VALLEY OF THE DOLLS - 3

VALLEY OF THE DOLLS

JACQUELINE SUSANN

( INSTALMENT 3 )

******

The funeral was held on Monday. Once they were in Lawrenceville, Anne took over and coolly made all the arrangements. It had been a senseless accident, her mother’s fault. She was getting cataracts. Aunt Amy had always done the driving, yet after Amy’s death she had insisted on driving herself. It had been a rainy night, and she was returning from a duplicate bridge game at church. She hadn’t seen the trailer truck. It had been a head-on crash, and her mother had died instantly.

The funeral had been serene and dignified. Lyon and Henry sent huge floral offerings. Miss Steinberg and the girls also sent a wreath. Later that evening Anne went through the formalities of receiving. Everyone in town came to express sympathy and to gape at Jennifer.

On Tuesday morning, Jennifer brought up the subject of returning to New York. They were sitting in the sunny breakfast room. Jennifer had enjoyed Lawrenceville. She had been amused at the town’s bulgy-eyed admiration. But most of all she was impressed with the large house that belonged to Anne.

“I have to get back to the show,” she said. “But I imagine you want to stay here for a while.”

“Whatever for?” Anne asked.

Jennifer looked around. “Well, this house. You just can’t up and leave it.”

“I’ve already spoken to my lawyer. I told him to put it up for sale, furniture and all.”

“But it’s a wonderful house, Anne. Maybe you should keep it ... rent it.”

“I hate it. I hate this town. I want to cut every tie. If I kept this house, there’d always be a reason to return. If I sell it, I’ll know I never, never have to come back.”

“Was your childhood that awful?”

“Not awful. Just nothing.”

“I take it you didn’t love your mother.”

“No, I didn’t love her. But I didn’t dislike her. She never gave me a chance to do either. It wasn’t her fault. It was Lawrenceville. Oh, Jennifer, I’d rather live my whole life in that one dreary room I used to have on Fifty-second Street than stay here. Lawrenceville strangles me. I can feel it—closing in on me.” She shuddered. “Imagine, in all my life here I knew at least thirty girls, but not one became a close friend. I’ve been in New York just a little over a year and I’ve got you and Neely and Lyon!”

“Well, you’ve got Lyon and me. We haven’t heard from our movie star in months.”

“Her picture opens in March. Imagine—her first picture opening at the Music Hall.”

“Well, she must be good in it. I read where she’s already at work on the second. Wonder when the babies will start. And Mel—do you think he’s gained any weight?”

They both laughed, and Jennifer poured some more coffee. “Well, I’ve got to leave this afternoon. That will get me back late tonight. At least I can make the matinee tomorrow.” Her brow creased. “God, Tony probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped. I left no word at the hotel. Miriam must be celebrating.”

She thought about Tony during the monotonous drive back to New York. Even if things worked out—if they did get married—there’d always be Miriam. It was a blind spot with Tony. “She’s raised me, given her whole life to me,” he’d yell when Jennifer balked at Miriam’s eternal intrusion. “She’s the only dame who’s a hundred per cent for me.”

But Miriam couldn’t go to bed with him. Jennifer’s face set. It wasn’t just his money and security she wanted. She also wanted to be a good wife. She wanted a child. Tony would get more than he bargained for. She wouldn’t cheat on him. Cheat? For what? One man was the same as another. Tony could satisfy her; most men could. Maria had taught her about her body, and she knew how to get aroused. It was easy ...

Her box at the hotel was crammed with messages. Some were from the Longworth Agency—oh, God, she had forgotten to notify them—but the rest were from Tony. The switchboard operator informed her that Mr. Polar had just called—for the tenth time that day. Jennifer smiled in satisfaction. It was two in the morning. She went to her suite and undressed, but she didn’t take a Seconal. She got into bed and waited.

Twenty minutes later the phone rang. She could hear the relief in Tony’s voice when she answered. Then he growled, “Where in hell have you been?”

“Away.”

“No kidding!” Then his tone changed, and in a sudden rush of emotion he said, “Listen, baby, I’ve been half out of my mind. Where were you?”

He was not appeased when she told him. Nor was he fully convinced.

“Since when do you go rushing out of town to attend funerals?”

“Anne is my best friend.”

“All right, but you sure stayed away a hell of a long time. What happened? Was one of the pallbearers handsome?”

“They all were,” she said sweetly. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen so many good-looking men in one town.” She hadn’t even talked to a man under fifty.

“Jen,” he said softly. “Can I come over?”

“Tony, it’s almost three o’clock.”

“I could be there in five minutes.”

She forced a yawn. “Sorry, I’m bushed.”

“Tomorrow, then. Early in the afternoon. I have a recording session at three, but I’ll be through at four.”

“I have a matinee. It’s Wednesday—remember?”

“All right, I’ll come to your place after the matinee.”

“No. You know I keep my makeup on between shows. And it would ruin my hair.”

He groaned. “All right, all right! I’ll come by and take you to dinner.”

“We’ll see ...” She hung up. She didn’t go home after the matinee. She forced herself to sit through a movie between shows. At the evening performance, she told the doorman to say she had gone if Tony arrived after the show to pick her up. She sat in the dressing room until the doorman came by to lock up. Yes, Mr. Polar had come by, and he had given the message like she said. She gave him five dollars and walked home.

The phone was ringing when she let herself into her apartment. She let it ring. It rang every twenty minutes. Each time she checked with the operator—it was always Mr. Polar. At five in the morning she finally picked up the phone on the third ring.

He was enraged. “Where have you been!”

“I went to a movie between shows.” She deliberately made it sound like a lie.

“Oh sure! And tonight? You sure must have lit out of there fast!”

“I was there. The doorman must have made a mistake.”

“And I suppose you’ve been home all evening?”

“Mmmmm.”

“Well, for your information, I’ve called every twenty minutes since eleven-thirty. You just got home!” He sounded triumphant.

“I must have been sleeping and didn’t hear the phone.”

“I’ll bet. Probably with one of those Boston swells you met at the funeral.”

She hung up on him and lay back with a beatific smile. It was working! She went into the bathroom and took out a bottle brimming with red pills. What a windfall! In Lawrenceville she had innocently told old Dr. Rodgers about her sleeping problem. He had been blinded by her sunny smile. He was sympathetic and understanding. Funerals often gave people insomnia. The next day he had appeared with a little bottle crammed with twenty-five Seconals!

She heard the insistent ring of the phone again. Tony would keep at it. She told the operator not to ring any more, to say she was accepting no more calls for the night. As an extra precaution she pulled the safety bolt across the door. Then she opened the bottle of pills. She took two of them. One worked—but two! It was the most beautiful feeling in the world. She put her head on the pillow gently. The soft numbness began to slither through her body. Oh, God! How had she ever lived without these gorgeous red dolls!

She played the cat-and-mouse game with Tony for two more days. Each night she looked at the bottle of Seconals with affection. She never could do this without the dolls. She would have spent sleepless nights, smoking, worrying—and she would have lost her nerve.

On Friday night, Tony was standing at the stage entrance when she arrived at the theatre. He grabbed her arm roughly. “Okay. You win,” he snarled. “I have the car. We leave for Elkton tonight—now.”

“But I have a show, and a matinee tomorrow.”

“I’ll go in and tell the stage manager you’re sick.”

“But they’ll read about us in the papers tomorrow if we elope. I’ll be fired—maybe brought up on charges at Equity.”

“So what? You’ll be Mrs. Tony Polar. You don’t intend to keep on working in the show, do you?”

(Of course not! Was she crazy? Besides, Henry would smooth everything over. This was it!)

She grabbed his arm. “Go tell them I’m sick, Tony. As a matter of fact, I am beginning to feel faint ...”

******

Jennifer was happy, Tony was dazed. They were married! The Elkton newspapers had been informed. They had posed and smiled for the local cameramen and given statements for the AP and UP. Finally, they had driven off and checked into a small hotel in the outskirts of the city.

Now, as Tony sat on the bed, watching Jennifer unpack, the numbness created by the excitement began to wear off. He was suddenly frightened.

“Miriam will kill me,” he said slowly.

Jennifer came over and put her arms around him. “You’re not a child, Tony, you’re my husband.”

“You’ve got to stick by me when we tell her,” he mumbled.

“I’m your wife, darling. I’ll always stick by you.”

“But she’ll be so mad, Jen.” Tears came to his eyes. Suddenly he buried his head in the pillow and sobbed. “I’m scared ... oh, I’m scared ...”

For a moment Jennifer stood very still. A wave of revulsion sickened her. She felt a crazy impulse to turn and run—but where? And to what? No one would understand. They’d think something was wrong with her. She had to make this work. Tony was a star, and talented people had idiosyncrasies. Maybe that was it—he was just more emotional than most men.

She sat on the bed and cradled his head in her arms. “It’s going to be all right, Tony,” she said softly.

“But Miriam will be mad. She’ll holler.” He looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears. “It’s your fault. You made me do it.”

“I told you, I’ll stand up to Miriam.”

“Honest? You really will?”

“Yes.” She stroked his head. “Just remember that I’m your wife.”

He reached out and touched her breasts. Slowly he wiped away his tears and began to grin. He looked at her slyly. “And now I can do anything I want with you.”

She managed a weak smile. “Yes, Tony ...”

He pulled the robe off her. “Turn over,” he growled.

She ground her teeth in agony as he tore into her. She felt his nails ripping down her back. Smile, Jen, she told herself. You’ve made it—you’re Mrs. Tony Polar. ...

******

Miriam held the crumpled wire and stared vacantly into space. Elkton! Well, that was it! And she had taken every precaution—two hundred a week she had paid that Ornsby! She picked up the phone, her fat finger tearing viciously at the dial.

“Sorry to disturb your sleep, Mr. Ornsby,” she snarled, “but it just so happens you’re sleeping on my time!”

He was instantly alert. “I followed him to the stage door at eight. He was waiting for her. She came along at eight-oh-one and they stood talking. It was almost half-hour time and I knew she had to go in so I went off and grabbed a bite. I knew I was safe for three hours—she had the show to do. Then I showed up again at eleven. He didn’t come around. If he’s gonna pick her up he gets there by eleven-fifteen at the latest. I waited till eleven-thirty, then I took my post at his hotel. I just left a few hours ago. He hadn’t come in. I checked all the clubs—he’s not around. So I figure maybe she had another date tonight and he shacked up with some other chick. She’s been ducking him for several nights, running home alone after each show.”

“Well, she didn’t do no show tonight,” Miriam snapped. “They eloped.”

There was silence at the other end of the line.

“Two hundred a week I been paying you, just to prevent this. What kind of a detective are you?”

“One of the best,” he said sharply. “But those two are fruitcakes. I’ve frozen my ass off standing outside his hotel night after night, while they were up in bed all warm and cosy, banging away. But hell, lady, I’m not the F.B.I. I got to eat, and I got to stop sometimes to take a leak. I figure the only time I’m really safe is when that broad is on the stage. Who figures she’s gonna skip a show?”

Miriam slammed the receiver down. But he was right. Jennifer had been too slick. She sighed. She had been so careful, and now it would all probably go up in smoke. So far the public and everybody had been fooled. They accepted Tony’s childish replies as part of his charm. Some even thought it a clever pose. Only Miriam knew the truth, and she had hidden it from everyone—even Tony. With a woman he functioned as a man, physically. His talent as a performer was a gift. He did everything right when he sang, automatically. But mentally and emotionally, Tony was ten years old.

Now what? As long as she was present at every interview, she could cover for him. But now there was Jennifer.

How much had Jennifer guessed? Actually, she had nothing against the girl. She was probably genuinely attracted to Tony. Why not? He was handsome and talented and quite a stallion. Maybe she hadn’t noticed anything. After all, they were never alone—except for the sex. She had seen to that, always being with them, seeing to it that at least one or two of the writers always trailed along. She had trained Tony that way. “A star always has an entourage,” she had told him repeatedly, and he had accepted traveling with groups as standard procedure. That way no one ever really got to do much talking with him.

Until Jennifer, it had been easy. Miriam knew he had to satisfy his physical needs and she encouraged it, always managing to keep it on a transitory basis. A dancer in the line at a club they played, happy to be with him, out for kicks and reflected glory and satisfied to let him go out of her life with a gift of perfume and his promises of undying affection. That’s the way it had been until he met Jennifer. She had done everything to break that up. Every time he went out of town she practically threw the most beautiful girls in the world in his arms. He took them, too—but he always came back to Jennifer. She had been hoping the California trip would finish it. Only two weeks to go—and now this!

Miriam sighed. Most people thought she tagged after Tony to revel in his reflected glory. Some glory! She’d have given anything for a life of her own. But she couldn’t leave Tony. So here she was, a forty-four-year-old virgin, masterminding Tony into a spectacular success. Why did it have to be like this? The sins of the father, she thought wryly. Well, they had visited Tony, all right—only he didn’t know it. She was bearing the brunt. And it hadn’t really been the sins of the father, but their lousy tramp of a mother! So many secrets she had hidden from Tony and from the world. She had spun a beautiful picture of a handsome father who had been killed in a train accident before Tony was born. And a lovely, frail mother, so weakened by the shock that after she had given birth to little Tony, she had quietly smiled and passed into the arms of the angels, leaving the fourteen-year-old Miriam to take care of him. The press believed it. Tony believed it. He had never learned that his real father, like Miriam’s real father, had been a mystery, even to their mother.

They had been sired by different fathers, strangers who passed through their mother’s arms from night to night. And the one who had produced Tony must have been a beaut! But then her mother ran into a lot of strange ducks. A singing waitress at Coney Island did not exactly draw the Social Register. Her mother had sworn Miriam’s father was a nice man from Pittsburgh. Perhaps. But Tony’s father—whoever the bastard was—must have been good-looking. Tony had come off with the best of both parents. He had his mother’s deep brown eyes with the incredible lashes. His nose was short and straight, his mouth sensuous. And he was tall. Miriam, on the other hand, had inherited someone else’s looks. She smiled wryly. That guy from Pittsburgh might have been a very nice man, but he sure was no Robert Taylor. In fact, if she ever ran into a short, stout man with small blue eyes and a bulbous nose in Pittsburgh, she’d holler “Daddy.”

She had selected the name Polar out of sentiment. The kindest and most permanent lover her mother had known was a man named Polarski. He had genuinely liked the pudgy little girl and had never failed to bring her a present or chuck her under the chin. She had never forgotten him. Years later, as a silent tribute, she shortened his name and took it for herself and Tony.

It hadn’t been hard to hide his true identity from Tony or the press. Their mother had been a drifter. Every city has women like Belle, the not-quite-young girl who plays a tired piano and sings in a throaty voice in a local cocktail bar. Belle had started out singing at Tony Pastor’s, but that was the only shining hour of her career. Then she floated to the cocktail bars and beerhalls around the different cities, passing from man to man.

Miriam was born in a charity ward in Philadelphia. Belle placed her in a foster home until she was eight. Then Belle fell into what seemed like a job of some permanence in Coney Island and sent for the girl. For a few years Miriam knew the luxury of a two-room flat and the affection of Mr. Polarski, but when Polarski went his way there was a succession of men. Belle was getting older. They were both stunned when Belle found she was pregnant again. Christ! She hadn’t had the curse in months—all she needed was a change-of-life kid.

She stayed on the job for six months; then the costume could no longer conceal her condition, and she was fired. They moved to one room. Miriam, now fourteen, quit school and got a job as a counter girl. They had no friends, no neighbors. Then late one night, with the ambulance clanging, Belle was rushed to the hospital with the trembling Miriam at her side. Belle died five minutes after the screaming boy entered the world.

Miriam had taken the baby home. It had been easy to convince the disinterested hospital supervisor that there was a grandmother waiting to take over. And all alone, the fourteen-year-old girl had raised Tony. It seemed impossible when she looked back—the dreadful early weeks trying to make the formula correctly, washing diapers, trying to make the two hundred dollars she and Belle had saved stretch out, counting out pennies for milk, living on cans of soup and big boxes of crackers.

Tony had been four weeks old when he had the first convulsion. Again there was the clanging ambulance, the hospital. Tests were made and all the big doctors studied Tony’s case. They kept him in the hospital a year. Miriam was frantic with worry, but at least she was able to get a full-time job and save some money. Then Tony was returned to her. He looked healthy. Then more convulsions and back to the hospital. It went on like that until he was five. Then the convulsions stopped. He went to kindergarten, struggled through the first grade. In the second grade they threw him out. They suggested a special school, but she kept him home. Her Tony wasn’t going to be with a lot of crazy kids. Patiently she taught him herself, as much as he could learn.

Yes, it had been an impossible beginning. But at fifteen one can fight for survival against any odds. At twenty one could take on the world. But now the odds were piling up again. And Miriam was tired.

A few times she had even considered going to Jennifer and telling her the truth about Tony, so she would understand the idea of marriage with Tony was senseless. But it was too big a gamble. Suppose the girl had turned on both of them, told the story around town? It would destroy Tony’s career—and that would destroy Tony.

She couldn’t give up now; she had fought too long and too hard. God, she had even fought the United States Army. Tony had been elated when he received his draft notice—it was like playing soldier to him. His career was just starting, and he never knew about the secret trips she had taken to Washington, the endless red tape and the lack of sensitivity of the Army brass. She had been ready to give up until she met Major Beckman. He had a brother like Tony. He read Tony’s medical reports, all bound in the frayed manila envelope from the hospital in Coney Island. He had Tony examined by his chief neurologist. Finally, Miriam received a new collection of reports to add to the manila envelope and Tony was rejected by the Army, quietly and firmly. Major Beckman announced to the press that Tony had been rejected due to a punctured ear drum.

No, she couldn’t give up now. She had fought off the Army, the press, the whole damn world—one slinky blonde wasn’t going to ruin everything. She’d stick close to them. They were leaving for the Coast in a few weeks, and she’d be living with them. Who knows—it might work out somehow. She pulled the robe around her shapeless body and resolutely organized her thoughts. She had to notify the press, the columnists—who should she give the first break to? No, don’t play favorites—the wire services must have picked it up already from Elkton. When they returned, she’d call a press conference, arrange interviews with Jennifer and Tony ...

Anne

December, 1946

That night Anne returned to New York. She found everything in wild disarray. A note written in Jennifer’s hurried scrawl was propped on the night table.

It was a tough fight, but I won. When you read this I will be Mrs. Tony Polar. Wish me luck. Love.

Jen

She was glad for Jennifer, but Jennifer’s victory seemed to emphasize the dreariness of her own situation.

Lyon had called her in Lawrenceville to tell her his great news. Bess Wilson loved the book—thought it had great promise—but felt it needed a complete rewrite before she could show it to any publisher. Lyon was very enthusiastic. Sure it meant another six months at the typewriter—but Bess Wilson liked it, and Bess was tough to please.

She had tried to hide her disappointment—six months of rewriting. And now Jennifer was gone. The hotel suite seemed so empty.

She could carry it alone. She had plenty of money, or would have, as soon as everything was in order. Unfortunately, severing all ties with Lawrenceville could not be accomplished just by handing Mr. Walker the keys. There were endless legal adjustments that required her presence. The will had to be probated formally. And the furniture—she couldn’t just dump it on the sidewalk. Mr. Walker said every piece was worth something. It had to be tagged and sent to New York or Boston for auction. It’d bring her a good deal of money. Her mother had left her fifty thousand dollars in bonds, cash and stock. Aunt Amy’s money also went to her—twenty-five thousand more. Mr. Walker thought he could get forty thousand for the house alone, since it was on an acre and a half of good ground. Yes, she would have plenty of money—well over a hundred thousand, not counting the furniture—but meanwhile there was still the necessity of returning to Lawrenceville for at least another week, perhaps longer. She shuddered. Just being in that house made her feel unreasonably depressed.

