Valley of the Dolls (37 page)

She wondered what Anne thought about it all. Geez, she owed her a letter. She should thank her for Lyon’s new book, despite those lousy reviews. The trades all said he had gone commercial—or tried to and missed. But hell, maybe he needed money and thought this junk would sell. After all, his first book had gotten raves and didn’t make a dime. She wondered if Anne still cared about Lyon. She must feel something if she had to make sure her friends read his books. But then the columns all hinted she was Kevin Gillmore’s girl. Geez, imagine Anne being the Gillian Girl. You couldn’t open a magazine without seeing her picture. Oh, yes . . . Sunday night. She leaned over and scribbled it in her book. She must remember to watch. Anne was going to do the Gillian commercials on the Big Comedy Hour. Anne on television!

Television . . . Geez, the way everyone in California was acting over that stinking little box. As if it could ever hurt the Industry. But they were all panicking. Contract players in most of the studios were being dropped right and left, and they weren’t signing people to long deals any more—just one-picture or two-picture deals. Lucky she was so big. Boy, they had jumped to sign her. Five nice, solid years . . . money coming in fifty-two weeks, for five more years. . . .

She wished Ted would come home. She needed him to go to bat for her tomorrow. The dancing sequences were too tough. She could dance, but this was ridiculous. She’d get Ted to say she couldn’t dance in the costumes, then they’d have to make the dances easier. She had hardly been able to catch her breath today. Those green pills were beautiful and kept you awake and skinny, but they also made your heart pound so you couldn’t practice a two-hour dance routine. Maybe Ted was at his office. Maybe he wasn’t mad, just working late. She reached for the phone. No, if he wasn’t at his office she didn’t want to know. And what the hell—what would it prove? He could be at his office doing it with a guy. Jesus, why did she love him this much? He wasn’t even a real man. But then Mel was kinda weakish, too. Why did she get attracted to men like this? They seemed so strong in the beginning—helping her, telling her what to do—real strong. Then they petered out.

She looked at the clock—midnight. The pills weren’t working. She needed some more Scotch to help them along. Damn—it was downstairs. It was lucky she had learned booze helped the pills work. She wondered if Jennifer had found out about that. The dolls without booze were nothing. Well, she’d just have to go downstairs and get some more.

She ran down the marble stairs barefoot. The servants were asleep. The lights were out in the living room. While she was groping for the light switch, she heard a splash in the swimming pool. She walked to the patio doors. Who in hell was in the pool? The cabana lights were on, and their reflection hit the pool. It was Ted! She laughed with relief. Geez, what a nut—swimming nude at this hour. She fumbled at the buttons of her pajamas. She’d jump in and surprise him. No, that would wake her completely, and she had an early call. She was just about to shout to him when she saw the girl coming out of the cabana, hesitating shyly, clutching the towel she had draped around her.

“Come on, drop the towel. The water’s heated,” Ted called.

The girl looked up at the dark, rambling house. “Suppose she wakes up?”

“Are you kidding? With what she takes an earthquake couldn’t wake her. Come on, Carmen, or I’ll drag you in!”

The girl dropped the towel demurely. Even in the semidarkness Neely could see she had a wonderful body. Neely squinted her eyes. She had seen this girl somewhere. . . . Sure! Carmen Carver. She had won some beauty contest, and the studio was testing her.

Ted swam to meet the girl. Neely heard a squeal. “Oh, Ted! Not in the water. . . . Don’t!”

“Why not? We’ve done it every other way.”

Neely felt her stomach quiver. Oh, God! No—not this! A boy occasionally she had accepted. It was a sickness of Ted’s—that’s what the psychiatrist had told her. It had nothing to do with unfaithfulness to her. But this!

She grabbed the bottle of Scotch and stumbled up the stairs. She poured a stiff drink and took another pill, then climbed into bed. To hell with Ted and his whore! Geez, she’d be hungover enough tomorrow. And she had to be up at five.

