Valley of the Dolls (6 page)

“Then why not write it?”

“For one thing, working for Henry is a full-time proposition. And that charming flat I’m inheriting does not come rent free. I’m afraid literature’s loss will be Henry Bellamy’s gain.”

She realized Lyon Burke could not be categorized and neatly filed away. He had feelings, but he would always mask them with a smile or a contradictory statement.

“It’s odd, but you don’t strike me as a quitter,” she said boldly.

His eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Giving up without even trying. I mean—if you want to write, if you honestly feel you have something to say, then do it. Everyone should at least
try
to do the thing he wants to do. Later in life situations and responsibilities force people to compromise. But to compromise now . . . it’s like quitting before you start.”

He leaned across and cupped her chin in his hand. Their eyes met, and he looked at her intently. “Henry certainly doesn’t know you. You can’t be the girl he’s been talking about. So far the only thing he’s been right about is your incredible beauty. By God, you’re a fighter, you are.”

She sat back in her chair. “This isn’t really me today.” She felt drained. “I’m kind of off balance. Things have happened too quickly. And when nothing has ever happened to you for twenty years, I guess you do act strange. I mean . . . all this about Allen Cooper. I didn’t even know who he really was until last night.”

“Don’t let Henry’s opinion bother you. He’s not: exactly eager to break in someone new. He’ll fight off your suitors with hand grenades if necessary.”

“Allen is just a friend. . . .”

“That’s excellent news.” This time he looked at her without smiling.

She felt flustered. To cover her embarrassment she said, “What I said before, about people trying to do the thing they really wanted to do. I meant that. I did it when I came to New York. No one should give up a dream without giving it a chance to come true.”

“I have no dreams, Anne. I never had. This idea of writing just came to me after the war. Before the war I was dedicated to success, and making a pile of money. But now I’m not even sure I want that any more. In fact I’m not sure there’s anything I particularly want.” Then, with one of his quick changes of mood, he smiled. “Yes, there’s one thing I do want. I want to be aware of the minutes and the seconds, and to make each one count.”

“I can understand that,” she said. “It’s a natural feeling for anyone who’s been in the war.”

“Oh? I was beginning to wonder if any females over here recalled there was a war.”

“Oh, I’m sure everyone felt the war.”

“I can’t agree. When you’re over there, in it, you don’t think there’s anything else in life. You can’t believe that somewhere people are sleeping in comfortable beds or sitting in a restaurant like this. It’s different in Europe. Everywhere you walk you see a bombed-out building—you live with the constant reminder. But when I came back here all of the death and bloodshed seemed so remote. It seemed that it couldn’t have actually happened—that it was some hellish nightmare. There was New York, the Paramount Building was still standing, its clock running just as it always had. The pavements had the same cracks, the same pigeons or their relatives were messing up the Plaza, the same lines were standing outside of the Copa, waiting to see the same stars.

“Last night I was out with a beautiful creature who spent hours telling me about the hardships she had endured during the war. No nylons, plastic lipstick containers, no bobby pins . . . it was awful. I think the shortage of nylons affected her the most. She was a model, and her legs were important to her. She said she was terribly glad we finally discovered the atom bomb—she had been down to her last six pair when it hit.”

“I suppose if you’re in it, nothing matters but getting out alive,” she said quietly.

“You don’t chance thinking even that far ahead,” he answered. “You think from day to day. If you allow yourself to think of the future—any personal future—you lose your nerve. And suddenly you recall all the senseless time-wasting things you’ve done . . . the wasted minutes you’ll never recover. And you realize that time is the most precious thing. Because time is life. It’s the only thing you can never get back. You can lose a girl and perhaps win her back—or find another. But a second—this second—when it goes, it’s irrevocably gone.” His voice was soft, remembering, and she noticed the fine lines around the corners of his eyes.