She took a quick shower, changed her clothes and took a cab to Lyon’s apartment. He was at the typewriter when she arrived. “Come into the dungeon,” he said, embracing her warmly. He began picking up some crumpled pages he had tossed on the floor. “Don’t mind the rubbish. I’ve been working every evening. It’s coming along swimmingly.”

She forced a smile. “I’m glad, Lyon. I know it will be a good book.” She picked up a sheaf of the new pages and glanced at them. “This is no time for me to be trapped in Lawrenceville—but I can take some of it back with me and type it up in a clean copy.”

“What would I do without you? My typing looks like hieroglyphics.” Suddenly he frowned. “It really isn’t fair to you—you’ve been so patient. And now another delay—this bloody rewrite.”

She smiled. “I told you I’d wait forever—if necessary. Don’t mind me and my mood, Lyon—it’s just Lawrenceville.”

Later, as she lay in his arms, Lawrenceville seemed thousands of miles away. As if it had never happened. And it wasn’t until later that she even remembered to tell Lyon the news about Jennifer.

“I’m glad for her,” he said. “But doesn’t that leave you in a bit of a fix? No roommate.”

“I have money, Lyon. Mother left me quite a bit.”

“Don’t tell anyone. Some fortune hunter will grab you off.”

“Lyon, why can’t we get married? I have enough for us to live on for ... well, for a long time.”

“And you’d get up every morning and go to work—”

“Only to keep out of your hair. It’d be too cramped here with both of us hanging about, but once you made it ... then I’d work for you. I’d type your manuscripts, handle your fan mail ,,,”

“It doesn’t work that way, Anne. You know what Bess Wilson said. Even if it’s a good book, it might do nothing more than earn me a slight reputation. Then I’d have another year’s work, with no money coming in. And don’t think I wouldn’t like to write full time. These past few evenings have proved something to me—you get a certain rhythm when you keep at a thing hours on end.”

“Then I’m right.” She sat up.

“And wrong. I have some money, Anne. But by the time I was into my next book it would run out. I’d be coming to you for cigarette money. I’d be too humiliated to write. No, darling, it wouldn’t work.”

“But what am I supposed to do? Sit around and wait until you win the Pulitzer Prize?”

“No. Just wait and see how this book is received. If it’s received at all. I have no real assurance I’ll even get published.”

“You will. I know you will. And I’ll wait.” She looked thoughtful. “How long does it take to get a book published, I wonder?”

He laughed and took her in his arms.

Anne paced up and down the wooden planks of the Lawrenceville station. As usual, the local train was late. Poor Lyon. The five-hour train ride to Boston was deadly enough, but to sit on the unheated local for an hour with all those stops ... the last three days had certainly been deadly for her. She had even been grateful for Willie Henderson, who had driven her everywhere in his new Chevvie. There was such red tape connected with every detail, and sometimes it seemed that nothing had been accomplished. She would have to remain through part of next week so that the dealer from Boston could come to discuss the furnishings. Everything had to be discussed—every move she made was stymied by slow legal procedure. She was trapped in Lawrenceville.

But Lyon was coming up for the weekend. They’d have two wonderful days together, and for those two days even Lawrenceville would be palatable. For the first time her mother’s huge four-poster would hold two people who enjoyed their union. As she tidied it she wondered how many frustrating nights her father had known—how many rejections he had received from her emotionally virginal mother. “Well, tonight you’re in for some surprises,” she told the bed as she gave the comforter a final pat. It responded with a creak, as though in shocked protest.

But now, as she paced the station nervously, she wondered if this had been wise. Everyone in Lawrenceville would know Lyon was here, staying at her house. So what! Once she sold the house she’d never return. Damn the town! Who cared what they thought!

She heard the wheeze of the local as it rumbled down the tracks. She saw him first. A light snow was drifting down, and it settled on his black hair as he walked down the platform. She felt that strange tightening in her chest; she always felt it every time she saw Lyon. Would there ever be a time she would take him for granted and relax in the comfort that he belonged to her? Now, as she saw his quick smile of greeting, she felt the same surge of amazement that this magnificent man did belong to her. He had come all the way to Lawrenceville just to be with her!

“I didn’t believe I’d ever get here,” he said, hugging her lightly. “The towns we passed. Good God, I’ll bet no one knows there’s a Rome in Massachusetts.”

“Or a Lawrenceville,” she said.

“Everyone knows about Lawrenceville—you’ve made it famous. How do we get to the ancestral mansion, by sleigh?”

She led him to a cab. She snuggled against him as he stared out at the countryside.

“Shouldn’t we tell him where to go?” he whispered.

“Mr. Hill knows where everyone in town lives. If you had arrived alone, he would automatically have taken you to the Inn.”

He smiled. “I like that. A bit different from New York cabbies. Say, this is beautiful country.”

“The snow helps,” she said without enthusiasm.

“When did it start? It was clear in New York.”

She shrugged. “Probably in August. It snows here all the time.”

He put his arm around her. “Won’t give in, will you? Once you hate something, you’re relentless.”

“I gave Lawrenceville twenty years. That’s long enough for any small town.”

Lyon leaned forward. “Do you like Lawrenceville, Mr. Hill?”

The driver cocked his head. “Aeah. Why not? Born here. It’s a right nice town. Miss Anne’s just going through some growing pains. She’ll change. Once she’s back long enough she’ll—”

“I told you I was leaving for good, Mr. Hill!”

“I reckon when the time really comes to sell the old house, you’ll change your mind. I remember when your mother was born, right in that same house. I bet your little ones will be born there, too. ’Course, now we got that big new hospital right in Weston, just eight miles down the main highway. Better’n a lot of your New York hospitals, too. Why, Boston had to send for our iron lung during the polio epidemic.”

The cab crunched through the snow in the driveway and stopped before the house. Lyon stepped outside and stared silently.

“This is yours?” He turned to her, his eyes beaming with admiration. “Anne ... it’s beautiful!”

“Picturesque in the snow,” she said balefully.

He paid Mr. Hill, wished him a Merry Christmas, and followed her inside. Anne was forced to admit the crackling fire made the large living room appear warm and inviting. She gave him a complete tour, and his eyes shone in approval of everything he saw. She knew he was not just being polite. He genuinely liked the house.

They cooked steaks in the large kitchen and ate before the fire in the living room. Lyon insisted on building a fire in the fireplace in the bedroom. She was surprised at his agility with the fire irons. “You forget, I spent most of my life in London where they don’t believe in central heating,” he reminded her.

Then he said, “This is a wonderful house. You’ve been too close to it to appreciate it. It suits you, you know. You look like you belong here.”

“Don’t even say that jokingly,” she threatened. “I don’t regard it as a compliment.”

On Sunday the snow stopped, and they took a long walk. They ran into half the town just leaving church. She waved but did not stop, and she felt a barrage of curious stares as they continued their walk.

When they returned to the house, Lyon worked on the fire and Anne brought him some sherry. “It’s the only thing I could find,” she said apologetically. “Not an ounce of whiskey.”

“You’re a fallen woman,” he said as he sipped his drink. “I saw your neighbors stare. They’ll check at the Inn and find I’m not registered. Looks like I’ll have to marry you quickly. Restore your honor in this town.”

“I don’t care what this town thinks of me.”

He sat down beside her. “Come on, my stubborn little New Englander, give in and admit this is really a marvelous house. What a wonderful room! That portrait over the fireplace—isn’t that a Sargent?”

“I think so. It’s my grandfather. I’m sending it to one of the galleries in New York. They’ve offered a good price.”

“Hold on to it. The price will go up.” He was quiet for a moment. “Anne, seriously ... sitting here, you’ve never looked so beautiful. This is such a perfect setting for you—and you don’t look the least bit depressed to me. Lawrenceville seems to agree with you.”

“Only because you’re here, Lyon.”

“You mean, home is where the heart is ...” He held her close and they both looked at the fire. After a while, still staring dreamily at the burning logs, he said, “It just might work at that ...”

“What might work?”

“Us.”

She snuggled closer. “I always said it would. You might as well stop struggling. It’s inevitable.”

“I have around six thousand dollars. Anne, what are the taxes here each year?”

“Here?”

“Couldn’t be too steep. Remember, I said I couldn’t be married to you and let you support me. But I could accept the hospitality of this fine house. With my six thousand we could manage for a year. And if I get a decent advance on the book, I could start another. Anne—it could work!” He stood up, and rubbing his hands together, looked around the room. “Good Lord, it would really be marvelous. And I could write here.”

“Here?” The word stuck in her throat.

“Anne.” He knelt on the floor. “Nothing has been very proper about our relationship. But here, in this very fine and proper house, I will propose in a most proper fashion—on bended knee. Will you marry me?”

“Of course. But do you mean you want me to keep the house so you could come here and write? I’ll be glad to—but it would take so long to get here each weekend ...”

“We’d live here! Anne, it’s your house, but I could pay the taxes on it, buy the food. I’d be supporting you. One day I’ll make enough money to add to it in some way. That’s probably what your father did. Mr. Hill said your mother was born here. We’ll have roots, Anne. And I’ll make it. I’ll be a damn fine writer. You’ll see.”

“Live here?” She looked at him wildly.

“I’ll go back to New York and give Henry notice for both of us. If you like we can get married in New York. Jennifer is there—”

“Everything is there!”

“Nothing we can’t live without.”

“But Lyon, I hate it here! I hate this town—this house ...”

For the first time he became aware of her panic. “Even with me?” he asked carefully.

She began to pace the room, trying desperately to collect her thoughts. She had to make him understand.

“Lyon ... you say you could write here. You probably could, perhaps eight hours a day. But what would I do? Join the women’s clubs? Play bingo once a week? Renew my so-called friendships with the dreary girls I grew up with? And they wouldn’t accept you that quickly, Lyon. You’re an outsider. You have to be third-generation Lawrenceville to mean anything in this snobbish town ...”

His face relaxed. “So that’s what you’re worried about? I’d be ostracized. Well, don’t worry. I have a tough hide. We’ll go to church, be seen around. After they realize we mean to stay they’ll loosen up.”

“No—no! I won’t do it! I won’t live here!”

“Why, Anne?” His voice was very quiet. “Lyon, don’t you understand? Just as you have certain principles—you couldn’t let me support you in New York—well, I have my blind spots too. Not many—in fact, just one. Lawrenceville! I hate it! I love New York. Before I came to New York I lived here, in this mausoleum. I was nothing. I was dead. When I came to New York it was like a veil lifting. For the first time I felt I was alive, breathing.”

“But now we have each other.” His eyes were direct, questioning.

“But not here,” she said with a moan. “Not here. Can’t you understand? A part of me would die.”

“Then, as I see it, you could only love me in New York. Sort of a package deal.”

“I love you, Lyon.” The tears were running down her face now. “I’d love you anywhere. And I’d go anywhere that your work took you. Any place but here ...”

“And you wouldn’t even be willing to chance it—a year or two ...”

“Lyon—I’ll sell the house ... I’ll give you all the money ... I’ll live in one room with you. But not here!”

He turned and poked at the fire. “I suppose that settles it.” Then he said, “I’d better put another log on the fire before I leave. It’s dying.”

She looked at her watch. “It’s early yet.”

“I’d best take the four o’clock train. Tomorrow’s a rough day, and with Christmas coming up on Wednesday ...”

“I’ll go with you to the station.” She went to the phone and called Mr. Hill.

The fire was almost out when she returned. Without Lyon the room suddenly looked forbidding and bleak again. Oh, God, did Lyon understand? He had been so quiet on the drive to the station. “I’ll be back on Tuesday,” she had promised. “Nothing will keep me from being with you on Christmas.”

But when he got on the train he hadn’t turned and waved. She felt as if she were going to be sick. Damn Lawrenceville! It was like an octopus, reaching out and trying to drag her down.

Jennifer called the next day. She and Tony were living at the Essex House in a very nice suite. Miriam had taken a room down the hall. And Miriam had acted very nice about the whole thing. They were leaving for the Coast earlier now, January second. When was Anne coming back? They were giving a big Christmas Eve party tomorrow night.

“I’ll be there,” Anne promised. “But it looks as if things will never be settled here. I spoke to Henry a few days ago. He’s been wonderful—says to take as long as I need. But I’m coming in for Christmas. When Lyon calls tonight I’ll tell him about the party. We’ll see you then.”

Lyon didn’t call that night. He was probably sulking. This was their first fight, except for that misunderstanding in Philadelphia. Well, she wouldn’t give in. But she’d phone him at the office tomorrow and tell him she was taking the train at noon.

She put the call through at ten in the morning. Henry wasn’t in the office—neither was Lyon. She spoke to George Bellows.

“I don’t know where Lyon is,” George told her. “No one tells me anything around here. Lyon came in yesterday and took off at noon. Henry left for the Coast on Friday—an emergency with the Jimmy Grant show. Maybe he sent for Lyon. Like I said, no one tells me anything.”

She unpacked her bag. No use going to New York. She felt disappointment mingled with relief. Lyon had probably left for California—that’s why he hadn’t called. At least he wasn’t angry. He’d probably call that night and explain.

She spent Christmas Eve alone. Lyon didn’t call. At three in the morning she tried his apartment. Maybe he hadn’t gone to the Coast. Maybe he was sulking. There was no answer.

It was the worst Christmas she could remember. And she held Lawrenceville personally responsible. There were no more logs for the fireplace, so she turned the oil burner up. The house was well heated, but cold and dead. She sipped tea. She ate a few crackers. The radio didn’t quite drown out the endless chiming of the church bells, and the Christmas carols depressed her even more. This was the day to rejoice. And she was alone. Jennifer was with Tony, Neely was in California with Mel. But she was alone in Lawrenceville.

She spent the next few days with Mr. Walker. Everything was tagged, and gradually some order prevailed. She would be free to leave at the end of the week. But where was Lyon? Five days had passed. In desperation she tracked Henry down at the Beverly Hills Hotel in California.

“Henry, where is Lyon?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” His voice crackled through the wires. “Isn’t he out there with you?”

“No, I assumed he was with you.”

“I haven’t seen or heard from him since Sunday.”

“You’re kidding!” Henry was suddenly concerned. “I called the office yesterday afternoon. George said he hadn’t been in since Monday. I just naturally assumed he took off to spend Christmas with you.”

“Henry, we’ve got to find him!”

“Why? Is anything wrong? I mean—what could be wrong? A guy doesn’t just disappear. I’ve tried his apartment three nights in a row. He’s not there.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Henry, find him! Find him!” She was suddenly frightened.

“Now calm down. You two have a lovers’ quarrel?”

“Not really. A misunderstanding—but I didn’t think it was this serious.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow, too,” Henry told her. “Unless the weather is bad. I’m booked on a four o’clock plane this afternoon. Now relax. Lyon wouldn’t just run out on us. He’ll probably be in Monday with a logical explanation. Why don’t you relax there over the weekend?”

“Relax! I can’t wait to get out of here!”

She arrived back in New York to find a letter from Lyon waiting at her hotel.

Dear Anne,

Thank you for the moment of reckoning. I should say the five hours of reckoning. It was quite a long train ride, and gave me sufficient time to think things out. If I want to write, there’s only one thing to do—write. Until now I was constantly searching for excuses. I had to work for Henry, then your house—the perfect setting. Seems I want things tied up in a neat bundle—want the entire world to conform so I can write. Now who the hell am I? Kind of a cheeky attitude, wanting you to slink about like the self-sacrificing little author’s wife one reads about. As I see it, at the moment I am in limbo. I am not the driving Lyon Burke that Henry once knew, but neither am I the dedicated writer. I see nothing ahead but half truths—half an author, half a manager, putting off leaving Henry until I am a commercial success as a writer, putting off marriage because I cannot be a full-time husband, putting off writing because I must stay with Henry. Until now I have only given a part of myself to you, Henry and writing. It’s obvious I’m not capable of giving to all three. If not, I should at least pull out of the lives of the two people I care most about. I have written most of these same thoughts to Henry. George Bellows is a good man—he is the man for Henry. And somewhere in your wonderful New York, my dearest, there is the right man for you, just waiting for you to find him.

I told you I have a bit of money. I also have access to a large, unheated house in the north of England. It belongs to relatives, but no one uses it. I shall open a few rooms. I could live there for years on a few quid, and I shall write even if my knuckles turn blue. We have only a few hours of daylight during the winter. Lawrenceville is the tropics in comparison. But no one will disturb me.

I have enclosed the keys to my apartment, dear Anne. It is the one practical thing I can do for you. With Jennifer married you are alone, and a flat is still hard to find. And I did inherit this with all the furniture due to your largess. I think it only fitting that you wind up with it. It’s not much. I’ve taken your wonderful gift, the typewriter. But if the flat pleases you, take over the lease. And don’t do anything silly like waiting for me. I warn you—I shall marry the first plump English maiden who will cook and tend for me. And years from now, if I do turn out any book that is halfway good, we can both say, “At least there was one thing he did whole-heartedly.”

I loved you, Anne. But you are too wonderful to accept such a small part of a small person who tried to scatter himself in so many directions. So I shall concentrate on writing—at least in that way I can hurt no one but myself.

Thank you for the most wonderful year of my life.

Lyon

Jennifer

May, 1947

Jennifer sat beside the pool in the shade. She read Anne’s letter again. She sounded happy enough—it was the first letter without a mention of Lyon. Maybe she was finally over it. But how could she live in his apartment? Did she still hope he’d come walking in one day? After five months? Imagine, not one word from him! Just showed, you could never tell what really went on inside a man’s head. Take all those pictures of her with Tony. They looked so happy—the perfect young Hollywood couple!

The sun crept under the umbrella. She reached out and bent the framework down to shield herself. Sure—a girl who got hives if she sat in the sun had to wind up in California. She glared angrily at the blazing orange ball. It was always there. It was the one thing in California you could count on. On occasion there might be a slight fog in the morning, but inevitably the lemon disc would make an appearance, timidly at first; then, as if inflating itself, it would brighten and inhale the mist and clouds and emerge triumphant and alone in a china-blue sky.

She sighed. Every day here since her arrival in January had been like the middle of July. How did those damn oranges grow if it never rained? It was May in New York. In the East you appreciated good weather when it finally arrived. She thought about New York. The first balminess must be in the air. The heavy winter coats had been stored away and people were sitting outside the cafeteria in Central Park. And you could walk in New York! You never appreciated the privilege of walking until you lived in California. You could even walk at night in New York. If you had nothing to do you could walk down Fifth Avenue and look in the stores, or go to a late movie, or walk down Broadway and buy a hot dog. Here, if you walked down Beverly Drive at night, a prowl car picked you up.

Well, at least Anne had New York. According to her letters she was going out a lot, but she never mentioned anyone special. Probably still waiting for Lyon. Well, at least that was something tangible.

But what was she waiting for? Another day to pass? There was a party for tonight. It didn’t thrill her, but it was better than playing gin with Tony. He couldn’t even concentrate on that, because Miriam kept hanging over him, telling him every card to play. If Miriam would only let him think for himself once in a while.

She sipped her Coke. The ice had melted. Why did warm Coke taste like a laxative? She was too lazy to go back in the house for a fresh one. She was too lazy to do anything. And the party—that wouldn’t be any fun. It was business. Tony was up for the lead in Dick Meeker’s new picture, so she had to be pleasant and polite. “Pleasant and polite.” Miriam constantly drummed those words into her ears. “Don’t try and be a big personality out here. Out here you’re nothing. Everyone is a big shot here, so you just be pleasant and polite.”