Suddenly she sat up. What would happen if she didn’t go in? In her whole life she had never been five minutes late for a rehearsal, a fitting or an interview. And what did it get her? Sure, she was making five thousand a week now—but what did she have to show for it? The house wasn’t paid for yet—the studio had loaned her the money. Dr. Mitchell said the house was important for her sense of security, that it would rid her of her childhood instability. Some advice at twenty-five bucks a shot! She’d see him tomorrow—let him explain this! And now that she thought about it, what in hell did Ted pay for? The servants, the car, his office, the food and the booze. Maybe it had been a mistake to sign a premarital agreement. His business was going great.
Vogue
was always giving him big layouts. What did she have? After the studio took out a thousand a week toward the loan on her house, then the agent, the income tax, her personal maid, her secretary . . . Jesus! She couldn’t save a dime. Well, in another three years she’d be clear with the house. She gulped down some more Scotch. A feeling of euphoria began to float through her. Once everything was paid for, everything would be all right. . . .

All right!
Holy Christ! With Ted down there banging some girl in
her
swimming pool? She shot out of bed. She was dizzy and her head was heavy, but she had to throw that girl out of
her
pool. She held onto the banister as she fumbled her way down the stairs. She groped her way to the light switch and triumphantly flooded the pool with light.

Ted and the girl were scrambling out of the pool as she staggered out, holding a bottle of Scotch.

“Having a good time, kiddies?” she shrieked. “Fucking in
my
pool? Be sure you drain it out. Remember, Ted—
your
children go wading in it every morning.”

The girl dodged frantically behind Ted. Neely carefully emptied the bottle into the pool.

“Maybe this’ll disinfect it,” she sneered. Then she stared at Ted. “So now it’s a girl tramp instead of a boy. I guess Dr. Mitchell will tell me you need this too!”

Ted stood erect and silent, his arms behind him to shield the shivering girl. This protective gesture added to Neely’s rage. “Who are you protecting! A whore who contaminated my pool? You know, honey, you mean nothing to him. He usually likes boys for his diversion. Maybe that’s it . . . maybe you have no tits—or maybe you’re a Lesbian!”

The girl broke away and fled into the cabana. Ted stood very still. He had a crazy dignity in spite of his nakedness. For a split second she wanted to rush to him, to say that she was sorry, that she loved him. He was so tall and bronze . . . But she couldn’t let him get away with this.

“All right, faggot—start explaining!”

He smiled slightly. “I think you need glasses. I’d hardly say she was built like a boy.”

Her lip quivered. “I could take that better—”

“I’ll bet you could,” he said slowly. “You drove me to that.”

“I
drove you!”

“You almost made me think I
was
a queer. Sure, I tried it with a few guys. In some crazy way I felt I wasn’t cheating on you. And you made me feel I wasn’t desirable to a woman. When was the last time you wanted me, Neely?”

“Why, you’re my husband. Whattaya mean, ’want you’? I always want you.”

“You want me
around!
To fight your battles at the studio, design your clothes, escort you to openings. But as a man . . . You’re always too tired for sex. When did you think about it last?”

“You’re nuts!” she yelled. “Say, don’t try and switch things. I catch you red-handed and you stand there with your dingle blowing in the breeze and a naked broad in my cabana, and
you
sermonize with
me!
Who in hell is paying for this pool and this house?”

“Who wanted it?” Nonchalantly, he reached for a towel and draped it around his waist.

“We couldn’t live in that apartment you had.”

“Why not? It had eight rooms. But you needed the massage room, the projection room, this whole layout.”

“I never had a house.” She started to sob. “I wanted one so bad. I really don’t mind paying for it.”

“Then why do you throw it up to me ten times a day? And now who’s trying to switch things?”

“Well . . .” She could hardly keep her eyes open. His voice seemed to be coming from far away. Damn those pills.
Now
they were beginning to work. She watched him as he sat down casually in a beach chair.

“Ted . . . I come from the studio at six. Tonight I didn’t get back till eight. I’m beat. I have lines to study for the next day. I have to have a massage. How can I think of sex?”

“Why did you sign the new contract?” he asked quietly.

“That was six months ago. Are you still beefing about that?”

“Neely, you’re big now. And I’m doing great. I was willing to tear up the premarital agreement. You could have made a two-picture-a-year deal with any studio in town and left yourself a chance to live. I make enough money for both of us even if you never worked. But without telling me, you went and signed a new five-year deal.”

“I owed the money to the studio for the house. And Geez, Ted, with everyone panicky about television, I was lucky to get a long-term deal. When you have a long contract with a studio, you belong . . . you have a whole studio behind you.”

