman from the Johnson Harris office flew out there to talk to her—let’s release her.”

George grinned. “Okay, you send the wire personally. I think you deserve that break.”

Neely signed with the Johnson Harris office and made scathing remarks about the inefficiency of her past management. The Three B’s were not harmed, and in September the Margie Parks show was launched with great success.

Neely started the new season with good ratings. Three men from the Johnson Harris office were assigned to her around the clock.

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” Anne asked.

Lyon nodded. “For a time. But she’s on a self-destructive kick. She’s taking on too much—the large house, the servants, too much free booze is flowing. She’s a star again, and that nearly killed her before.”

“If she snaps . . .” Anne couldn’t help feeling some concern. Neely’s destructiveness was so pathetically sick.

“She’ll snap one day,” Lyon said. “She has to.”

“And then what?”

“She’ll make a comeback again—and again and again, as long as her body holds out. It’s like a civil war, with her emotions against her talent and physical strength. One side has to give. Something has to be destroyed.”

1965

Anne wished she hadn’t allowed herself to be talked into giving this New Year’s Eve party. She stared at the endless guests—they kept coming and going, crowding into the elevator and standing three deep at the bar. George and Lyon had pressured her into it, but giving a party was not as simple as going to one. You could always leave someone else’s party. You were stuck with your own.

Celebrities from the Broadway shows began to arrive. It was past one, and she hadn’t seen Lyon since their brief kiss at midnight. It was January first now, Jen’s second birthday. She slipped away from everyone and walked down the hall to the nursery. The small night light picked out the dim outline of the sleeping child. “Happy New Year, angel,” Anne whispered. “I love you . . . oh, God, how I love you!” She leaned over and kissed the clean little brow, then quietly slipped out of the room. The living room was a wall of noise. The den was packed, too, and the bar was jammed. She went into her bedroom and closed the door. No, this was wrong—the hostess could not duck out. Besides, if she kept the door closed, someone would knock. It was rude. She opened the door and switched off the lights. That was better. If she left the door open and the lights off, no one could see her. She hoped they wouldn’t come in. Her head was splitting.

She stretched out on the bed. The shrieks of laughter seemed far away, and the music . . . Somewhere she heard a glass crash . . . bursts of laughter . . . Suddenly she heard footsteps. O Lord, someone was coming. She’d say she just had to lie down. Two silhouettes came into the room. She lay quietly on the bed, hoping they would go.

“Let’s close the door,” the girl whispered.

“Nonsense. That would draw attention.”

It was Lyon . . . but she could not distinguish the girl.

“I love you, Lyon.” The voice sounded familiar.

“Oh, come now, you’re just a baby.”

“I don’t care. I love you. My show was better than it’s ever been last week because you personally supervised things.”

His kiss silenced her.

“Lyon. . . will you be there every week?”

“I’ll try.”

“Not try—
be
there!” The voice was insistent. “Lyon, I’m one of the office’s top properties . . .”

“Margie, are you trying to blackmail my love?” he said lightly.

“Is that what Neely O’Hara did?”

“There was never anything between Neely and me.”

“Ha! Well, anyway, there’s going to be plenty between
us.
God, I dig you!”

He kissed her again. “Now be a good girl. Let’s get back to the party before we’re missed.”

Anne lay quietly until they were gone. Then she got up and straightened her dress. She went to the bathroom and took a red doll. Strangely enough, she felt no panic. Now it was Margie Parks. . . . She found it didn’t hurt as much this time. She still loved Lyon, but she loved him less. After Neely had gone he had been more devoted than ever. But there had been no sense of triumph. Something or some part of her had gone with Neely. She knew now there would always be a Neely, or a Margie . . . but each time it would hurt less, and afterward she would love Lyon less, until one day there would be nothing left—no hurt, and no love.

She brushed her hair and freshened her makeup. She looked fine. She had Lyon, the beautiful apartment, the beautiful child, the nice career of her own, New York—everything she had ever wanted. And from now on, she could never be hurt badly. She could always keep busy during the day, and at night—the lonely ones—there were always the beautiful dolls for company. She’d take two of them tonight. Why not? After all, it was New Year’s Eve!