She did her best. She floated through parties like a grinning zombie. She made no friends. Miriam was right, beauty was a cheap commodity in Hollywood. There were millions of beautiful nobodies. The girls who hung out at Schwab’s were beautiful, the carhops were beautiful—yet most of the big stars were not the spectacular beauties. Jane Wyman was pert looking. Barbara Stanwyck was smart, chic; so was Rosalind Russell. Joan Crawford was striking. Boy, this was a pistol. All these years thinking she had something special because her teeth were good, her nose was straight and she had big boobs. Big boobs weren’t even in style. Adrian and Ted Casablanca and all the other big designers had created the broad-shouldered look. Big boobs only got in the way.

It would be another nothing evening. She was no one, just Mrs. Polar, the wife of a promising newcomer. Oh yes, he was on radio, someone might say. But that didn’t mean a thing out here. You had to be in pictures—and a wife didn’t mean anything. In fact, a wife held the same social status as a screenwriter—necessary but anonymous. Even the starlets rated more attention at parties. Starlets were always available, ready for any kind of action. Starlets knew producers and often had hilarious inside stories to tell—the big screen star who always yelled “Mother!” when he reached the climax, the movie mogul who wanted his wife to watch ... sure, starlets could garner plenty of attention at parties. But a wife—a wife lived in limbo. Too respected to be approached, too unimportant to rate respect. At most parties she wound up at the bar, discussing old times with the hired bartenders, who all hailed from New York, talking nostalgically about Sardi’s and Lindy’s. It was easier than talking to the other displaced wives, who cared only about the servant problem and tennis.

She couldn’t even go on shopping sprees like she had before she was married. She had been allowed to buy one evening gown in the five months she had been here. “You have more clothes than a department store,” Miriam had snorted. Maybe she did, but she got tired of them. Didn’t Miriam realize it was important to wear something new? But Miriam had only three dresses, and they all looked alike. Miriam went to parties in a five-year-old blue lace dress and white orthopedic shoes!

Miriam gave her an allowance of fifty dollars a week. She sent it all to her mother, and her mother kept writing that it wasn’t enough. She had tried to talk to Tony about the money situation, but she hardly ever saw him. He was either recording, learning new songs or rehearsing his radio show. And at dinner there was always Miriam. At night, alone in the large bed, he was the old Tony, grasping for her greedily. But after it was over, she couldn’t reach him. She had tried to explain that if she could be a part of his life and career she wouldn’t be bored, but he didn’t seem to understand. “Miriam takes care of all that—talk to her.”

When she mentioned money it was the same: “Talk to Miriam, she’ll give you all you need.” And Miriam had all the answers. “Whaddaya need money for? I pay for all the food and the booze. You can charge the gas. Fifty dollars is plenty for pin money.”

It couldn’t go on like this. How much longer could she just sit by the pool? She had read three books so far this week and it was only Friday. The sun had crept under the umbrella again. She jumped up. She had to do something, go somewhere. Maybe Neely would be home. She had just finished her second picture and the studio had promised her a month’s vacation. She went into the house and changed into slacks. She was glad for Neely. Her first picture had gotten raves and Jennifer had seen a sneak preview of the new one—it was great. She hadn’t seen much of Neely, though. They talked on the phone occasionally, but Neely had just changed her number again and she didn’t have the new unlisted one.

She drove the eight blocks—you just didn’t walk in California. Anyway, if Neely wasn’t home she’d go over to Schwab’s. Maybe Sidney Skolsky would be there and they could sit and talk. Sidney loved Hollywood, but he also understood how she felt.

Mel opened the door. He was in bathing trunks. He had filled out and the tan made him look almost healthy. He led Jennifer to the swimming pool. “Want some lunch? I’m having a sandwich.”

Jennifer shook her head. She sat down in the shade. Their pool was identical to hers. Same kidney shape, same cabana area, same tennis court and prop bar. She looked off to the purplish hills. Did Mel sit around all day, too?

“Neely’s at the studio,” he explained. “Wardrobe fittings.”

“I thought she had a month off.” “Sure, a month off before shooting. That means a month of wardrobe fittings, makeup tests and publicity stills. But she should be home any minute. Hey, did you hear? Ted Casablanca’s doing her clothes.”

“She’s really in the big leagues,” Jennifer said. “Ted won’t design for anyone but the top stars.”

Mel hunched his bony shoulders. “Only in Hollywood could this happen. Women fainting because some fag deigns to dress them. Any place else, if you pay the money you get the article. In New York does Saks worry if a customer will do justice to their creations? But out here everything is a status symbol. Neely’s dieting now—is that a laugh?”

“Why? Has she gained weight?”

“She weighs one hundred and eighteen. She’s always weighed that. She’s five feet five—that’s a nice weight. But this Casablanca—he wants her to lose fifteen pounds. Says her face will be more interesting and the clothes will look better. She takes little green pills ... doesn’t eat a thing.”

Neely suddenly arrived, her old breathless self. She was delighted to see Jennifer. “Have you heard?” she squealed. “Ted Casablanca’s doing my clothes! Oh, Jennifer, he’s divine! I’m going to be beautiful for a change. He’s making me some really glamorous things—real understated. Geez, when I remember that awful purple taffeta! Ted says I should have the gamin look, the mischievous little girl. But chic. After all, I’m eighteen now—it’s about time.”

“I hear you’re dieting.”

“Yeah. Mel, get me some skimmed milk. Want anything, Jen?”

“A Coke.”

“We only have club soda. I don’t keep anything fattening around. Mel, make Jen a lemonade. How’s that?” Neely watched him leave, then she turned back to Jennifer, her childish eyes wide with concern.

“Oh, Jen, I don’t know what to do. He’s changed so—he just can’t get with it. Everything he does he bungles.”

“I wouldn’t say that. He’s gotten you a lot of publicity. That story in Screen World is a great layout.”

Neely shook her head. “The studio did that. They told him to butt out. He gets in the way all the time. They don’t want him on the set—they say I’m self-conscious when he’s around. And Ted Casablanca says he’s the joke of the town.”

“I wouldn’t take that seriously. You know how bitchy fags can be.”

“Fag!” Neely’s eyes blazed. “Don’t you dare call him that! Why, he’s—he’s wonderful, that’s all! He’s only thirty and he’s made three million dollars. And he’s not a fag!”

“Really?”

“Really. What do you think I’ve been doing today? Fitting costumes? That’s what I told Mel. We’ve been doing it—Ted and I—in every position. In his gorgeous air-conditioned studio. And let me tell you, he’s no—” She stopped suddenly. Mel was bringing in the tray with their drinks.

“I’ve lost five pounds already,” Neely said as Mel handed her the milk. She took out a bottle and popped a speckled green capsule into her mouth. “What an invention,” she said. “They’re absolutely marvelous, Jen. Really kill your appetite. Only trouble is, they pep me up so much I can’t sleep.”

“Try Seconals,” Jennifer suggested.

“They really work?”

“Gloriously. They’re beautiful little red dolls that take all your cares away and give you nine blissful hours of sleep a night.”

“No kidding? I’ll try them. Mel, Call Dr. Holt right away. Tell him to send me a hundred.”

“A hundred?” Jennifer’s voice caught in her throat. “Neely, they aren’t aspirin. You only take one a night. No doctor will give you more than twenty-five.”

“They won’t, huh? Wanna bet? Dr. Holt is the studio doctor. He’ll give me anything I ask for. Mel, call him right now.” Mel lumbered off to the phone. “Just one a night, huh?”

Jennifer nodded. She saw no reason to tell Neely she sometimes took as many as three. One would help Neely. Besides, she intended to cut down—as soon as she straightened things out with Tony.

Mel had gone to telephone. Neely watched until he was out of sight. Then she pulled her chair closer. “I got to get fitted for another diaphragm. Twice last month Mel didn’t pull out in time. That sonofabitch is trying to get me pregnant.”

“I thought you wanted children.”

“Not with him. I’m gonna unload him.”

“Neely!”

“Look, he’s a drag. Honest, Jennifer, he’s changed completely. He has no incentive. I talked it over with The Head, and he agrees. Mel just gets in the way. He insisted I shouldn’t lose weight, kept yelling I was fine just as I am. But now that I’m losing weight I’m getting the real star buildup with some glamour. See, Mel is in a rut. He’s small time, and he won’t get with it and change. But I gotta be careful. See, there’s community property out here. Mel could claim half of everything.”

“What will you do?”

“It’s all being worked out.” She lowered her voice to a real whisper. “The Head is seeing to it that Mel gets a big offer in the East. With one of the top publicity offices. I’ll make him go. The Head is going to fix it, have him caught—you know—with a girl. And I’ll get the divorce.”

“Neely, you can’t!”

“Well, what can I do? I hinted at divorce last week, and you know what he did? He started crying like a baby. He said he couldn’t live without me. Is that a drag? I need a man who tells me what to do, a guy I can lean on, not one who leans on me. And all I’d ever have to do is get knocked up by him and then he’d never leave, not even for New York.”

“How do you know he’ll accept the job?”

“I’ll make him. I’ll tell him that if he makes good—if the job works out—I’ll come there and get in a Broadway show and have a baby and live in New York.”

“Would you?”

Neely looked at her strangely. “Leave California? All this? Are you crazy? I got it made here. After my next picture I’ll be a full-fledged star!”

“But you could be a star in New York, on Broadway.”

“A star on Broadway. Big deal! That’s chicken feed. When you’re a star in pictures you’re a star all over the world. Do you know my picture is playing in London? Imagine! They know who I am in London! One movie—and I’m ten times better known than Helen Lawson will ever be. And when you’re a star in pictures, you get treated like a star. Everything is done for you. I remember Helen had to ride the train to New Haven like the rest of us and dress in. a drafty dressing room. Geez, our toilets at the studio are fancier than a star’s dressing room in the theatre. My dressing room is a bungalow as big as Helen’s Park Avenue apartment. When you’re a hot property—that’s what I am—they do everything for you. I just mentioned to The Head—that’s what we all call C. H. Bean. He’s such a wonderful little man ... sweet, and you can talk to him like a father. I never knew my father. But as I was saying, I just mentioned to him that I wanted to lose some weight. Geez, know what he did? He had a steam room built onto my bungalow and hired a personal masseuse. And they pay for it. When I have to go anywhere—like an opening—they send a car and chauffeur for me and lend me furs and dresses. And if my next picture is as big as the first two, The Head says he’s gonna give me a new contract at a big salary jump—maybe to two thousand a week.”

“That’s really big money, Neely.”

“Nah, the Johnson Harris office says I’m worth even more. In fact, they might step in and renegotiate, maybe to twenty-five hundred a week. I could probably get it, too. All I gotta do is snap my fingers and I can have anything I want The Head says maybe after another year I should dump this rented house and buy one in Beverly Hills. That’s classier.”

“Why not take it easy and save your money?”

“Why? I’m not scared any more. Know why? Because I’ve got talent, Jen. I never realized it back East. I used to think everyone could sing and dance. But in my second picture I found I could act, too. Did you see when I cried? That was no glycerine. The director just talked to me about the part, the situation the girl was in, and I felt it. And then I really cried.”

Jennifer nodded. “You made me cry, too. I saw the preview last week.”

Neely stretched her arms expansively. “I love it here. This town was made for me.”

Mel returned. “The pills will be here any minute. Dr. Holt said it was a very good idea.” He sat down. “Want to see a movie tonight, Neely?”

“Can’t. Have to be up at six tomorrow. Color tests.”

He stared moodily at the swimming pool. “I don’t have to be up at any time. I’m getting stir crazy just sitting around ...”

Jennifer thought about Mel as she drove home. She suddenly wondered how Tony felt about her. Was she a drag, too? If Tony didn’t get the picture she was going to insist they go back to New York. He could do the radio show from there. But he would get the picture. She knew he would. And she’d be stuck here. Soon Tony would start feeling about her like Neely felt about Mel—if he didn’t already. There would be stars playing opposite him in pictures, and young starlets chasing after him. How long could she go on sitting like this? She was almost twenty-seven, and soon it would begin to show ...

She almost went through a traffic light as the idea hit her. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? A baby! She would have a baby! It would bring Tony closer to her, and she’d have something to occupy her thoughts. Something to love. Oh, God, how she’d love it ... they’d be so close. It would be a girl, it had to be! And she’d be a wonderful mother. She was exhilarated when she got home. It would be her secret.

She dressed with great care for the party. She would start her new project tonight!

September, 1947

She missed her first period in August. At first she was too excited to say anything, but in September, when she missed the second time, she knew. Her waistline had expanded two inches.

She went to a doctor, who verified her hopes and congratulated her. Tony was in a closed recording session, and she couldn’t disturb him. But she had to tell someone. She wanted to shout it at the policeman directing traffic; she wanted to go to Schwab’s and yell at everybody. But that wouldn’t be right. Tony would want to give it a big press release. Neely! She would tell Neely! It was almost five. Neely would be through shooting for the day.

She drove to the studio. The gateman checked and directed her through to Neely’s imposing bungalow. Neely was getting a massage.

“Hey, come on in,” she shouted. “Your timing is perfect. I was going to phone you tonight. Guess what—it’s all set! Mel leaves for New York tomorrow!”

“Is it still Ted?”

“Of course! What do you think I am? Some kind of a bum? I’m a one-man woman. Ted and me—” She stopped and shouted at the masseuse, “Okay, that’s enough, scram. I wanna talk to my girl friend in private.”

When the woman had gone, she dropped the towel. “Well, how do you like the new streamlined Neely? I got a twenty-inch waistline now, and I weigh ninety-eight pounds.”

“Does Ted like you this thin?”

“Does he!” She climbed into a robe. “He even likes my little boobs. They shrunk some, but he says big ones make him think of a cow. And they look lousy in the broad-shouldered look. We’re getting married as soon as this Mel business is settled. And guess what? We’re signing a premarital agreement. It was The Head’s idea ... this way we’ll both know we’re marrying for love, and not for each other’s property.”

Jennifer managed a smile. “Neely, guess what? I’m two months pregnant.”

“Oh, Geez.” Neely was instantly concerned. “Well, there’s a guy in Pasadena. He’s supposed to be very good. The Head sends everyone who gets knocked up to him. First he tries shots, then if they don’t work ... the abortion is easy. He even gives anesthesia.”

“Neely, you don’t understand. I want this baby. I planned it. I’m happy about it.”

“Oh. Well say, that’s marvelous. You know, it’s beginning to show already, now that you mention it. You’ve lost your marvelous waistline.”

“Who cares, as long as I have a marvelous baby.” Jennifer mimicked Neely’s enunciation of the word. Neely laughed good-naturedly. “After it’s all over, I’ll lend you some of my green dolls to help you get your figure back.”

“They sure worked for you.”

“Yeah, but the trouble is, you gotta keep taking them. The second I stop, I eat like a maniac. But the feeling is great—sets you on fire, like you could dance for hours. And I bless you every night for the red ones. They saved my life. Oh, hey. Have you ever tried a yellow one? They’re called Nembutals. If you take one of each—a red and a yellow—wow! You really sleep. I learned it by experiment. The red one puts you to sleep fast, but it wears off in six hours. The yellow works slower, but lasts longer. So I figured, why not try both? I only do it on weekends. Sometimes I sleep twelve hours.”

“I’m not going to take anything now that I’m pregnant. I don’t want it to hurt the baby.”

“Yeah, but if you don’t sleep, you’ll look bad, won’t you?”

“For the first time in my life, I’m not worrying about my looks. I want a perfect baby. If I lie awake all night, I won’t care.”

Neely grinned. “You sound corny, but I guess I’ll feel that way, too. After I marry Ted and negotiate my new contract, then I’ll get pregnant. But meanwhile—thank God for those red, yellow and green dolls.”

******

Jennifer hoped Tony had nothing planned for the evening. She wanted to go to that little restaurant in the Valley—without Miriam—and tell him there.

She saw the extra car in the driveway. It belonged to Delia, the part-time extra maid. Oh, damn! That meant something was on for tonight.

Miriam was waiting for her. “Tony signed the contract today!” Her homely face was glowing. “They just seen the rushes of his color test. He’s got a five-year deal at Metro, and he starts on the picture two weeks from Monday. Dress real ladylike tonight—the director and his wife are coming for dinner. And the musical conductor and a few others are dropping by later.”

Jennifer dressed carefully. All right, she’d break it at dinner. Publicly! As she struggled with the zipper of her dress she realized she couldn’t wait much longer. Tony would notice it soon anyway.

She took a Martini before dinner. Miriam stared at her in amazement. Jennifer sparkled, made small talk with the wife of the director, passed the canapés—was the perfect Hollywood wife. She waited until the wine was served at dinner, then stood up slowly, holding her glass in the air. Carefully avoiding Miriam’s hostile stare, she said, “I want to make a toast—to me.” Then she giggled. “I mean, to what’s in me. Tony and I are going to have a baby.”

Everyone cheered, glasses clinked, Tony leaped out of his chair and hugged her. But Jennifer had not missed Miriam’s audible gasp and stricken look. When the excitement died down, her eyes met Miriam’s. This time the pudgy face held only a pleasant smile.

When the last guest had disappeared, Miriam turned to Jennifer. She was still smiling. “Run upstairs, little mother,” she said. “You need all the rest you can get. There’s a few details on the picture I want to discuss with Tony, then I’ll send the new daddy right up.”

The moment Jennifer was gone she whirled on him. “I thought I told you to use something.”

“We did.” Tony grinned sheepishly. “I guess it was an accident.”

“What do you mean accident?” Miriam hissed. “Those rubbers are made strong. I buy you the best. They don’t break.”

“Oh, we stopped using them a few months ago. Jen told me I didn’t have to. She said she was using a diaphragm.”

“I told you never to ever let any girl talk you into that. You could get a disease—”

“From Jen?” He laughed. “Besides, it feels better without one.”

“A baby will tie you down.”

“Nah. We got enough money, haven’t we? And with the picture and all. And I want to have a kid. It’ll be fun.”

From the corner of her eye, Miriam saw Jennifer coming down the stairs. She said, “If you have a baby, you’ll have to be home more.”

Jennifer had stopped on the stairs and was listening. Tony, his back to the door, couldn’t see her.

“Okay, so I’ll be home more.” He shrugged.

“And give up that red-headed singer?”

He looked scared. “Who told you?”

“Look, there’s nothing I don’t know. But don’t worry—I won’t tell Jennifer.”

“Tell Jennifer what?” She walked into the room.

Miriam pretended surprise. Tony looked frightened. “It’s nothing, Jen,” he said. “Miriam and her crazy ideas. Just because I clown around with Betsy. You know—she’s the redhead on my radio show, in the singing group. We clown around, that’s all.”

“Some clowning around,” Miriam snapped. “Three afternoons a week he bangs her in his studio dressing room. He may not be using the rubbers on you, Jennifer, but I buy him a box every week and he keeps running out!”

“Now look what you’ve done!” Tony whined as Jennifer tore out of the room.

“Look—make her get rid of that kid. You listen to me, Tony. It’s no good for your career. There’s plenty of doctors who can do it.”

“I want it,” he said stubbornly.

“Tony ...” She was wheedling now. “Think of your screen image. A young, handsome leading man—the: studio is going to say you’re only twenty-four. A kid would hurt the image.”

“Nuts! Sinatra has kids. So does Crosby. You’re not going to take it away from us!” He ran up the stairs after Jennifer.

She was stretched across the bed, sobbing, when he entered the room. “Honey.” He sat down and began to rub her neck. “Don’t mind what Miriam said. We’ll have our baby.”

“Not mind!” She sat up, her face streaked with mascara. “Not mind! Let her go on running our lives—even to buying you condoms? And all this time, while I’ve been sitting in this house, being bored to death and getting older each month, you’ve been having a ball with some singer! While I just sit—watching Miriam get fatter and bossier every day!”

“What can I do?” he wailed. “You can tell her to get out. That I’ll run the house from now on.”