“Well, you’ve got your house and your contract. And I’ve got my sanity back. I wasn’t much of a man living with you. Somehow you drained it all out of me, Neely. But that’s over. I’m straightened out now.”

“By that little whore?”

“She makes me feel seven feet tall.”

“Ted, I need you.”

“And
how
you do. But not as a man.”

“Sex! Sex!
Sex!
Is that all you think about? I like sex. But in its place.”

“Like once a month on a rainy Sunday? And it never rains in California.”

“Look, stop with all this. That broad is in there. Get her out!”

“I will.” He put out his cigarette and started for the cabana.

“And come upstairs immediately. I want to talk to you!”

She ran into the house. She opened a new bottle, poured herself a fresh drink and got into bed. Maybe she should overlook this thing. Maybe she had better act more sexy. Christ, she loved him. She adored him. But when you were on the set all day how could you be sexy at night? She looked at her plain pajamas. Maybe she should wear some frilly nightgowns. But Geez, her face was loaded with cream and her hair was sticking out at all angles and gooky. It was washed every morning at the studio, so she had to put lanolin on it at night. Her hair was good and thick, but if she slept in that lacquer they put on it and all the gold powder to pick up the lights, she’d be bald. She had to brush it out every night and load it with oil.

She thought of the naked girl in the pool. She stood up, swaying, and the wall mirror across the room shot back her own reflection. Oh, brother, she thought. I look like Halloween. But Geez, why shouldn’t that girl look good? She wasn’t pulling in five thousand a week. She wasn’t one of the hottest names in pictures. She was just a girl trying to make it. If she was a star, she’d be in bed at nine with the cream and oil too! Tears ran down her face. God, all her life she had dreamed about something like this. A big house, a guy you loved, kids. She had them all. . . only there was no time to enjoy it.

She went to the bathroom and washed the cream off her face. If only she wasn’t so sleepy. She fumbled in the bureau. Where were the nice nightgowns? Okay, this yellow one. She slid into it. Geez, her hair! She found a yellow silk scarf and tied it around. Now, that wasn’t bad—not bad at all. She got into bed. Ted should be up any second. She heard the scrunch of the car on the gravel in front. Well, the whore had gone home; now he’d come up all sheepish. She’d let him crawl a little, then she’d surprise him. She’d take him in her arms and they’d do it. And she’d be real good, like in the old days, not just lay back. It had been so great when they first met—but she hadn’t been so tired then. She was getting sleepy . . . God, where was he! She jumped out of bed and ran down the stairs.

“Ted.” The swimming pool was dark. She threw open the front door. She ran to the garage, the gravel cutting into her bare feet. The car was gone! Maybe he had to take her home. She
had
come here with him; maybe she had no car. Bullshit! He coulda sent her home in a cab! She’d give it to him when he came back. She started to sob. Maybe he wasn’t coming back. Oh, Christ! What had she done?

1953

She fought the divorce for three years. He had moved his clothes out after the swimming-pool incident. She hadn’t gone to work for a week. The studio had been furious. The hell with them, she thought as she tossed in a barbiturate daze. The hell with Ted! At first she was all for a divorce—he couldn’t do this to her! But The Head had opposed it. Bad for her public image. She was the girl next door. . . America’s sweetheart with twin boys. They had stories lined up on her home life and picture layouts of her and Ted with the twins . . . the perfect marriage. No, no divorce. The Head didn’t care how they felt about each other, just as long as it looked good to the public. She was to try to work it out.

The Head also talked to Ted. He was under contract to Century, so he had to go along. He was to escort Neely to openings, pose with her for screen magazine stories, anything to maintain the image.

It had been a three-year nightmare. One picture after another . . . dieting . . . the dolls . . . knowing Ted was off somewhere with that girl. And he had to be keeping her. She wasn’t working. To pacify Neely the studio had blackballed her. The word was out—no other studio would touch her.

The Academy Award had cinched things. It had been the greatest moment of her life. She had never dreamed she’d really get it. When they called her name she had turned to Ted with a gasp. His smile had been warm—he was really thrilled for her. She had run up the aisle. Then the pictures, the photographer and newsreel cameras—and Ted right there, holding her arm. Everything was going to be all right—she had won the Oscar and Ted was at her side, smiling at her.