“There was this corporal . . . we were spending the night in what was left of a barn. Neither of us was sleepy. The corporal kept sifting some of the earth through his hand. He kept saying, ‘This is great earth.’ Seems he had a farm in Pennsylvania. He began telling me the trouble he had with his peach trees, and about his plans for enlarging the farm when he returned. He wanted it to be a good farm for his children when they grew up. But the soil bothered him. It wasn’t rich enough. That’s all he talked about. Soon I found myself worrying about his miserable soil—even offering suggestions. I think I fell asleep dreaming of fertilizers and acres and acres of peach trees. The next day was a bad one. We ran into land mines . . . snipers . . . the weather was foul. That night I made the reports on the missing men. I checked the dogtags. One of them was the corporal. I sat and stared at the dogtag. . . . Last night it had been a man—a man who wasted his last night on earth worrying about fertilizer and soil. And now his blood would fertilize some foreign soil.”

He looked at her and suddenly smiled. “And here I am, wasting your time talking about it.”

“No, please go on.”

He looked at her strangely. “I’ve said a great many things today . . . things that probably should have stayed locked away in my mind.” He signaled for the check. “But I’ve taken up enough of your time. Make the rest of the afternoon count. Buy a new dress, have your hair done—or do any of the wonderful things a beautiful girl should do.”

“This girl is going back to the office.”

“Nothing of the kind.
I’m
giving
this
order. Henry expected you to be gone several days. The least you deserve is a half-day holiday. And a two-week salary bonus. I’ll see to that.”

“But I couldn’t think of—”

“Nonsense. I expected to hand a renting agent a full month’s rent under the table. Let’s call this my first official act at Bellamy and Bellows. You get a two-week salary bonus and the afternoon off.”

She took the afternoon off, but she didn’t do any of the things he suggested. She walked up Fifth Avenue. She looked at the new winter styles. She sat in the square at the Plaza. And she thought about Lyon Burke. He dwarfed anyone she had ever known. She had been overwhelmed by the smiling, inscrutable Lyon, but the Lyon who talked about the war—he seemed accessible, capable of caring. He had cared about the corporal. Who was Lyon Burke, really?

She left the square and walked down Fifth Avenue. It was getting late. She had to go home and change. Allen was picking her up.
Allen!
She couldn’t marry Allen! That would be refuting everything she had said. That was really giving up! It was too early to compromise with even part of a dream.

She would tell him at dinner. But it had to be brought up gently, with tact. She couldn’t just open with, “Hello Allen I’m not going to marry you.” But during dinner, she’d work into it and break it easily—but firmly. It was as simple as that.

But it wasn’t. No quiet little French restaurant now. Allen no longer needed to hide his identity. They went to “21.” Waiters bowed to him and everyone called him by name. He seemed to know most of the people in the room.

“By the way, Anne, do you like country living?” he asked suddenly. “We have this house in Greenwich . . .”

This was the opening. “No, I had enough of that in Lawrenceville. As a matter of fact, Allen, there’s something I want to say . . . something you’ve got to understand. . . .”

He looked at his watch and suddenly signaled for the check.

“Allen!”

“Go on, I’m listening.” He was signing the check.

“It’s about what you said last night. And now about country living. Allen, I like you very much but—”

“Oh, I’m glad you reminded me. I sent the lease over to Lyon Burke. Talked to him this afternoon. He sounds like a nice guy. English, isn’t he?”

“He was raised in England. Allen, listen to me.”

He stood up. “You can tell me in the cab.”

“Please sit down. I’d rather tell you here.”

He smiled and held her coat. “It’s dark in the cab—more romantic. Besides, we’re late.”

She stood up helplessly. “Where are we going?”

“Morocco.” He tipped his way out of the room with a series of surreptitious handshakes. In the cab, he settled back and smiled. “My father is at Morocco. I told him we would stop by. Now, what did you want to tell me?”

“Allen, I’m very flattered about the way you feel. I’m also very grateful about the apartment for Lyon Burke. It’s saved me a lot of trouble and pavement pounding. I think you’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, but—” she saw the neon sign of El Morocco and her words rushed out—”but about marriage . . . what you said last night. . . I’m sorry, Allen, I—”

“Good evening, Mr. Cooper!” The doorman at El Morocco sang the greeting as he swung open the door of the cab. “Your father is inside.”

“Thanks, Pete.” Another bill exchanged hands. Allen led her into the club. She had failed to make her point—or had Allen consciously made it a point
not
to understand?