“I couldn’t do that to Miriam. Where would she go?”

“Any place! Just away from us. I don’t care if you give her half of everything you make, but just let us live our own lives. Just once, let’s be husband and wife—not two children living with Miriam!”

“But who would take care of everything? Who would write my checks and read my contracts?”

“Oh, Tony, other people get business managers—you could too.”

“But why should I get a stranger who would cheat me? My own sister does better than anyone, and she’s always looking out for my interests.”

“But I can’t live with her!”

Suddenly he tensed. “Are you asking me to throw my sister out?”

“Tony,” she pleaded. “What kind of a life have we got? We don’t entertain unless it’s business, because Miriam says it’s a waste of money to give parties. And now Miriam’s talking about buying this awful house. She never asked me if I liked it. Although God only knows what we need the house for anyway. We could do as well in a two-room apartment the way we live. We have no life.”

“I have to rehearse three days a week,” he yelled. “I have to do my show. I have to listen to new songs and learn them ... play benefits ... pose for publicity pictures. What do you want me to do? Sit around and entertain you? You knew what my life was when you married me. Miriam doesn’t go out at all. She doesn’t go to half the places we go. We went to three benefits last month without her, but do you hear her complain?”

“No, but I heard her on the phone for hours trying to get an extra ticket. We went without her because the studio only sent two tickets. I’m surprised she doesn’t sleep with us.”

“Before you came along she devoted her whole life to me. She raised me. She never complains. She’s unselfish ... kind ... good ... and you want me to throw her out!”

“It’s either me or Miriam, Tony.”

For a moment they both stared without speaking. Then he broke into a boyish smile. “You don’t mean that, honey. You’ll have the baby—look, I stood up to her on that, didn’t I? Now let’s go to sleep.”

He began to undress. In the silent darkness he reached out in bed to embrace her.

“We haven’t settled anything,” she said grimly.

“What’s there to settle?”

“Miriam.”

“Miriam stays. And so do you.” He ripped off her nightgown—his mouth sought her breasts. She tried to push him away. “No. I want them. Soon there will be milk in them. Mmmm ... will you let me suck them then, too?”

She began to sob quietly. He looked up. “C’mon, let’s do it. What are you crying for?”

She sobbed more violently. “Don’t tell me you’re upset because I gave Betsy a little bang once in a while?”

She jumped out of bed. Oh, God! What kind of a man was he!

He sat up and put on the light. He looked bewildered, “I don’t love Betsy ...”

She sank into a chair and hugged her nakedness, shivering.

“Then why did you do it?” she sobbed.

He shrugged. “It was just there, I guess.”

“But I’ve always been here ...”

“I couldn’t come dashing back to you during rehearsals, and she was always right there ... But look, it doesn’t mean anything. I promise I won’t do it with Betsy any more. Hell, I’ll get Miriam to fire her tomorrow—how’s that? Now come on, get in bed.”

“It’s not just Betsy. Tony, it’s you—I don’t understand you. How do you think, how do you feel?”

“I want you, right now. That’s how I feel. Come on, honey ...”

Because she didn’t know what else to do, she got into bed and even submitted to his embraces. He satisfied himself, then turned on his side and fell instantly into a deep sleep. Jennifer got up and took three of the red pills. But it was getting light when she finally fell asleep.

******

The following morning, after Miriam and Tony had gone to rehearsal, she put in a call to Henry Bellamy. She told him the story.

“Looks like you better run for your life,” Henry said. “Somehow she’ll make you lose the baby—if only by aggravation alone.”

“What do I do?”

“Depends. How do you feel about this joker?”

“I don’t know any more. Sometimes I feel sorry for him because Miriam has brainwashed him. Other times, like last night, I feel only disgust. But there’s a streak of sweetness in Tony. He’s not bad. That’s the funny part. There isn’t anything evil in him. He’s just never grown up. It’s Miriam’s fault. She’s made him think the world is his oyster, that he can do anything he pleases just as long as he keeps singing. I think we could find a life together if I could get him to break with her—but I can’t get through to him.”

“You’re young, Jennifer. My advice is to get out while the getting’s good.”

“I’m not as young as you think, Henry. I—I lied to you about my age.”

“So what? You’ve still got a whole life ahead. But you have no life there, the way I see it. If you stick it out there and do manage to have the baby, Miriam will just take it over, too.”

”No!”

“Then come to New York. See if Tony’s man enough to come after you. I’ll even try and convince him I can run his business affairs as well as Miriam. We’ll pension the old dame off, and you can turn him into a real man. If he doesn’t go for it, then you’ve lost nothing.”

“You’re right, Henry. It’s a cinch I can’t go on like this.”

“I’ll reserve a suite for you at the Pierre. Leave a note that you’ve been called to New York to audition for a show. Be sure and leave most of your clothes, so Miriam can’t say it’s desertion.”

“But Tony and Miriam know I can’t take a show if I’m pregnant.”

“Of course they do. But this is just a technicality. And be sure and write an identical note to someone else—write it to Anne—so you’ll have proof if you need it. And send me a wire accepting my offer to come East.”

Jennifer followed the advice to the letter. And to her delight, Tony took a plane and followed her to New York. He paced the living room of her suite; he cried; he pleaded; he swore he loved her, that he’d do anything she wanted. Anything except get rid of Miriam.

“But that’s the only thing I’m asking,” she insisted.

Tony was adamant. “She handles my money and runs my career. I don’t trust anyone but Miriam.”

“What about me? Don’t you trust me?” “Don’t push me, Jen. You’re the best lay I ever had, but—”

”Lay! Is that all I am!”

“What do you want to be? Jesus! Miriam’s right. You want to own me, to dry me out! I give what I have to singing.”

“And what do you give me?”

“My cock! And that should be enough.”

Tony returned to California. Henry drew up a temporary separation agreement. Jennifer would receive five hundred a week until the baby was born, then she would receive a thousand a week plus expenses and child support. The coming of the baby was to remain secret until her pregnancy was obvious. She would divorce Tony after the baby was born.

Her separation from Tony made front pages. For the first week she holed up at the Pierre, and with the help of the red pills, slept most of the time. Finally Anne became concerned and insisted she move in with her. She forced Jennifer to go to the theatre and she met her for lunch almost every day, but Jennifer remained despondent.

Her only release came at night—with the red dolls.

October, 1947

Jennifer was well into her third month of pregnancy when Miriam arrived. She called from the airport. It was urgent that she see Jennifer right away.

Jennifer’s spirits soared. Miriam didn’t frighten her now. Maybe Miriam was frightened. She had sounded desperate. Tony was probably moping—probably wasn’t singing as well—so she was coming to beg for a reconciliation. Well, it would be on her terms. Miriam had to leave. And Tony would have to come to her, to apologize.

She hadn’t forgiven him, but she still clung to the hope that, away from Miriam, Tony would emerge as a person. And the baby—that had to change things. She wanted her little girl to have a father, not to grow up as she had, in a house full of women. Tony would mature ... he was still young.

When she admitted Miriam to the apartment, she was conscious that she was looking her very best and that the apartment looked clean and neat. She was mistress of the situation. She even managed a smile. “Sit down, Miriam. Would you like some coffee?”

The woman eased her bulk into a chair and sat tensely erect. Her eyes shot to Jennifer’s waistline. “No coffee. Let’s cut the social crap and get to cases.”

Jennifer held onto her smile. “And what does the case happen to be?”

Miriam’s eyes narrowed. “Is it really Tony’s baby?”

“Wait till you see it,” Jennifer snapped. “I’m sure it will be the image of him.”

Miriam got up and began to pace. Then she turned to Jennifer and said, “How much do you want to get rid of it?”

Jennifer’s stare was icy.

“Look, if it’s money you want, I’ll give it to you,” Miriam said. “I’ll give you a big settlement. In writing. And you can also have the thousand a week without the baby. Just get rid of it.”

Jennifer felt confused. “Does Tony know about this? Is this what he wants?”

“No, Tony don’t know I’m here. I told him I was going to Chicago to see his radio sponsor and make a better deal. I’m here on my own, to plead with you, before you get in your fourth month and it’s too late to get rid of it.”

Jennifer’s voice was low and tense. “You know, Miriam, I never really hated you until this moment. I always thought you were selfish, but at least it was for Tony. Now I know better. You’re evil.”

“And you’re the All-American Mother!” Miriam snorted. “You’re just dying to walk in the park pushing a baby buggy, I suppose?”

“I want this baby,” Jennifer said earnestly. “Miriam ... all my life I’ve never had anyone who really cared about me. My mother and grandmother just felt I was a drain. All I ever heard was how much I ate, how much it cost to buy me shoes, how I outgrew everything too fast. It got so I was frightened when my shoes got too small. I knew there’d be a scene. Then, when I was older, it was how much money I could bring in—gimme, gimme, gimme. So I married the Prince. Maybe it wasn’t a wild love match, but I figured I could support my mother and Gran—and I was going to try and be a good wife. But he didn’t care about me—he was using me, too. I loved Tony. All I ever asked was a chance to be a wife, but you never gave me a break. You stepped on me, put me down. But I’ll have my baby now. She’ll love me and belong to me. And I’ll work for her. I’ll work hard. I’m saving my money now. I don’t even buy clothes. After the baby is born, I’ll model ... I’ll save ... and she’ll have everything.”

For a moment Miriam stood silently and stared. at her plump fingers. Then she said, “Jennifer, maybe I misjudged you. If so, I’m sorry.” She sighed heavily. “All right, come back to Tony. I’ll let you run the house ... we’ll try and get along. I’ll do everything I can—only you gotta get rid of that baby!”

“Miriam, please leave. I don’t want to insult you. I’ll have my baby. And I’ll get Tony back, too. Once he knows his child is born he’ll want to see it. He’ll want us both, me and the child—you’ll see.”

“Jennifer.” Miriam’s voice was almost kind. “Listen to me, and listen good. You left Tony, and you were the love of his life. Right? So he made one childish stab at getting you back. That’s all. He’s been out with a different girl every night since then. He’s forgotten all about you in just three weeks.”

“Please go, Miriam,” Jennifer said tearfully. “You’ve hurt me enough. Why keep at it?”

“I’m trying to help you now,” the woman pleaded. “If I didn’t have some feeling for you, I’d let you go ahead with it. What have we got to lose? Financially the deal is made, and alimony is deductible. So I’m talking for you now. I tried to get you to unload the baby every way I could think of and still protect Tony. But you’re stubborn.” She began pacing again. “Look, why do you think I told you about Tony and them girls? To hurt you? No, to save you from more hurt. Because you never really learn to feel until you hold a baby in your arms. It becomes a part of you, it’s a love you never dreamed you could feel—and. if anything goes wrong with that baby it hurts more than any guy can ever hurt. Jennifer, hasn’t it ever hit you that Tony is ... well ... childish?”

Jennifer looked at her strangely. There was something in Miriam’s voice she had never heard before.

“Tony may be childish,” she admitted, “but perhaps you’re to blame, Miriam—”

“Jennifer—Tony is a child, mentally and emotionally.”

“Only because you overprotect him.”

“No, that’s why I protect him. And that’s why I don’t want you to have his child. For your sake as well as his.” “I don’t understand ...”

Miriam sat beside her. “Jennifer, listen to me. When he was a baby he had convulsions. Something was born wrong inside his brain. The doctors at the hospital explained it to me, but I was too young to understand at first. I couldn’t believe anything was that wrong. They warned me he would never be normal, but he was just a year old and so beautiful. I refused to understand. But when he was seven and couldn’t get past first-grade work, I began to understand. I was older then, and I had all kinds of tests made on him. This time I got the full picture.

“Haven’t you noticed, Jen? Tony can barely read comic books. He can’t add past fifty. But he has no idea of his inadequacy. I’ve kept it from him by managing him, letting him think he doesn’t know all these things because I handle them for him. That’s why I keep telling him his only duty in life is to sing.”

“But you said he had a convulsion when he was little. That probably did it. There’s no reason why our baby shouldn’t be all right,” Jennifer argued.

“The kind of condition he has is passed on. The doctors don’t really know what causes it, but there’s a good chance that Tony will be completely insane by the time he’s fifty. And his child will be born with the same condition. If it’s lucky it might have the mentality of a twelve-year-old, but it could have even less.” She paused, remembering. “Jennifer, you don’t know what it’s like. When I found out about Tony I got religion. I used to pray. I went to church—any church—and I dragged Tony along. I got him into a choir. That’s when I found out he had a voice. I knew then that it was his only chance. Every dime I made I put into lessons...” She sighed. “But that was a long time ago—this is now. That baby inside you probably won’t inherit Tony’s voice—but it will inherit his sickness.”

“What about you?” Jennifer asked. “Will you go insane?”

Miriam shook her head. “We had different fathers. Tony doesn’t know that either. Please, Jennifer—for your own sake—get rid of the baby.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“I have the medical reports with me.” She fumbled in her bag and took out a bulky envelope. “I didn’t figure you’d believe me. Why should you? I never been especially nice to you.” She handed over the envelope. “Take these to any neurologist. But do me one favor, Jennifer. Please don’t blab this around town. It would finish Tony’s career. And that would finish Tony. I know he’ll probably wind up in a mental institution some day, but if this got out it would send him there now. That’s why I save. You thought I was cheap, but I’m building an annuity for him. I stash every cent I can into it. I don’t want him landing in some terrible charity place after I’m gone. I want him to have enough to keep him at a fancy joint for the rest of his days. But meanwhile, maybe he’s got fifteen good years—I hope, anyway ...”

Jennifer handed back the envelope. “I believe you, Miriam. No one could invent such a terrible story.” Miriam had tears in her eyes.

“Jennifer . . . I really wish you well. You’re welcome to come back to Tony, but you deserve a better life. And please keep it a secret, for him. You’ll find someone else. Please be kind to Tony. Get rid of his baby and forget him.”

Jennifer sat and stared into space for several hours after Miriam had gone. Then she took three red pills and went to sleep.

******

She never gave Anne or Henry any reason for her sudden decision. She found the doctor by herself, a nice, antiseptic-looking man in New Jersey. There was a clean operating table and an efficient nurse. It cost a thousand dollars. The nurse jabbed her arm with the needle—sodium pentothal, it was called, and it was a greater sensation than even Seconals. When she woke, it was over. Two weeks later it was as if it had never happened. Her waistline returned to normal and she flew to Mexico for the divorce.

On her return she entered into the excitement of the new fall openings and went on a shopping spree for new clothes. Dresses were getting longer and everyone was fascinated with an eight-inch screen called television. You couldn’t see much except wrestling matches, ball games and roller derbies on it, but everyone went around saying it would kill radio.

Jennifer registered with the Longworth Agency again and began modeling. Soon Anne’s closets were bulging once more with Jennifer’s discards. The phone was always ringing and Jennifer was firmly entrenched in her new social life, dragging Anne along.

Jennifer saw several men, but she favored Claude Chardot. He was a French film producer—Gallic, charming and amorous. Anne didn’t like him, but Jennifer plunged into a violent romance. There were three-hour luncheons, finger kissing, dancing at the St. Regis. He spoke little English, and Anne was amazed at Jennifer’s fluent French.

On Christmas Eve, Jennifer and Anne trimmed a small tree. Claude and a few of his friends were coming by.

“He leaves in ten days,” Jennifer said wistfully.

“Do you really care for him? I mean really?” Anne asked.

Jennifer wrinkled her nose. “Well ... he’s different. What do you think of him? Now be honest.”

“I can’t say. Half the time I don’t understand him, and the other half you two are jabbering away in French while I sit trying to understand his buddy’s broken English. But I did manage to decipher from his pal François that your Claude has a wife stashed away.”

“Naturally. Probably a mistress, too,” Jennifer said easily. “Whenever I get stuck on a man you can be sure he’s some kind of a louse. He wants me to come to Paris.”

“You’re not thinking of going!”

Jennifer shrugged. “He wants to star me in pictures over there. Says I’d be a smash, looking so American and speaking French.”

“But you’ve always said you couldn’t act.”

“He wants me to do sex pictures. Artistic—but seminude.”

“What?”

“It’s accepted over there, Anne. A lot of the big stars do it. It means nothing. Oh, I don’t mean dirty pictures—I mean movies with a real plot. Only when you take a bath in a scene, they photograph it.”

“But why should you?”

“Why shouldn’t I? What have I got going for me here? I was last season’s sensation. Soon I’ll be twenty-eight, and I have two bad marriages behind me. I won’t meet any real guy here. I’ve got a reputation now. Married to a prince and then to a movie star—men feel I’m too rich for their blood. Maybe Paris is the answer. I know Claude is a phony. He’s been giving me this whole romance buildup just to get me to sign with him. He expects to make money with me. But so what? What have I got to lose?”

“But you’ve only been in New York such a short time—why not give it a chance?”

“I’m too well known. Nothing new is going to happen to me. Oh, I could get into another show, but it wouldn’t be a good part. And then what? I’m not that great as a model. I have enough money from my alimony, but I’m sick of Morocco and the Stork and the same stale faces. What about you? Are you still carrying on the love affair of the ages with New York?”

Anne shook her head. “No, it kind of fell flat after Lyon left. I read in the Times that his book comes out next month. He’s probably working on his next one.”

“Have you gone to bed with anyone since?”

“No. I couldn’t. I know it’s foolish, but I still love Lyon.”

Anne

January, 1948

There was a three-hour luncheon at “21” on the day of Claude’s departure. When Anne arrived the party was well on its way. There was a large tin of Iranian caviar and the inevitable iced bucket of champagne. Jennifer, looking radiant, played hostess to Claude, his friend François and another man Anne had never met.

“I’m Kevin Gillmore,” the stranger said.

Jennifer grinned. “Now, Anne, you must have heard of Kevin Gillmore. He owns Gillian Cosmetics.”

“Of course. Your products are excellent.” She helped herself to some caviar.

“Are you going to Paris too?” he asked.

“No, it’s Jennifer who’s going to be the new French sensation.”

“She will take the town by storm,” Claude said in his thick accent. “But please, Anne . . . I depend on you to see she get on the boat. She must be there by the end of the month.”

Jennifer laughed merrily and snuggled close to Claude. “I’ll be there, as soon as I get my passport and tidy up a few things.”

“Isn’t it exciting?” Anne said to Kevin, trying to hide her lack of enthusiasm.

“I suppose so. Are those your teeth?”

“What?”

“Yours? Or caps?”

Anne smiled. His directness was disarming. “They’re my own. Why?”

“And your hair?” She felt the color come to her face. “It’s natural,” she said quietly.

“I know that. I know enough about coloring to realize that. But is it all yours?” He tugged gently at her long hair. “I mean, are you wearing a fall?”

“A what?”

“A fall. A false piece under to give it that thickness.”

“Why should I?”

He smiled suddenly. It was a smile completely out of context with his bold questions. A humble smile. “Because most girls need one to get that kind of look.” He shook his head sadly. “That’s the big trouble in finding the right girl—either they have good hair and lousy teeth or good hair and teeth and a bad nose. I suppose you’re pretty well booked. I mean, you wouldn’t consider working for us on an exclusive basis?”

“As what?” Anne looked toward Jennifer for assistance, but she was busy whispering some French endearment to Claude.

“Well, you see, with television coming in, I figure radio will be finished in another year—as far as the big shows are concerned. I want a ‘Gillian Girl.’ I want to feature that girl in all my ads—hair, nail polish, lipstick, the works. I’ve seen several girls I like—” He reeled off the names of five of the top models. “But they make too much money to work for me exclusively. I don’t want the Gillian Girl posing for Ted Casablanca’s clothes in Vogue or for Chanel’s perfume in in Harper’s. I want her to be identified with Gillian products only. And all I can pay to start with is three hundred a week.”

Anne sipped at her champagne. She didn’t know what to say.

He took her silence for refusal. “I’d give you a year’s contract, with an option for five hundred the second six months. And extra money if we use you when we go on television.”

Jennifer suddenly came to life. “Did I hear mon-ee?” she asked.

“I’m telling your friend I’d like to make her the Gillian Girl.”

Jennifer’s eyes widened. “But of course! Anne would be perfect.”

“She sure would. She’s beautiful, but not too sexy. The All-American Girl,” Kevin said.

Claude threw up his hands. “There is that word again! You Americans! You don’t know what to do with a beautiful girl. You keep trying to make everyone look like the girl next door. If that is what the public want, no one would go to the movies. Take Jennifer—she will be the big hit because she is not the girl next door—she is the girl every man dreams of having.”

“I agree. But it doesn’t work that way in advertising,” Kevin insisted. “Oh, we use sex—but in a subtle kind of way. Anne is beautiful. But she has the type of beauty women can identify with. A college girl or young matron will think she can look like Anne if she uses our product, but she would never think she could look like Jennifer. You’re selling escapism in pictures—I’m selling a product. Anne is right for my product. People won’t stop to think that it’s her fine bone structure that does it, or the way her eyes are spaced, or the thickness of her own lashes. They’ll think if they use the same product it will happen to them. Her kind of beauty doesn’t frighten them. Jennifer’s would.”

“Well, I’m taking my frightening beauty to Paris,” Jennifer said. “But Anne, I think you should take Kevin’s offer. You need a change. We all need one.”

Anne frowned. “I’m not a model, and I’m very happy working for—”

Jennifer nudged her and stood up. “I think it’s time to powder our noses. Come on, Anne.” As she followed Anne out of the room, she turned and tossed Kevin a reassuring wink. He nodded and held up crossed fingers.

They sat in front of the large mirror while the attendant stood by, carefully acting bored and disinterested.

“All right.” Jennifer began her attack instantly. “Why not?”

“I know nothing about modeling—”

“I know nothing about movies, but that’s not stopping me. And in Paris, yet!”

“You’ll be wonderful—”

“Don’t change the subject. What are you making with Henry?”

“A hundred and fifty a week now. But that’s not important. I just sold the house and got a wonderful price, and Henry invested that and my stock’s gone way up. Money is the last thing I need.”

“But this will be exciting.”

“I can’t leave Henry—”

“Henry?” Jennifer’s eyes were accusing. “Anne, you’re talking to me, Jen. You mean you can’t leave that office because it’s still a link to Lyon Burke. But he won’t come back to you. Stop dreaming that some day he’ll stride in, and whisk you off. That’s over! Finished!”

“How do you know? I mean, next week his book comes out ... well ... he’ll have to be here for it. Most authors do, don’t they?”

Jennifer studied her bag. She played idly with the handle. “Anne ... I wasn’t going to tell you, but now I think, you should know. He’s—gone back to England.”

“Back?” Her mouth felt dry. She was afraid she was going to be sick. “You mean he was here?”

Jennifer’s nod was solemn. “For a week. To see his publisher. He did a complete rewrite—threw out practically everything he had written here, then went back there and wrote from scratch. That’s why it’s taken so long. But it’s a good book. Henry told me. He saw Lyon.”

“Henry saw him?”

“They met for lunch. Lyon has already started his second book. He got a fairly good advance from his publisher. And he went back to London. He’s taking a flat there.”

“He saw Henry ... he was here ...” She stopped. The tears ran down her face.

Jennifer threw her arms around her. “Anne, don’t take it that way. Henry said Lyon thinks about nothing but his writing. It’s the only thing that matters to him now.”

“But Henry knows how I feel. Why didn’t he tell me Lyon was here?”

“Because he’s a man, and men stick together. Anne, you owe Henry nothing. And you need a change. This is fate. Claude didn’t invite Kevin Gillmore today. He just wandered in alone and joined us. I think it’s meant to be.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Anne said slowly. “I’ve got to get out of the office. It’s like a living shrine.”

“Now you’re making sense. And unload that apartment, too! Now ... fix your face. Don’t lose the job before you get it!”

******

At first Henry was upset. But he grudgingly admitted the Gillian offer was excellent. “This is your doing,” he said to Jennifer, who had come with Anne to break the news.

“You know it’s best for her,” Jennifer said merrily. “Now come on, Henry. How long did you expect to keep Anne chained here? She isn’t Miss Steinberg, you know.”

“Okay, but bring the contract to me before you sign it,” he grumbled. “Let’s see if we can’t get some extras in the deal. Television is coming in strong. I don’t want anything left for later negotiation. If he wants you for his ads now, he has to guarantee to use you on the commercials.”

“But Henry,” Anne protested, “I’d faint in front of a television camera.”

“It’ll be no different from a photographer’s camera, and you’ll have had about a year’s experience by then. Incidentally”—he scribbled a name on a pad—”start seeing Lil Cole. Take at least two private lessons a week. It’s expensive, but you can afford it.”

“Who’s Lil Cole?” Anne asked. “The best speech and diction coach there is.”

“What do I need her for?”

“Because I have a hunch the commercials will wind up being more than just posing. You’ve got to get rid of that Boston accent.”

“Henry, I’m just going to model, not be an actress.”

“Listen, Anne.” His voice was stern. “If you’re going to do something, do it a hundred per cent. There’s no halfway business about any job. You were a great secretary—now, if you’re going to be the Gillian Girl, be the best there is. Besides, what else have you got to do? Maybe keeping busy is the best thing for you right now.”

He suddenly looked very tired, as if all the strength had drained out of him. Impulsively, Anne threw her arms around him. “Henry, I love you.”

He scowled to cover his emotions. “How do you like that?” he said to Jennifer. “I’ve had a giant crush on this girl for two years, and now that she’s walking out on me she tells me she loves me.”

“I do, Henry. And I always shall. And please ... always be my friend.”

“Just try and lose me. You’re one in a million, Anne. They don’t come like you. Now scram. I got to call the agencies. Who knows, maybe another Anne Welles might walk in.”

“Don’t you want me to stay until you find someone? I could help break her in.”

“Nope, beat it. Jennifer’s only gonna be here a short time. You two girls live it up. Incidentally, Jennifer, your alimony comes to seven hundred after taxes. Knowing you, I’ll take the taxes out right away. This picture deal will complicate things. Do you want your checks sent on to you?”

“No, keep my money here. Invest it. Make me rich like Anne.”

He laughed. “Two Rockefellers I got here. Whoever said it was a man’s world?”

“I’m getting mine the hard way,” Jennifer said grimly. “Sure. You had to sweat out five months at a swimming pool. Real rough.”

Jennifer flashed her brightest smile. “Yes, it was all just fun and games.”

“Listen, all I ask in the next life is to come back as a beautiful broad,” Henry insisted. “And now you got Paris ahead. You’ll wind up as the French Lana Turner. But do me a favor—don’t spend all your money. You owe me two thousand. I’m deducting it from your alimony. And for Christ’s sake, don’t send for it. Give me a chance to save some of it for you. Clients like the two of you I sure need!”

“Which reminds me,” Jennifer said sweetly. “Advance me another thousand, Henry—”

“Oh come on, Jennifer ...”

“I need clothes. After all, I’ve got to make a big entrance in Paris.”

February, 1948

Anne rushed into “21” and joined Henry at his usual front table. “Sorry I’m late, but Lil Cole is a slave driver.” She sat down.

Henry noticed that every man in the room had turned to look at her. Three weeks of grooming with Kevin Gillmore’s makeup experts had created an indefinable yet eye-catching change. They hadn’t tampered with her natural beauty, yet somehow they had succeeded in heightening it. Before, it used to creep up on you. Now you noticed it immediately. She wore eye makeup and her hair was fuller, like a lion’s mane. She still looked every inch the lady, but she was exciting now.

“I got a long letter from Jennifer this morning,” she said, unaware of the stir she had created.

“I got a short one, asking for money. Anne, how fast can she spend it?”

Anne laughed and ordered a salad. “No matter how much she has, she’ll always be in debt. Jennifer is a compulsive spender. I don’t know why—it’s not as if she enjoys the things she buys. She gives most of them away.”

Henry shook his head. “I hope she finds a guy—a good guy—over there. I don’t think she’s much of an actress, but she has one hell of a face and body. I hope she makes it pay off. Because that’s all she’s got, and when that goes . . . that’ll be the end of Jennifer.”

“Henry! I gave you more credit. Are you like all the others, taking Jennifer at face value? She’s a wonderful girl, but no man ever takes the trouble to find out. I thought you were different. Jennifer is really a fine person ... a real friend ... and sweet. She’s one of the sweetest girls I’ve ever known.”

“Sweet? Okay, I’ll go along with that. Sweet on the surface. That smile is glued on. But tell me something, Anne. How deep do her feelings go?”

“That’s hard to say. Jennifer doesn’t open up too much. You know something? I’ve never really heard her pan anyone. She is sweet, about everyone. I know that’s a funny word to use about Jennifer, but it’s the right word for her. I’ve lived with her—I know. Now Neely is someone you’d think of as sweet, but she isn’t. Neely’s sharp and bright, but she isn’t sweet. Jennifer is. Do you know she never says anything against the Prince? Just that it didn’t work out. No vindictiveness against him, or Tony—or even Miriam. Just says she couldn’t take the boredom of California. No, she’s basically lonely underneath all that glamour, waiting for a man who’ll like her for herself. Because Jennifer really wants just one man, and a normal life and children—”

“So how come she got rid of her baby? That’s when she lost me. She called from the Coast hysterical because they wanted her to get rid of it—at least the sister did. And she wanted to keep it. Then, after I knock my brains out getting her a good alimony, she unloads it. You tell me a dame who wants a kid can’t live on a thousand a week?”

“She never talked about it, or gave any reasons,” Anne said slowly. “But somewhere along the line she must have lost her nerve about raising it alone. I’m sure if she ever found the right man she’d settle down.”

Henry looked at her closely. “And what about you?”

“Oh, things are going fine. We’ve finished all the test shots. I pose for Gillian’s first spring layout next week.”

“I don’t mean that, Anne. I mean your future. You know, being the Gillian Girl is going to change things. Once your face starts getting plastered in magazines and on billboards, a lot of excitement is going to come your way.”

“I’ve been through that,” she reminded him. “Remember me? Just two years ago I was on the front pages, in all the columns—Allen Cooper’s Cinderella girl. But it didn’t change me.”

Henry said quietly, “It did change you. You didn’t marry Lyon Burke, did you?”

She studied her plate. “I wanted to, Henry ... more than anything in the world. I still want to.”

“Why didn’t you? When you had the chance?”

“He wanted me to live in Lawrenceville.”

“That’s what I mean,” he said slowly. “The girl who walked into my office that first day would have gone to the ends of the earth for the man she loved. That’s why I took you. I figured you’d be pretty hard to please. You wouldn’t fall for just any guy. I hadn’t counted on Lyon’s coming back. The minute he walked in, I said ‘Good-by, Anne—this is it.’ Unfortunately Lyon was never capable of really caring for anyone deeply, man or woman. You and me, we’re alike—when we care for someone we make gods of them.”

“Lyon loved me ... I know he did,” she said stubbornly.

“But not as much as he loved himself. A man who could cut every tie the way Lyon does is a man who could never care deeply. Lyon is like Jennifer in a way. They fall in love, the Lyons and the Jennifers, but they can walk away unscarred. Because Number One always comes first. Remember it, Anne, you’re young. Keep those eyes wide open. And when you meet another guy who’s for real, grab him and run for the hills. Don’t hang around the glamour belt too long.”

“I don’t think there will be anyone else who really matters,” she said. “Lyon was it.”

“Lyon’s gone,” he said roughly. “Over ... done!”

“I understand, but it still doesn’t change me. I can’t just fall for the first passable man who comes along. I want to marry one day and have children. But I want a man I love.” She sighed. “And I’ll never love anyone like I did Lyon.”

“Listen,” he said. “Don’t be a schmuck like me. I loved, too. Only one dame my whole life. Helen Lawson! And I knew goddam well—right from the start—that she didn’t love me. She wasn’t capable of loving anyone. I taught her everything. And smart as I was, I never stopped loving her. Maybe I never gave myself a chance to find a real girl. So how do I wind up? Alone.”

“Maybe you and Helen could still—”

“Are you kidding!”

“But you said you loved her.”

“I did. I loved what I pretended she was—what I wanted her to be. But now I see her as she really is, and I’m too old to find someone else. It’s catching up with her, though. She’s beginning to look on the outside like she is inside—Old Ironsides! I’d kill anyone who called her that to my face, but I can say it to you. I’m not really in love with Helen any more, but I can’t break the habit. It sneaks up on you, Anne—the habit. And after all emotion is gone and logic takes over, the habit is still there. For the rest of your life. So don’t you, at twenty-two, start building any habit. Lyon isn’t wasting a moment thinking about you. Believe me. And you stop thinking about him.”

Anne smiled weakly. “I’ll try. I can only try ...”

Neely

1950

Neely closed the script wearily. No use going over it again. She knew it cold. She stretched luxuriously in the large bed and sipped some Scotch. Eleven-thirty and she was still wide awake. Maybe she should take another doll. She had already taken two ... maybe another red one. She had to be on the set at six. She wandered into the bathroom and popped a red pill into her mouth. “Come on, you little doll, do the job.”

She stumbled back into bed. She noticed her appointment book was open. Was she supposed to remember something? She stared. The words blurred, but she recognized Ted’s handwriting. Come home early today. Bud and Jud’s first birthday!

Oh, God! Geez, it had been today. She hadn’t even looked at the book in the morning. She had been so stoned by the pills she had just managed to make it out of bed. She had needed two Dexies to wake up. And now she’d missed the birthday party! Goddam those retakes! She leaped out of bed and tiptoed into the nursery. A wild thrill of pride surged through her as she looked at the two sleeping blond heads. “Bud and Jud,” she whispered into the darkness, “Mommy missed your birthday, but she loves you. Oh, God, how she loves you! Mommy didn’t see the book or she’da been there—honest.”

She tiptoed out and weaved back to her room. Ted was probably mad, off sulking somewhere. Well, Christ, it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t seen the damn book. So he left it open on her night table. Who in hell can see anything at five in the morning? She lay back against the pillows. They must a had a cake. With a candle. And Miss Sherman and Ted probably sang Happy Birthday to them. A large tear forced its way through the cream on her face. But Geez, they were only babies. They didn’t know it was their birthday. They weren’t hurt ...

And now Ted was taking it out on her. Where in hell was he? Probably cruising, the double-gaited sonofabitch. She recalled the first time she had caught him. Christ! With his arms around that English actor and their tongues down each other’s throats. She had taken a whole bottle of pills that night. They’d had to pump her stomach. She grimaced at the memory. She’d never do that again.

But Ted had been doubly sweet after. The first night back he had held her close and explained that he had only done it with the guy because he had felt insecure. Her being up for an Oscar two years in a row—even if she didn’t get it—it had made him feel insecure, less of a man. That was the night she had conceived. And twins yet! Those two beautiful blond boys in the nursery were hers. They came out of her body! She felt all warm and weak inside. Only twenty-two ... the biggest star on the Century lot ... a house of her own in Beverly Hills ... and twin boys!

The pills weren’t working. She wondered whether Jennifer ever took three. She just bet she did. A person would have to take something to make the kind of pictures Jennifer made! Wow! The last one had really caused a sensation. In La Jolla you’d had to stand in line for hours to get in. And there was Jennifer, with her bare tits, spouting French like a native. Maybe they didn’t think anything of it in Paris, but subtitles under a bare ass still didn’t make it art. And Geez, that big story in Look—or was it Life—showing Jen in that fancy Paris apartment. It practically said she was living with that French producer Claude Chardot.

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.

He had stayed until the last camera had clicked and the last congratulation had been accepted. Then he had driven her home, said good night in front of the door and left her—an Academy Award-winning star—to go to the arms of that tramp! That had done it!

The next morning she had called The Head and demanded he come to her bungalow. She could throw her weight around now. And The Head had come, too! This time she announced the terms. She wanted a divorce—immediately—and she wanted Ted Casablanca dropped by the studio. The Head had humbly agreed to her demands. God, the power of an Oscar!

It also made her realize that it wasn’t life or death to report for work every day.

She was the biggest star in Hollywood, and the Oscar proved it. If she had a bad night, fuck ’em! She was Neely O’Hara! And if she gained a few pounds on caviar, fuck ’em. So it took a week to get it off—so what! Her pictures made them a fortune ...

******

She sat in the air-conditioned studio bungalow trembling. It was the third time she had walked off the set in five weeks. Goddam that John Stykes. He might be the greatest director in the world, but he was crucifying her in this picture. She tore off the strip of false eyelashes and violently dabbed cream on her face.

“Miss O’Hara, don’t! It will take an hour to get the makeup on again,” the maid pleaded.

“No more work today,” she said grimly, erasing the pancake.

“But we’re behind schedule—”

“We!” Neely turned on her. “Where do you get that we stuff? Christ! Everybody’s in show business!”

There was a knock on the door. It was John Stykes. He was handsome in a craggy, weatherbeaten way.

“Come on, Neely, let’s get going.” She saw his look of despair at her naked face. “Yes, buster—no more work for today!” She grinned maliciously.

He sat down. “All right. It’s three o’clock. We’ll knock off early.”

“Only I’m not okaying that last take,” she snapped.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You know damn well. All the closeups were on our feet.”

“Neely, the studio is paying Chuck Martin fifty thousand just for that dance he does with you. He’s a great dancer. What should we shoot? His ears?”

“No, dammit, you shoot me! Body shots—my feet can’t keep up with him. I’m not that good a dancer.”

“I can’t believe my ears,” he said with mock wonder. “You mean you actually concede someone might have more talent than you?”

“Listen, Chuck Martin’s been dancing in Broadway shows for thirty years. But that’s all he can do—dance. He’s old enough to be my father. I’m only twenty-five, but I can sing, dance and act. I’ll put my singing and acting up against the best of them. No one can touch me when it comes to singing. No one! As for dancing, okay, so I’m no Ginger Rogers or Eleanor Powell. But all Chuck Martin can do is dance. He’s almost as good as Astaire. But is that any reason I should look bad?”

“If you admit he’s that good, why not let us give five minutes to his feet?”

“Because it’s my picture. That’s something I learned in my first Broadway show, from an expert. No performer feathers his nest on my talent. Look, who needs Chuck Martin anyway? I’ve used chorus boys in all my other pictures.”

“The Head picked Chuck personally.” John Stykes lit a cigarette. Neely reached for one. He lit it for her. “Since when did you start smoking?”

“I took one the day my divorce became final. I’ve found they keep me from eating.”

“Bad for the voice, Neely.”

“I only smoke about ten a day.” She inhaled deeply. “Well, is it settled now?”

The director looked toward the maid. “Neely, could we talk alone?”

“Sure.” She motioned the maid to leave. “You’re through for the day, Shirley. See you here tomorrow, at seven.”

John smiled when they were alone. “I’m glad you’re not planning to play hookey.”

“Why should I? You just sit up tonight and figure a new way to shoot that scene so that it stars me—not Chuck Martin’s feet.”

“Neely, has it ever occurred to you why The Head didn’t use a chorus boy?”

“Sure, sure. Television! Everybody panics easily these days. But that’s not my worry. If The Head thinks sending for Chuck Martin and paying out an extra fifty G’s is gonna lick television, that’s his business. Only don’t do it on my time.”

“Neely, your last two pictures lost money.”

“C’mon! I read Variety. I saw the grosses. They were terrific! My last picture grossed four million and it hasn’t played Europe yet.”

“But it cost over six million to make.”