Gino Cooper was sitting with a group of men at a large round table near the bar. He waved at Allen, signaling he’d join them. The waiter led Allen to a table against the wall. It was ten-thirty, still early for El Morocco. Although this was Anne’s first visit to the famous club, she had seen pictures, in newspapers and magazines, of various celebrities sitting against the famous zebra stripes. She looked around. There were plenty of zebra stripes, but otherwise it was just a large room with a fairly good orchestra playing some show tunes.

Gino joined their table immediately. Without waiting for any introduction, he grabbed Anne’s hand and pumped it violently.

“So this is her, huh?” He whistled softly. “Kid, you were right. This one was worth waiting for. She’s got real class. I can tell without her even opening her mouth.” He snapped his fingers; a captain seemed to materialize from the atmosphere. “Bring some champagne,” he ordered without taking his eyes away from Anne.

“Anne doesn’t drink,” Allen began.

“Tonight she’ll drink,” Gino said heartily. “Tonight’s an occasion.”

Anne smiled. Gino’s warmth was infectious. He was swarthy, heavyset and floridly handsome. His black hair was streaked with gray, but his immense vitality and enthusiasm were almost boyish.

When the champagne was poured, he toasted her. “To the new lady in our family.” With one gulp he drained half his glass. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and said, “Are you Catholic?”

“No, I—” Anne began.

“Well, you gotta convert when you marry Allen. I’ll make an appointment with Father Kelly at the Paulist Center. He can rush it through with private instruction.”

“Mr. Cooper—” It had been almost a physical effort to find her voice.

Allen quickly interrupted. “We haven’t discussed religion, Dad. And there’s no reason for Anne to convert.”

Gino considered this. “Well, no . . . not if she’s dead set against it. Long as she marries in the Church and promises to raise the kids Catholic—”

“Mr. Cooper, I’m not going to marry Allen!” There! She had said it, loud and clear.

His eyes narrowed. “Why? You
that
anti-Catholic?”

“I’m not anti-anything.”

“Then what’s the hitch?”

“I’m not in love with Allen.”

At first Gino’s stare was blank. Then he turned to Allen in bewilderment. “What in hell did she say?”

“She said she wasn’t in love with me,” Allen answered.

“Say, is this a gag or something? I thought you said you were gonna marry her.”

“I did. And I will. But first I have to make her love me.”

“You both crazy or something?” Gino demanded.

Allen smiled pleasantly. “I told you, Dad—up until last night, Anne thought I was just a struggling little insurance agent. She has to readjust her thinking.”

“What’s to readjust?” Gino asked. “Since when did money become a handicap?”

“We never discussed love, Dad. I don’t think Anne allowed herself to take me seriously. She spent too much time worrying I’d lose my job.”

Gino looked at Anne curiously. “You really went with him all these weeks and ate at those hash houses he told me about?”

Anne smiled faintly. She was beginning to feel conspicuous. Gino’s voice carried, and Anne was sure half the room was enjoying their conversation.

Gino hit his thigh and laughed aloud. “This is a good one!” He poured himself more champagne. A waiter leaped to assist him. Gino motioned him away. “I used to open these bottles with my teeth. Now six flunkies feel they gotta help me pour it.” He turned to Anne. “I like you! Welcome to the family.”

“But I’m not going to marry Allen.”

He waved his hand in dismissal. “Listen—if you lived through six weeks of bad eats and accepted him as a punk, you’ll love him now. Drink your champagne. Start cultivating rich tastes, you can afford it. Hi, Ronnie.” A thin young man had appeared from nowhere and was standing silently at their table.

“This is Ronnie Wolfe,” Gino told her. “Sit down, Ronnie.” Gino snapped his fingers and called into space, “Bring Mr. Wolfe his usual.” And from space a waiter appeared and placed a pot of coffee before the stranger.

“Now, don’t tell me you never heard of Ronnie—everybody reads his column,” Gino said proudly.

“Anne’s new in New York,” Allen said quickly. “She only knows about the
Times.”

“Good paper,” Ronnie said crisply. He pulled out a worn little black leather book. His dark eyes darted from Allen to Gino. “All right, let’s have her name—and who’s staked the claim? Father or son?”

“Both of us this time,” Gino said. “This little girl is gonna be related to me soon. Anne Welles. Spell the name right, Ronnie—she’s gonna marry Allen.”