“So what? Variety says my picture will be the top grosser of the year.”

“Sure, and it would have made the studio a fortune if it had been made for the two million five it was slated for. The studio’s kept the real figures a secret—so far. No one ever heard of a picture running that much over. The Head was afraid to let the reports get published. His stockholders would hold an emergency meeting. He has to make it up with this picture. Your first loss was a small one, but this last one ... honey, no picture has ever cost six million.”

“I had the flu. People can’t help it if they get sick.”

“Neely, you were out ten days with sleeping pills.”

“And then I got the flu.”

“I wasn’t on that picture, but I know the facts. You boozed and ate ... all right, so you got run down and got sick. But when you recovered, it took three weeks to get the weight off you. And even then you still were ten pounds over and all the costumes had to be redone.”

“All right! I was upset. My divorce became final that week. And Sam Burns, my favorite cameraman, got sick. I won’t work without Sam. I wasn’t ten pounds overweight—I weighed ninety-eight. But the clothes were so lousy I looked heavy.” She stopped, then turned on him violently. “And that’s another thing. They’ve got to get me a new designer. The clothes stink. Ted would never have let me wear this crap!”

“Ellen Small has won nine Academy Awards.”

“Well, let her make clothes for her Oscars, not for me.”

“Neely, I like you. That’s why I’m talking to you instead of The Head. I won’t let on that you walked out today. Oh, he’ll hear about the early dismissal, but I’ll say we were through with the scene earlier than we expected and it was too late to set up the next. But how long do you think he’ll put up with this?”

“With what?”

“With your walkouts, your tantrums ...”

“I didn’t work this hard to become a star and have to worry about the front office. Once you’re a star, everyone has to worry about you. You rate it. I learned that from Helen Lawson.”

“Helen Lawson is a pro,” he snapped. “That’s one thing you aren’t.”

“So where is she now?”

“She can star on Broadway whenever she wants—”

“What’s Broadway? That’s all she can get!”

“Right. And she knows it. But Helen Lawson was never a second late for rehearsal in her life. She only has one thing—a big voice. And she knows it. She might be careless about everything else, but she’s a businesswoman with that voice. She’s a different kind of a monster than you are, Neely—”

“Monster! Why you ... you ...”

He laughed and tweaked her nose. “Sure you’re a monster,” he said good-naturedly. “Every star is one. But Helen is a mechanical star, a voice. You have ... well, sometimes, honey, I think you border on genius. You feel things—too deeply at times.” He leaned over and took her hands. “Neely, they don’t come like you. You’re rare. But this is no art form—it’s dollars and cents. Stockholders aren’t interested in genius, just box-office receipts. Look, baby, we’re ten days behind, but if you cooperate, we can make it up. We can shoot the nightclub scene in one day instead of three. I’ve got it all set for tomorrow. The extras have been called. I know how to lick it. I’ll work a few nights ... do the crowd scenes with your stand-in. We can shoot from the back. Neely, we can do it. We can still bring it in on time.”

She wavered for a moment, then she shot him a metallic smile. “You almost got to me, Johnny-boy. This was the daddy of all pep talks. But like you said, I’m a monster—and monsters know every angle. Seven years ago if someone had talked to me like this, I’d have jumped and said, ’Yes sir, yes sir, yes sir.’ I worked my ass off, half killed myself ... and I made the studio a fortune.”

“And you made yourself a star.”

“Yeah, and what does that get me?” she said. She walked across the room and poured herself half a glass of Scotch. “Want a drink?”

“Beer, if you’ve got it.” She went to the bar and got some beer from the small refrigerator. “This is what I’ve got,” she said as she handed it to him. “The best booze in town—only I’m not supposed to drink it. It puts weight on me. I also got a swimming pool I can’t use because I’m not allowed to get tan. Bad for technicolor. I got two closets full of clothes and no place or time to wear them because I have to stay home each night and study the next day’s scenes. John ...” She knelt on the floor and sat at his feet. “How did it happen?”

He rubbed her head. “You just got there too fast.”

“No, that’s not the answer. I kicked around in vaudeville all my life. I’m not some beauty-contest winner the studio had to teach to talk, walk and act. They signed me ’cause I had talent. Sure, they taught me some things. I dance better. I’ve gone through the reading bit—books The Head thought I should read. You know, the self-improvement bit. Now I don’t sound like a moron when I give interviews. But I came with my talent. I’m twenty-five and I feel like I’m ninety. I’ve lost two husbands. All I know is to study lines, songs, dance routines, to starve, to sleep with pills, stay awake with pills ... there’s got to be more than that to living.”

“Did you have more fun back in your early vaudeville days?”

“No, and I hate people who say it was all so wonderful when they were starving. It stunk. One-night stands, cold trains, dim-witted audiences ... but there was something that kept you going and made you feel good—hope. It was all so lousy that you knew it had to get better, and you dreamed of the big time or security and thought it would be so wonderful if you could just latch onto a piece of it. And that hope kept you going so it didn’t seem bad. But when you sit here and think, Geez, here it is ... this is it ... and it stinks. Then what?”

“You’ve got the babies, Neely. Right now you’re caught up in the time-consuming job of being a star. But you’ll find a right guy again—and then you might have to make a choice between mass love and a private life. It’s not easy to give up the love of an audience and settle for one man. Not after you’ve had it like you have. You’ll have to weigh all this and ask yourself if the love you get from your talent is enough to compensate.”

“No, it isn’t. I can’t enjoy it. I mean, what has this God-given talent given me? All I can do is give it to others. Is that the end? I got it, but I have to keep giving it away—and I wind up with nothing. Boy, is this crazy? Wait till I tell this to Dr. Mitchell.”

“Your analyst?”

She nodded. “I don’t need one, really. That’s another crazy thing. He was Ted’s analyst. Imagine! Me—the most normal girl in the world—I wind up with a headshrinker. I went to see him when something awful happened with Ted, and the next thing you know, I found myself running to him every time something came up. At first it was always about Ted ... but then he started groping in my past, like maybe it was my fault Ted had troubles. But I went along—and then I did learn a lot about myself. You know, John, I never knew what it was to have a mother’s love. He says that’s why it’s important to me to be a star—I need mass love.”

“That’s bullshit!” John was angry. “Listen, there are plenty of stars who love their mass love and who had some pretty doting parents. You’re a star because you have talent, not because you never knew a mother’s love. I’m tired of all these fancy doctors who blame everything on the poor mothers of the world. So your old lady kicked off early. Did she do it purposely just to get even with you? Listen, Neely, you’ll be a lot better off if you forget your headshrinker. You got where you are on your own.”

“But I am neurotic, John. I’ve found I have all kinds of neuroses.”

“So? Maybe that’s why you’re a star. If he cures them maybe you won’t be you. I got my own kinks, but I’m not about to plunk out twenty-five bucks a throw and have some guy tell me my father mistreated me and I miss my mother’s love. What am I going to do about it even if I find out it’s true? Go to Minnesota and punch my old man in the nose? He’s eighty. Or find myself a gray-haired call girl who’ll stroke my head and bottle-feed me? Listen, whatever happened is yesterday’s newspaper. It’s today and tomorrow—that’s what counts!”

She sighed. “It’s all so easy the way you say it. But when you spend that long night alone—God, the nights are awful—and you feel there is one person you can talk to ... see, John, a psychiatrist has no angles. He’s out for you ... to help you. He’s the only one I can trust.”

He stood up. “All right, see him tonight. But look, Neely. Do yourself a favor. Forget the costumes. Do the nightclub scene tomorrow. Learn the lyrics and let’s bring the picture in on time.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, so that’s what this whole big talk was for. Trying to soften me for the kill.”

He banged the glass on the table. “Maybe you’re right—you do need a headshrinker. Is that what this business has done to you? Made you suspicious of everyone? Listen, I’ve talked to you like a father because I care—because I don’t want to see you and your talent go down the drain.”

“How can it go down the drain? Just because I won’t wear a lousy costume?”

“No, because if you keep making pictures that lose money all the talent in the world won’t help you in this business.”

“I’m the biggest box-office draw there is. I was voted number one this year in all the polls.”

“Neely, when the stockholders add up the figures they don’t care about the line around Radio City or the movie-magazine polls. What good is it to them to make a big hit picture if it doesn’t make money?”

“I don’t believe they lose money,” she said stubbornly. “They’re just so worried about television they want my pictures to carry the whole studio. Yeah, sure ... I’m supposed to work like crazy so The Head can sit in his palace or go to his beach house and screw all the starlets. Who’s paying for all this? Me and my talent.”

“Neely, last year three low-budget pictures without stars brought in bigger profits than your last two pictures. One cost eight hundred thousand and grossed four million. If you don’t believe your picture lost money, ask your agents.”

“Who can trust them? They’d go along with the studio. They got other stars to peddle, so they play ball with the guy who does the hiring.”

“Then trust me. Just try ...”

“Okay, so I trust you. So does that mean I’m supposed to go on the set tomorrow looking like an ice cream cone in that dress?”

“Neely, you look great in that dress.”

“I look lousy.” She poured herself another drink.

“No, you just want Ted Casablanca’s clothes and no one else’s designs will ever satisfy you. But you can’t have them.”

“That’s not true.” She sniveled and dabbed at her eyes. “Now you sound just like Dr. Mitchell.”

“Well? You trust him, and he’s obviously told you the same thing.”

She smiled. “Okay, maybe you’re right.”

“Good girl. You’ll be in tomorrow?”

She nodded. He kissed her on the cheek and left the bungalow.

She sat there and poured another drink. It was almost six o’clock. She had called Dr. Mitchell when she walked off the set and made an appointment for nine. Nine—that would take until ten, and she wouldn’t get home until eleven or in bed until twelve. If she was going to learn the lyrics of the song for the nightclub scene ... she called and canceled the doctor and went home.

******

She sat in bed, her dinner on a tray before her. She tried to memorize the lyrics. Why had she drunk all that Scotch earlier? Her mind just wouldn’t function. Maybe she should go to sleep now. Yes, that was it. Be asleep at nine and leave a call for five. She could learn the lines from five to seven easy. With eight hours of sleep she’d feel great.

She sent the dinner tray back untouched. Might as well skip a meal. She had weighed a hundred and three that morning. Besides, the dolls always worked faster on an empty stomach. She took two red and one yellow. Then she poured half a glass of Scotch. The wonderful, relaxed drowsiness began. She sipped her drink and waited for the real reaction, the anesthetic feeling that would seep through her whole body and drag her down into sleep. But it didn’t come, just the drowsiness. That wasn’t enough. She could still think—and if she thought she’d think about being alone. And then she’d think of Ted and that girl. And she had no one. She was alone—as alone as when she was part of The Gaucheros, touring with Charlie and Dick, alone in strange hotel rooms—with no one who cared about her.

Perspiration made her neck damp and trickled down her back—she felt clammy. She stumbled out of bed and changed her pajamas. Dr. Mitchell was right—she was building up a tolerance to the pills. Maybe one more yellow ... no, then she’d be groggy and hungover in the morning, and she had to learn those lyrics. Jesus. Today she had needed three green dolls just to get through the morning shooting. She poured a full glass of Scotch. Maybe one more red pill ... yeah, they wore off faster. She swallowed it quickly. And she wouldn’t drink all this Scotch, just sip at it until the pills worked. Maybe she should read, that always made her drowsy. Anne had sent her another of Lyon’s books. This was the arty type again. She skimmed the pages. It had gotten good reviews—but what good were reviews? The book wasn’t selling.

Suddenly she wished Anne was with her. Anne always knew what to do. It was a shame Anne had made it so big on TV. If she hadn’t she could send for her, give her a couple hundred a week to be a personal secretary. Geez, wouldn’t that be dreamy? But Anne must be making a fortune. You couldn’t turn on television without seeing Anne demonstrating hairspray or lipstick. But why shouldn’t she have made it, especially if those rumors were true about her and that Gillmore guy. But even so, Anne had class. Not like Jennifer. Imagine—the trades said Hollywood was bidding for her, and she was turning them down. Jennifer turning Hollywood down! That broad was making a fortune by showing her fanny and tits in those French pictures. The darling of the art houses. Art houses shit! If Hollywood made pictures like that they would just be dirty pictures. And lately Hollywood was getting so goddam moral. No more low-cut dresses, no soul kissing, moral clauses in every contract. And this same Hollywood was begging Jennifer to come star for them. Sure, they’d cover her tits and her ass. But they’d make her a star, give her the same kind of money real stars were getting just because she had once walked around and showed her boobs!

She took another long swallow of her drink. She wasn’t sleepy. She was just getting drunk. And hungry. God, she was starving! She wished she hadn’t sent that tray down. There was caviar in the refrigerator. No ... she mustn’t. Damn Ted for teaching her to like it! But the costumes were tight as it was. The booze was doing it. Geez, she never ate a thing, and now, if she ate on top of all the booze—No, it wouldn’t be fair to John. He had been so nice today. Funny ... she had never noticed how blue his eyes were against his tan skin. He must be about fifty, but he was beautiful. John ... here ... beside her. Geez, that’d be nice. If he held her in his arms she’d feel protected. She looked at the clock. Ten-thirty. Maybe John could come over. He could tell his wife it was to discuss a scene. He was probably sitting worrying about her now, wondering whether she’d show. She smiled. No, she wouldn’t ask him to come tonight. She’d already rubbed the lanolin in her hair. But tomorrow she’d work like a horse and ask him to come back for a cold supper and work with her. And it would be more than just a quick bang. She’d make him stay and hold her in his arms until she fell asleep. Maybe he could stay often. She’d cooperate. They’d bring the picture in on time. She’d demand that he direct all her pictures. His kids were grown—maybe he could be with her a lot. She’d call him and tell him she was studying. That would be a good start—so at least he’d fall asleep thinking of her.

She called the studio and got his unlisted number. Then she dialed his home. A woman answered. Neely put on her most gurgly voice. “Is this Mrs. Stykes?”

“No, this is Charlotte—the maid.”

“Oh. Is Mr. Stykes there?”

“No, madame. They are out for the evening. May I take a message?”

“No. No message.” Neely hung up.

Out with his wife! Probably sitting at Romanoff’s telling his wife about how he had conned Neely O’Hara. She could just hear him ... “I got her eating out of my hand. She’s easy—she may be a star, but underneath she’s just a lousy little mick who’s scared to death. You just have to know how to handle her.” Well, no one handled Neely O’Hara! She might have been born a little mick, but she was a star now! She could do what she goddam well liked!

She got out of bed and tiptoed downstairs. Suddenly she stopped. “What the hell am I tippy-toeing around for? This is my house!”

There was no one in the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out a large jar of caviar. “Neely, we’re gonna have a ball,” she said aloud. She took a spoon and ate the caviar from the jar. She finished it off. “Now what? Come on, Neely, you can have anything you want. ’Cause you’re a star ... a big fucking talent ... nah ... a fucking big talent. And you can have anything.” She lurched against the refrigerator. “Lessee. More caviar? Why not? You bought it.” She opened another jar. “Hah! Now we’ll just take some pâté upstairs in case we wanna eat it later. Neely, nothin’s too good for you.”

She reached out and took a new bottle of Scotch off the bar and stumbled her way up the stairs. She poured another drink and went to the cabinet in the bathroom. “Now, Neely, whaddaya want—red, yellow or blue dolls? Anything you want, baby.”

She swallowed two red pills. Then she staggered into bed. She picked up the phone and buzzed. The butler answered. “Lissen, Charlie, cancel the early call. Call the studio tomorrow and tell ’em Miss O’Hara has ... has laryn ... laryngitis. And I won’t take any calls. I’m gonna sleep ... and eat ... and sleep ... and eat ... for maybe a week. When I wake up tomorrow I want pancakes, with butter and loads of syrup. I’m gonna have an orgy!”

1956

Neely had dressed carefully. White slacks, a loose blouse that would hide the roll around her waistline. Geez, why was it so hard to lose the ten pounds this time? Wardrobe fittings for the new picture started in a few days. And now, out of the blue, The Head wanted to see her. She wondered what was up. She thought about it all during her drive to the studio.

The call had come late the previous afternoon. Eddie Frank, one of his satellites, delivered the message. Respectful, casual and easy. “Oh, Miss O’Hara, The Head would like you to have lunch with him tomorrow if it’s convenient.”

If it’s convenient! Ha! As if anyone had anything more convenient to do if The Head summoned. Boy, they had short memories. Three years ago when she won the Oscar he had come to her. Well, this new picture would fix things. Geez, what a part. And the songs ... she’d win an Oscar nomination for sure, maybe even another Oscar.

She sat there across the great expanse of Early American desk, trying to look eager and young. He liked her that way. She decided The Head must have been born old. He never changed—that shock of white hair, the perennial tan that blended with the crusted liver spots. His eyes twinkled merrily and his small hands played with the trade papers on his desk.

“Dearie, do you know why I sent for you?”

“No sir, but it’s always a pleasure to see you, sir.” (Oh, she knew all the right protocol.)

“Did you see yesterday’s trades?” (Oh, God, that award. That stinking award.)

“Miss Front Office Poison of 1956—Neely O’Hara. Not very pleasant, is it?” he asked kindly.

She fidgeted. “Oh, you know those awards.” She used her little-girl voice. “I was real hurt when I saw it. But several people told me it means nothing. The press just gets together each year and picks a patsy. Last year they gave it to Stewart Lane and he’s Twentieth’s top star.”

“No, he is not.” The voice was still kind. “He never made it back after the war. Every one of his pictures has lost money. But they’re committed for two more years so they keep it quiet.”

“Well, my pictures do great.”

“At the box office, yes. For us—no.”

She squirmed. Well, here it was again—the overtime, the missed rehearsals, the pep talk ...

“This new picture is very expensive,” he stated. “Prices have soared. We’re competing with television, and people won’t go out just to see any movie. Not when they can see entertainment for free in their own homes. It’s no longer a little box—it’s got a big face and it’s getting bigger.”

She played with the cuticles on her fingers. What the hell—she hadn’t invented the damn thing. Let him go holler at General Sarnoff.

“We’re putting more money into Let’s Live Tonight than any other picture we’ve ever made. Any overtime and we’re dead. Sam Jackson is working on a tight schedule.”

“Sam’s one of my favorite producers,” she said.

“I’ve made a deal with Sam. For every day he brings the picture in under the shooting schedule, he gets a thousand-dollar bonus.”

It was going to be a rat race.

“And the first time he’s one day behind he goes off the picture.”

“You mean you’d take Sam Jackson off a picture?”

“I’ll take anyone off who can’t meet my demands. Hollywood has changed, dearie. We’ve let the last of our contract players go. Your present contract has one year to go, and when ... if we renegotiate, it won’t be like before.”

You’re damn right it won’t be, she thought. I’ll form a corporation and get a piece of the action. I’ll own something. Her tax men had explained this to her.

“No, dearie.” He sighed. “Everything is changing. Now I can’t tell the stockholders to mind their business. Now I have to answer to them—and the only answer they want is profits.”

She nodded and wondered when the interview would end. This was just a routine pep talk! He had a nerve dragging her out here just for this. She was hungry—he could at least have ordered lunch. She hadn’t had breakfast and she had only taken one Dexie.

“That’s why I’m taking you off the picture,” he said.

She stared at him in astonishment.

“Dearie, I can’t afford the risk. Sam Jackson can be replaced if he doesn’t work out. But if you’re on film I can’t replace you. I’d have to start from the top ... reshoot everything.”

“But you can’t replace me before I even begin,” she stammered.

“Why not? Look at you. You’re fat again. Fittings are scheduled for next week, and you won’t be ready. No, this is too big a venture. I’m putting in Janie Lord.”

“Janie Lord! Why, she’s just beginning.” He couldn’t mean it. He was just trying to scare her.

“She’s made three inexpensive pictures and they all made money. She’s got stories in every fan magazine this month. This picture will make her a star, a big one. And I’ve got Brick Nelson playing opposite her for insurance.”

She had wondered about Brick Nelson. He was expensive, and usually her pictures had no other top-monied stars. She was the star, the whole picture. Her mind raced to her contract. He wasn’t kidding. But could he cancel her like this after she had been announced? With no cause?

“There’s nothing you can do, legally,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “We rewrote the role so it calls for a younger girl.”

“Younger girl! Listen, I’m only twenty-eight. That’s not exactly over the hill.”

“You look forty,” he said casually.

“I have no makeup on,” she said defensively.

“You have circles under your eyes .. the beginnings of a double chin. You’re a mess.”

The tears ran down her freckled cheeks. One week of sleep and diet and she’d be as good as new. He knew that. Why was he carrying on like this?

His secretary interrupted to say the Paris call had come through. He picked up the phone, his face beaming unctuous charm. “Hello!” He was shouting as people usually do when they are speaking across impossible distances. “Yes.” His voice lost some of its volume. “I can hear you clear as a bell. Marvelous, isn’t it? Yes, Mr. Chardot ... yes, I received your letter this morning. That’s why I put in the call. Your terms are ... well ...” He forced a soft laugh. “Impossible is an understatement. Naturally I want to do a picture with Miss North. And I’m perfectly willing to let you co-produce. But a one-picture deal with you owning fifty per cent of the foreign rights is not feasible. After all, this star of yours—we will be putting her in clothes, covering her completely. How do we know she will have the same appeal? Yes, I realize she was fully clothed in her last three pictures. But let’s face it, Mr. Chardot, an actress she’s not. What? Well, maybe she did win those awards ... maybe it’s because I don’t understand French. But in English, how can we be sure? And your not giving me a second picture option—is that fair? I spend all the money on advertising and then some other studio grabs her for the second picture. I want a three-picture deal, and you can have your terms. She can have her own production setup. The money will be deposited in a Swiss bank. . . . How much? ... Oh, my good man, where are you getting those figures? No one could meet your demands, Mr. Chardot.”

He held the phone silently, a pained expression on his face. “Mr. Chardot, a Louie Esterwald will contact you this afternoon ... what? Oh, it’s eight o’clock at night there. I never can get over this big difference in time. All right, tomorrow morning. He’ll negotiate the fine points. He speaks your language, a very fine French. And can we expect you here in September? ... Now Mr. Chardot, if we wait until February that brings us into ’fifty-seven. I want to report to my stockholders that we have a Jennifer North picture in the works for ’fifty-six. ... Fine, I’m looking forward to it, too. Have you started shooting on her new picture? ... You’ll do two between now and November—God, I envy you. Between now and November I’m lucky if I get one finished. But you haven’t got union problems, and that goddam television. Wait, you’ll see—in a few years you’ll feel it too. It’s like cancer, that television. It spreads to every place.” After he hung up he immediately placed another transatlantic call. Neely waited patiently while he toyed with a pencil. He slammed the receiver down in disgust. “A twenty-minute delay!”

Suddenly he seemed to remember her. “All right, you can leave.” He waved his hand.

“I thought we were having lunch,” she said, stunned.

“You can skip lunch. With that belly, you’re better off. I’d think you were four months gone if I hadn’t seen you that way so many times. I’ve got to wait for the call to Louie Esterwald to come through.” He sighed. “Imagine the deals I have to make and the footsies I have to play to get that naked whore to come make a movie for me. Ten years ago the Industry would have thrown her out. Now every studio is fighting to get her. Something’s happening to this country. We’re going to go immoral. And television is doing it. I’ve always stood for clean American pictures, but now we have to fight television with everything we can get—tits, asses, French whores ...”

“She’s no French whore,” Neely said. “She’s an American girl, and very nice. I roomed with her once.”

He was genuinely interested. “You roomed with Jennifer North?”

“Eleven years ago. We were both in Hit the Sky. She was just a glorified showgirl, then she married Tony Polar. She was out here.”

“Of course! He was married to a Jennifer ...” He shook his head. “No, it can’t be the same girl. This girl is only twenty-three.”

Neely laughed bitterly. “In French pictures everyone is twenty-three. It’s the same Jennifer I roomed with. Jennifer is ... Geez—I don’t know—I was seventeen, and she was supposed to be twenty-one ...”

“That would make her thirty-two.” He was amazed.

“That’s right,” Neely said. “And you’re hollering that I’m old at twenty-eight.”

“This girl must take care of herself. And she’s reliable. Two pictures by November.” He shook his head. “She won some award at some foreign film festival, so now she thinks she’s an actress. Just my luck—the French get her when she’s naked ... I have to get her when she’s an actress.” He sighed with a rattle that shook his whole body.

“And meanwhile what do I do? Just sit?” Neely asked.

“Sit and take off weight. You’re getting paid each week.”

“And when is my next picture?”

“We’ll see ...”

Her eyes blazed. “Who do you think you are, treating me like this?”

“The head of the studio. And you’re just a little snotnose I made into a star—only you haven’t paid off lately. So you’ll just sit. And you’ll learn a goddam good lesson. Watch a few new stars come up like Janie Lord. Maybe that’ll knock some sense into your head. Now beat it, I’ve got more important things to do.”

She rose. “I could walk out of here and never come back.”

He smiled. “Do that. And you’ll never work anywhere again.”

She sobbed all the way home, racing the car recklessly through the canyons and around the winding hills. She really didn’t care. What was she supposed to do? Go home and sit in that barn of a house? Even the twins didn’t need her, really. They loved their nurse, and they were going to school. Once the word was out that she was replaced in this picture—and right on top of that Front Office Poison award—then she’d really be alone. No one calls a loser. Geez, how could people be so mean? She had worked so hard, tried so hard—and now everyone was out to crucify her.

She went into the house and grabbed a bottle of Scotch off the bar. Then she went to her bedroom, pulled the blinds to shut out the daylight, shut off her phone and swallowed five red pills. Five red ones hardly did anything now. Last night she had only slept three hours with five red ones and two yellows. She undressed and slipped into bed.

It must have been midnight when she woke. She opened the blinds. Night ... and nothing to do. She wandered into the bathroom and unconsciously got on the scale. She had lost two pounds. Hey, that was an idea—if she just slept and took pills and didn’t eat she could take ten pounds off in no time. She took a vitamin pill—that would keep her healthy—then she swallowed a few more red dolls and washed them down with a generous slug of Scotch.

She could see the sun sneaking through the drapes when she woke. She fumbled her way into the bathroom. She was groggy, but not sleepy. No, she wouldn’t get on the scale. She’d wait and be surprised. She felt hollow and empty. Better take two vitamins ... yeah, they had everything in them. She slapped some cream on her face and put lanolin in her hair. Might as well make this a real beauty cure. She’d look like a living doll when she finally got up. This time she took five yellow pills and then two red ones. That would speed up the action. There was just enough Scotch left for another good drink ...

When she opened her eyes everything looked too clean and bright. What was that goddam needle doing taped to her arm? And that bottle hanging upside down? Christ! This was a hospital room! She tried to sit up and a nurse rushed over.

“Relax, Miss O’Hara,” the nurse urged in her professionally cheerful voice.

“What am I doing here? What happened?” The nurse handed her a newspaper. Jesus! On the front page—a picture of her, fresh-faced and smiling, one of her first studio stills. But the large picture beside it—a girl being carried by two men, her head hanging back, her bare feet showing ... God, it was her! She read the headline, Star Takes Overdose of Pills, and the caption, Accident, Claims Studio Head. Reading how The Head had come to her rescue, she smiled for the first time. Sure he had been afraid—afraid she might conk out. He didn’t dare say he had fired her off the picture. She read on avidly.

“Miss O’Hara and I had a discussion five days ago”—Geez, had she been out that long?—”and I suggested perhaps she was too tired to rush into production of the next picture. She assured me that she was not, that all she needed was a few days’ rest. Obviously this was all she was trying to do. Get in shape for the new picture. If she lives—” The Head had choked up and had had to pause to wipe tears from his eyes. Tears! That shit could turn them off and on better than any star. He was probably just scared she had left some messy suicide note. She read on. “If she lives, she will play the starring role in our biggest picture. It is not true that we are replacing her with Janie Lord. No one could replace Neely O’Hara. We had been considering changing the script in case Miss O’Hara didn’t feel up to it. Then perhaps Janie Lord could do it. But all we want is for Neely to come through. Once in a generation a star like Neely comes along.”

She felt marvelous. There were eulogies about her from every star she had ever played with, and from stars she hardly knew. Even the trades had devoted several columns of praise. It was like dying and being able to watch the crowd at one’s own funeral. She liked the sensation. Geez, they must have really expected her to die. It must have been close for The Head to put himself out on a limb like this. He had to give her the picture now.

“Was I very sick?” she asked the nurse.

“Sick! Until a few hours ago we didn’t think you’d make it. You’ve been in an oxygen tent for twenty-four hours.”

“But I only took a few pills. I really was just trying to get some sleep.”

“It was lucky your butler called the doctor. He came up and found you hardly breathing. He grew concerned about you being without food for three days.”

She grinned. “I bet I’m nice and skinny now.”

The nurse turned abruptly away. A second later the doctor came in. “I’m Dr. Keegan.” She recognized the name—The Head’s personal physician.

“Well, we made it,” he said briskly.

We sure did, she thought. But knowing The Head would get a full report, she merely smiled weakly.

“Silly thing to do. What does it prove?” he asked. It got me the picture back, buster. But she held onto her wistful smile and added a few tears for good measure. Then she said softly, “I ... I didn’t want to live without the picture.”

“Oh, yes ... yes ... the picture. We’ll have to see. Can’t tell whether you’ll be up to it.”

She sat up. “I am up to it!”

“You’ve had a rough time. We’ll see. If I don’t think you’re ready, I’ll tell the studio. Can’t let you have a relapse.”

So that was it! This was his out! His own personal physician would say she wasn’t strong enough.

She smiled sweetly. “Well, let’s hope you find me ready. Because it was The Head’s idea that I lose weight, and the faster the better. And as for my not being in shape, it was The Head who first got me the green goof balls—when I was eighteen—to kill my appetite. And I worked many times with no food at all for a week at a time—on his orders. So I think you’ll find me strong enough. Let’s see ... wardrobe fittings must be in a few days. I’m thin enough, so I can make them. Then I have a whole week to rest before we begin shooting.”

The next day she had her lawyer and her agents at her bedside. It was a cinch. She couldn’t be taken off the picture now, not with the statements The Head had given to the papers. It was better than any contract. And public sympathy was riding with her too. But she didn’t dare miss one day of shooting. Her agent warned her. “One day . . . one hour late, and out you’ll go. He’s mad now, and he’d do it, even at a sacrifice to the picture. You’ve outsmarted him, and he doesn’t like to lose.”

She was nervous the first day of shooting. She saw Sam Jackson standing with the crew, and he seemed nervous, too. Everyone seemed nervous. But she had studied her lines. She knew the scene cold.

“We’ll have one run-through and then try it on camera,” Sam suggested. “Let’s start with the dialogue where you address the audience in the nightclub. You beg them for quiet, then you sing.” He turned and shouted, “Extras in placel Let’s get going!”

The scene was set and she ran through it. It went well. But why were they all so nervous? And why was Sam avoiding her eyes? This wasn’t like him. Was he embarrassed because he was on trial and could be taken off the picture? Everyone knew The Head was a bastard. She’d talk to Sam at the end of the day.

She watched them set the boom and pull the cameras into place. Was Sam this hysterical for the thousand bucks bonus a day? No one could do an actual take in one shooting. Christ, if they got through one whole scene in a day it would be good shooting.

The lights flooded the set, the slate was snapped under her eyes ... Jesus, she had never done a scene on camera with just one run-through. No one did.

It went fairly well. She missed a few cues, but for a first take ... Geez, he might even get a foot of actual film out of it. She turned to him with a smile when it was over.

“You blew the lyrics.” She shrugged. “Two lines. The recording is taped already. So I mouthed it wrong ... next time—”

“All right. Let’s do it again. And I want this to be a final take.”

God, he was sick. He’d never get through the picture running this scared. But it was his funeral.

She returned to the set. This time she turned her ankle and lurched over the wires of the hand mike she was supposed to be carrying.

“Cut!” he shouted. He walked over. “Are you feeling all right, Neely?”

“I feel fine. Hey, relax, Sam. You didn’t expect to get an actual take with the second try.”

“I expected to get it the first time.”

“Sam, are you crazy? I know the heat’s on you, but don’t push the panic button. You act as if we’re shooting a quickie. Even The Head would laugh if he heard you expected to do a full scene with one take.”

He ignored her and turned to the crew. “Get ready for Take Three.”

She started to storm off the set. Then she stopped. Good God, this would be playing right into The Head’s hands. She walked back. She was shaking. Neely O’Hara, having to take this shit from a scared director. He knew the entire crew was watching. No one had ever treated her like this, turning their backs on her and walking away. She did the walking!

She forced herself to return to her place on the set. She stood under the lights, trembling, while the girl patched her makeup. The slate snapped—Take Three. She fluffed a line on the opening. The cameras stopped. Take Four. Another fluff. Take Five. Take Six ...

By late afternoon they were on Take Fifteen. This was ridiculous. She had never done more than eight takes in her life. Sam had done this to her. He was taking his nerves out on her. She couldn’t remember a line now if her life depended on it.

“Dinner break—everyone back at seven,” he called. Dinner break! She hadn’t worked at night since her early days. And he hadn’t even consulted her. She stalked over. “I presume you’re planning on shooting around me.”

He concentrated on the viewfinder. “I’m shooting the same scene until you manage to give me a decent take.”

“Not me, buster. I’ve cooperated. I was here on time and I leave on time. I’m not breaking my ass so you can make a bonus of a thousand a day.” She walked off.

“If you walk off I’ll report it.”

“As you like,” she snarled. “I have some rights!”

The cast and crew arrived back at seven. They waited until ten. A call was placed to Neely’s home. They were told she had retired for the night. Sam Jackson stood up and dismissed the crew. “No call tomorrow. No call until further orders.”

He got into his car and drove out to the beach. He came to a small house and honked his horn. The door opened. A beautiful girl with long black hair, wearing a terrycloth bathrobe, stood in the doorway. She beckoned to him and he came into the house.

“Well, Janie, you got the part.”

She opened her mouth and let the smile show her even teeth. “Oh, Sam, you swung it! I’m so glad!” Then she turned to the little man with the white hair who was sitting in a chair, smoking silently. “Did you hear? Sam pulled it off.”

The little man smiled. “Good.” He stood up and pulled the string of her loose robe. It fell open, revealing her perfect body. The little man, who barely reached the young goddess’s shoulder, ran his suntanned hand lightly over the arched breasts.

“Take a good look, Sam. But don’t touch—this is mine.”

Sam nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“I just want you to know. You’re a young guy—you might get ideas.”

The girl turned and hugged the little man. “But I love you, you know that.”

The man nodded. “All right, Sam—good work. Now beat it. Call everyone back day after tomorrow. I’ll send out the releases. And send a wire to Neely telling her not to report. Sign my name.”

Sam nodded and walked out. The white-haired man turned to the beautiful girl.

“Okay, now you’ll be a star, Janie Lord. You’ll be the Miss Lord—just so long as you remember ... I’m your lord!”

“Yes, sir.” And she fell to her knees and began making love to him.

Anne

1957

Anne hung up the receiver thoughtfully. Kevin Gillmore reached across and took her hand. “Neely again?” she nodded. He patted the bed. “Lie down here with me and we can talk it out.”

She lay back on her own bed. “It’s not that simple, Kevin.”

“I heard you squirm on the phone. I assume she wanted to stay with you.” When Anne was silent, Kevin laughed. “You’re still the New England prude, aren’t you? Why didn’t you come right out and say, ’Yes, Neely, I do have twin beds, but my guy often spends the night with me.’”

Anne picked up the script she had been studying. “Because there was no reason to say that. Kevin, I’m worried. Neely’s in a bad way.”

“Why? Because they didn’t pick up her option? She’s been sitting on her fanny for seven months drawing a lot of money. It’s no disgrace to be without a long-term contract today. No studio is giving them out any more.”

“But she sounded odd ... desperate. Says she has to get away.”

“She can have her pick of offers. The minute she hits town every Broadway producer will be after her. She could do television—anything she wants.”

“But I’ve heard funny rumors ...” Anne reached for a cigarette.

Kevin reached across and held her hand back from lighting it. “Come on over here with me so we don’t have to scream.”

She smiled. “Kevin, I will scream if I go before the cameras and don’t know these lines.”

“Use the cue cards.”

“It’s better when I don’t. I like having them there just in case, but it’s better if I know what I’m saying.”

“Do you really care about me, Anne?” he asked.

“I care very much, Kevin.” She put down her script and waited patiently. It always started like this.

“But you’re not wildly in love with me.”

She smiled. “That’s a young kind of love, reserved for one’s first romance.”

“Still torching for that hack writer?”

“I haven’t see Lyon in years. The last I heard, he was writing some movie scenarios in London.”

“Then why haven’t you fallen in love with me?”

She reached out and took his hand. “I enjoy your company, Kevin. I enjoy you in bed. I enjoy working for you. Perhaps this is love,”

“If I offered to marry you, would you love me more?”

Her words were measured. “In the beginning it mattered terribly. I didn’t like being known as someone’s ’girl.’ But now the damage is done ...” She spoke without emotion—they had gone through this so many times before.

“What damage? You’re famous. You’re known everywhere as the Gillian Girl.”

“And Gillmore’s Girl. But it doesn’t matter now. I wanted a child ... I still do ...”

“Anne.” He got out of bed and began to pace. “You’re thirty-one. That’s late for children.”

“I know women who had their first child at forty.”

“But I’m fifty-seven. I have a grown son and a married daughter—and a two-year-old grandchild. How would it look if I married you and had a child younger than my grandchild?”

“Many men marry late in life and start a new family.”

“I was married twenty-five years to Evelyn—may she rest in peace—and I went through the whole business—summer camps, nurses, braces, measles. I haven’t the patience to go through it again. Now that I have a little freedom and more money than I could ever spend, I want an easy life and no encumbrances, and a girl who will be free to travel with me, to have fun. I never had any fun in marriage. It was all a struggle then. I was starting the business and Evelyn was raising the kids. We never went anywhere, except maybe a weekend in Atlantic City, and then she was always worried that the maid wasn’t reliable or that one of the kids would get sick. And then, when I made it big and the kids were grown, it was too late. She was sick. I had five years of it—five years of watching her die. Then I met you—one year to the day after her death—and I knew right away you were the girl for me.”

She managed a smile. “I’m glad I fit in with your plans. But a girl doesn’t plan on just being someone’s girl—she hopes to be a wife and mother.”

“I’ve thought about it, Anne—but my kids wouldn’t like it.” He sat on the edge of her bed and said lightly, “Besides, I’m more sure of you this way. Once we were married, you’d take me for granted.” He went back to his bed and. picked up the newspaper. Soon he was lost in the financial section of the Times.

Anne went back to her script. In a few months he would bring it up again, and again it would end like this. Kevin felt guilty about not marrying her, but it really didn’t matter to her any more. Maybe it was too late to think about children. And a marriage certificate certainly didn’t insure fidelity or happiness—look at Jennifer. And look at poor Neely.

It was true that everyone knew she was Kevin’s girl. But she was also the Gillian Girl ... and he had made that possible. She enjoyed her work. It was lucrative and kept her busy. She liked Kevin, too—no, it was more than just liking him, perhaps it was love. Not love as she had known it with Lyon—there were no Cloud Nines with Kevin. Their physical union left her completely untouched, and very often she wondered what attraction she held for him. When she recalled the wild abandon with which she had given herself to Lyon—their deep kisses and feverish embraces, lying locked in each other’s arms all night—her relationship with Kevin seemed absolutely antiseptic.

In the beginning, it had been strictly a business relationship. Then gradually they had drifted together socially. She had enjoyed his company, and she found dating one man easier than resisting the advances of many. She was an asset to his company, and he was patient with her inexperience before the cameras. It was his patience that had enabled her to achieve her success. He hovered around every rehearsal, checking every light, working with her on her delivery, helping her choose the right dress. She grew to rely on him, to seek his advice and judgment. She was aware of the pretty little models who flung themselves at him, and she saw wealthy divorcees and visiting starlets seek him out. She knew about the frantic invitations he received from the chic, famous fifty-year-old ex-movie queen. Yes, Kevin Gillmore could write his own ticket. But he wanted her. She held him off for a year, but she met no one who kindled any excitement or romantic image. So, finally, she gave herself to Kevin.

She recalled their first union. She had been unable to do more than submit. She allowed him to take her, to satisfy himself—nothing more. And he never asked for more. Sometimes she forced herself to respond in a tepid way, and Kevin seemed to accept this for passion. Soon she realized that with all his worldliness, he was totally unsophisticated about the act of love. Obviously he had been quite pure when he married his wife, and she must have been equally chaste and unimaginative. They probably had never progressed beyond a few limp kisses and the mechanical act of intercourse. After his wife’s death there must have been girls, and some of them must have gone all out—but he probably related this kind of sex to girls of loose morals. Anne was a lady, as his wife had been. And so he accepted her frigidity as the normal attribute of a lady, and being a gentleman, he expected nothing more.

No, with Kevin there were no highs or lows, but perhaps this was what mature love was like. Sometimes she told herself she was fortunate. Many girls never knew the Lyon Burke kind of love, and few achieved the solidity of Kevin’s kind of love. Even his unwillingness to marry her presented no real problem. She had never forced the issue, though she knew she could make Kevin marry her—all she had to do was threaten to leave him. No, she was perfectly content with their present status. She knew Kevin would always be there.

******

Neely arrived the following week. Anne managed to conceal her shock at Neely’s transformation. She had gained weight, her face looked puffy, and even though she wore an expensive suit, she looked seedy. Her nail polish was chipped, there was a run in her stocking and she seemed rumpled. But most of all, there was something dead in her whole countenance. Neely didn’t sparkle any more. Her eyes didn’t seem to focus when she talked.

Anne remained the attentive listener as Neely poured out her entire diatribe of woe—the diabolical schemes of The Head, the broken marriage, the evils of Hollywood ...

About herself, Anne offered very little information. She talked about her work and her close friendship with Kevin, and when Neely asked with a trace of the little-girl voice if she were “doing it,” Anne smiled and nodded. That seemed to please Neely.

Kevin played the gracious host. If Neely infringed on his private life he hid his irritation well. He escorted both girls around town to the shows and the nightclubs. Neely caused a sensation wherever she went. She blossomed with the acclaim. There were no lost days, no endless bouts of drinking. She bought new clothes, dropped ten pounds in two weeks and rarely took more than three pills a night. She sparkled again—and became the bouncing girl Anne had always known.

One hot September evening, as they were leaving a theatre, a large crowd deserted the stage door and rushed to Neely, cutting them off from their cab. Laughing, waving, signing books, Neely was buffeted by the friendly mob until Kevin, assisted by a policeman, managed to clear a path to the curb.

In the taxi Kevin mopped perspiration from his face and shook his head in wonder. “It’s fantastic! If they’re that crazy just to see you, what would they do if you sang?”

“Pass out in sheer ecstasy.” Neely laughed. “But my public has always been hot for me,” she added, her round eyes suddenly growing serious. “There were lines at Radio City for all my pictures. They just cost too darn much money to make. But I never had a picture that died. I always did big business—”

Kevin stared at her as though what she had been saying had just penetrated. A note of excitement made his voice tremble. “You’re right. Your pictures always sold out. Your public is still with you. They want you. Neely—let’s do a spectacular! I’ll present it—I’ll buy an hour of prime time on one of the networks. My God—it would be a sensation!”

“Are you kidding? Me do TV? A whole hour live—with no retakes? Geez, I’d die.”

“If you sang all the songs you’ve introduced, you wouldn’t need retakes,” Kevin insisted. “No gimmicks, no other acts—just you standing out there singing.”

“Forget it,” Neely answered. “I heard what those television cameras do to you—they add ten pounds and twenty years. And besides, what do I need it for? The Johnson Harris office is trying to work out a three-picture deal with Metro right now.”

As Neely’s appearances in public continued to generate new excitement, Kevin became obsessed with the idea. “Work on her,” he pleaded to Anne. “I’d give her four weeks of rehearsal. We’d introduce a new product. The publicity would be worth millions for Gillian.”

“I can’t force her if she’s afraid,” Anne insisted. “If something went wrong I’d feel responsible.”

“What could go wrong? It’s not as if she’s a no-talent hothouse flower created by the Hollywood cameras. Neely grew up in vaudeville, she played Broadway—she’s a trouper. Television’s loaded with no-talent performers. Every day someone you never heard of jumps into television and becomes a star, and only because the real talents like Neely are holding out. It’s not as if I’m asking her to do a weekly series. Just one shot, a spectacular—and she’d do herself a lot of good, too.”

“I agree, Kevin. But you’re the super salesman—it’s up to you to convince her. I’m her friend, and I intend to remain just that.” Kevin brought up the subject several times, and each time Neely good-naturedly turned him down. She was enjoying her first real holiday, her first contact with the adulation of the fans, a long-overdue payment for the years of cloistered grind in the studio factory.

Kevin seized every opportunity to get Neely involved in watching performers and reliving her own past. He bought tickets for the opening night of Helen Lawson’s new musical, hoping that seeing Helen would reactivate Neely’s ambition and revive the excitement of working to an audience.

Helen’s opening was a major event. She had disappeared from the Broadway scene in another unsuccessful attempt at marriage, this time as mistress of a large estate in Jamaica. She had retired with ecstatic interviews. She had found “the only true love of her life.” There had been pictures of an overblown Helen clinging to the arm of a nondescript, gray-haired man. She was selling her New York apartment and furniture and going to Jamaica to live a wonderful life as a simple housewife. The wonderful life lasted six years. Then Helen returned, and there were more front-page stories. Jamaica was “a tropical small town filled with rich, idle people and bugs.” There was nothing to do but drink and gossip. The wonderful man was “a louse who drank too much and had ’liaisons’ with other women.” She got a Mexican divorce and immediately accepted the starring role in a new musical.

It was a typical Helen Lawson opening. All the right people were in the audience, waiting to cheer her, to welcome home the Queen. The applause had been deafening on her entrance, but after ten minutes the air was heavy with “flop sweat.” Kevin had felt a surge of hope as Neely sat on the edge of her seat, mentally taking every bow with Helen. But his hopes were dashed when Neely whispered, “I thought she was old when I first met her. Geez, she was a kid in comparison.”

Kevin had to admit Neely was right. Helen was no longer skirting middle age; she was middle-aged. She had put on a good deal of weight. But her legs were still good, and she still tossed her long mane of black hair.

“Boy, has she been dipping into the dye pots,” Neely whispered. “I like black hair, but she must be kidding with that color. It’s ebony.”

“She should use Gillian’s color black,” Kevin commented. “Gives a more natural look.”

“Nothing could help her,” Neely hissed. “And now she hasn’t even got a good script going for her. Why did she ever take this show? She’s got loads of dough.”

“What else is she going to do?” Kevin said carefully. “An actress is only alive when she’s on stage.”

“Eh!” Neely waved him aside. “That’s an old cliché.”

“It’s just started,” Anne whispered. “It might get better.”

“It’s a flop. I can smell it,” Neely answered. Neely was right. Anne watched Helen struggle valiantly. She felt a surge of sympathy for this blowsy-looking middle-aged woman trying to play a romantic role. Her voice was as vital as ever, with only the trace of a vibrato; but either the lyrics missed or the tune wasn’t there. As the show progressed her energy increased, as if she were trying to put her own life’s blood into the dying show.

There were numerous curtain calls. The first-nighters gave the Queen dutiful homage. But the comments as they filed out of the theatre were more truthful. “Helen’s first flop.” ... “It wasn’t Helen’s fault, it was a bad book.” ... “The direction was lousy.” ... “Ah, but the old Helen would have pulled it out. Remember Sunny Lady? No book or score—just Helen, and it was enough.” ... “Listen, everyone is entitled to one flop.” ... “Yes, but at her age it’s too late to make a comeback. Why didn’t she let well enough alone?” ... “They’re kinder to racehorses—at least they put the champions out to stud.” ... “Yeah, and from what I hear, that’s what Helen would really like.” ... “But who’s the old bag going to stud with?” ... “Aw, she still has great legs and magnificent hair.” ... “Well, she’s got to have something left.” . . . “And my dear, I studied voice in college. There was a vibrato.” ...

“I can’t go backstage,” Neely said. “I know she musta heard I was out front, but Geez, what can I say? Like maybe the sets were great?”

“Want to go to Sardi’s?” Kevin asked. “She’ll come there to take her bows.”

“Wanna bet?” Neely answered. “Listen, no one knows better than Helen what a bomb this was. She doesn’t want to be sitting around Sardi’s with egg on her face when those early editions of the Times and Tribune come out. Besides, Franco Salla is opening at the Persian Room tonight. He was a sensation at Ciro’s. I went every night. I wouldn’t miss his New York opening.”

Wearily, Kevin called the Persian Room and booked a table. It was mobbed with the same columnists and many of the same people who had attended Helen’s opening. When the captain saw Neely, a new table was placed ringside in front of a disgruntled group who had tipped lavishly to insure an unhampered view. A surge of excitement ran through the audience as Neely entered.

Kevin ordered champagne, but Neely barely sipped at her glass. Anne watched the crowd and thought about the new commercial she was to do the following day. It was late, and she could see the show was not going to start on schedule. Tomorrow she’d have to use the “idiot cards.” She watched the people milling at the door. Nothing ever changed at openings—the same impatient people waiting to be shown to their tables, offering folded bills for better locations, the same perspiring busboys scuttling around placing makeshift tables at ringside, trying to ignore the complaints of the occupants of tables they eclipsed. People who had started at ringside were now three rows back. The dance floor was half its original size. And just as it seemed impossible to squeeze another person into the room, Anne saw a busboy rushing another platter-sized table to the ringside. It was placed directly opposite them.

Helen made her entrance, accompanied by a slim young boy. He was a minor dancer in her show, effeminately beautiful and ignorantly proud to be the center of attention. Helen must have known all about his “roommate,” but he played his role of escort with flawless perfection. He held her hand, listened raptly to everything she said, laughed on cue and reveled in the introductions Helen engulfed him in as she turned to the tables around her and loudly greeted friends. The captain answered her bellowed summons with a look of patient resignation. Anne could hear her across the room as she shouted, “I know this is one of those fancy-Dan rooms that don’t serve booze while the act is on, so set up a few bottles of the grape fast, before it’s too late.”

The lights finally dimmed. Franco Salla was introduced. He was a strong singer, especially good in his Italian numbers. The audience had read his out-of-town notices and was eager to make him a star. He was forced to do several encores. Then, after a charming speech of gratitude, enhanced by his accent, he turned gravely to the ringside, and with an air of solemn awe, introduced “the giant of musical comedy, the queen of them all, the great lady who has been a star for decades ... Helen Lawson!”

Helen forced a mechanical grin. She rose and waved good-naturedly to the audience. The applause was loud and hearty with respect. Then Franco turned and looked at Neely. The audience followed his gaze. His voice was soft and his eyes grew tender with admiration. “And now, the once-in-a-lifetime star ... the girl everyone loves ... the singer every singer worships ...” He stopped, groping, as if there were no superlatives strong enough to describe Neely. Then he smiled and said, simply, “Miss Neely O’Hara.”

The applause was deafening. A few people stood up to cheer. Then, suddenly, in a body, the entire audience was on its feet, clamoring, applauding, demanding a song. Kevin stood, too. Anne didn’t know what to do; everyone was standing except Helen Lawson and her young dancer. Helen sat there with a glassy smile clamped on her face and clapped noiselessly. The dancer stared at her dumbly, awaiting any command.

Neely finally rose and walked to the microphone. She thanked everyone graciously and tried to beg off. When the audience stormed an insistent demand, she shrugged helplessly and turned to the orchestra. After a quick discussion of key and chords, she took center stage and sang.

She was brilliant. Her voice was clear and soaring, and the audience reacted with the frenzied adoration of worshippers at a revival meeting. She did six songs before she could beg off. She returned to the table ecstatic, her eyes shining with tears of excitement. Columnists came over to congratulate her, and well-gowned women demanded autographs “for my daughter.” Neely good-naturedly signed menus, cards and bits of paper. When the deluge finally died down, she gulped a glass of champagne. “You know, I could get to like this,” she said.

“Singing in a supper club?” Kevin asked hopefully.

“No, drinking champagne. It’s good.” She poured another glass. “It’s safer to stick with Scotch or vodka, but tonight is an exception. Only I better not make a habit of it—too fattening. Look at Old Ironsides over there—all that blubber is solid vintage wine.”

“Neely, you were great tonight,” Kevin began.

“Sure. It’s easy to be great with old standards. They don’t write songs like that any more.”

“But that’s what you’d do on my spectacular.”

She grinned. “Oh, we’re back to that, huh?”

“Neely, the public adores you—”

“Sure. They adore my movies, too. Is it my fault that unions and costs are so high they can’t break even in Hollywood?”

“They say it’s not just the costs and unions, Neely.”

Her eyes narrowed and lost some of their good humor. “And what do they say, Mr. Bones?”

“They say you run the costs up ... that you’re unreliable ... that you’ve lost your voice.”

Anne shifted nervously and tried to catch Kevin’s eye to signal a warning, but he ignored her and riveted his gaze on Neely.

Neely managed a smile. “Well, you just heard me sing. So don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”

“I don’t believe it, because I heard you tonight. And no one in this room believes it. But that’s only a handful of people. The public believes what they read, Neely. So do a lot of movie producers.”

Her smile vanished. “Listen, Mr. Killjoy, I’m having a perfectly marvelous time. I got up and sang for my supper. What do you want from me?”

“A spectacular.”

She sighed. “Here we go again, Charlie.”

“I mean it, Neely. You convinced everyone here tonight that you can still sing like an angel. Why not convince the world? Do you know how many people you’d hit with one big television program? I’d give you national publicity for weeks in advance—the whole country would be watching—”

“Forget it.” She reached for the champagne. “Hey, the bottle’s empty. Let’s get some more.”

Kevin signaled for another bottle. Anne looked at her watch. Neely caught her glance and grabbed her arm good-naturedly. “Come on, don’t be a crepe hanger. This is my big night.”

“But it’s one-thirty and I have a show tomorrow, with a very early rehearsal.”

“So what?” Neely laughed. “Anne, they are only commercials. It’s not like you’re starring in a De Mille epic. Besides, I know your boss—I’ll put in a good word for you.” She winked at Kevin. “We’ll just finish off the new bottle ... please? But first, let’s go fix our faces.”

Anne sighed and trailed along to the powder room. The attendant gushed over Neely, and a few of the women who were patching their makeup fell on her with endless platitudes of praise. Neely managed a gracious modesty. Anne stood by patiently while the room slowly emptied out. Finally Neely sat down in front of a mirror and started to comb her hair.

“Listen, Anne, get Kevin off my back. He’s very nice and all that, but he’s like a broken record. Tell him once and for all I’m not gonna do a television show!”

“You can’t blame him for trying,” Anne said.

“Well, enough’s enough already. Besides—”

The door opened and Helen Lawson swept in. For one tense moment she stared coldly at Anne; then, with a sudden change of heart, she nodded and said, “Good to see you, Anne. I hear you’ve become a big television star.”

Anne managed a smile and tried to think of an answer. Helen spared her the problem. She sat down beside Neely and patted her heartily on the back. “You were great out there tonight, girl. Wish I had some Cole Porter or Irving Berlin in that turkey I did tonight. I heard you were out front—why didn’t you come back to say hello?”

“Ah ... we were ... ah ... rushing to get here. You know how hard it is to hold a reservation,” Neely stammered.

“C’mon, don’t give me that shit,” Helen said. “But what the hell, no one likes to come back after a flop. Why I ever let myself be talked into doing this dog ... but that’s the story of my life. I was trying to give two unknown composers a chance.”

Neely’s grin was friendly. “Someone has to give them a chance. And if you can’t put them across, nobody can.”

“I always take a chance—that’s how someone like you gets born. I took a chance and unloaded a used-up nightclub singer to give a young kid a break. But no one ever thanks me—you included, sweetheart.”

Neely’s smile faded. “It wasn’t your show that got me to Hollywood, Helen. It was my nightclub appearance.”

“And how’d you get that? By using me as a springboard.”

“All right—thanks, Helen. As I recall I used to thank you every night—but thanks again. I’m grateful. C’mon, Anne.”

“Don’t be so lah-de-dah with me. I read the papers. You’re a girl without a contract now. You’ve gone far for the little guttersnipe I gave a break to, but—”

Neely jumped up and stared at Helen with blazing eyes. The attendant moved closer, thrilled with this unscheduled break in the monotony.

“Come on, Neely,” Anne said quickly. “Kevin is waiting.”

Neely brushed Anne’s arm aside and glared at Helen. “What did you call me!”

Helen stood up and faced her squarely. “A guttersnipe. What else were you? A third-rate vaudeville tramp who never even went to school. I was surprised you could even read the lyrics. I only gave you that break because of me and Anne being so buddy-buddy.”

“Buddy-buddy! All you cared about was having her pimp for you,” Neely snapped.

“You’re fulla shit! Anne and I were real good friends. We had a misunderstanding, but I was only being a friend, trying to keep her from getting involved with some limey bastard. I did it for her own good.” She turned to Anne. “He did turn out to be a bastard, didn’t he? I was right, wasn’t I, Annie? I’ve always thought of you as one of my real friends.”

“Come on, Anne,” Neely said. “This hearts-and-flowers bit is getting me here.” She patted her middle.

Helen ignored Neely and flashed the remnants of her old smile at Anne. “I mean it, Anne. I never had a real friend. Everyone uses me and walks out. I always liked you, angel, and I’m so thrilled about your success. Now that I’m back in town, let’s see each other and do a little hooting, like in the old days.”

“Anne, let’s go!” Neely snapped.

“What’s your rush?” Helen said innocently. “Where’ve you got to go? From the way I hear it, you’ve got nothing but time on your hands.”

“After the reviews come out, you’ll have a lot of free time too,” Neely answered.

Helen shrugged. “My show may get lousy notices, but I’ll have six new offers by noon tomorrow. What’s on your agenda? More free concerts like tonight?”

“With that vibrato you got, in a little while you won’t even be able to sing for free,” Neely replied. “And I didn’t hear any clamors for your services tonight.”

A slow flush spread up Helen’s neck. When she answered her voice was shrill. “What would a washed-up little has-been like you know about a vibrato? I’ve been on top for thirty years and I’ll stay on top as long as I like. But you better keep singing for free, because that’s all you’ll get. Sure you’ll get applause—any audience will applaud for something extra they get for nothing. But you’re finished, washed up.

“Now, out of my way, has-been. You may have no place to go, but I got a guy out there waiting for me.”

“Guy!” Neely laughed derisively. “You call that a guy? But maybe you better not keep him waiting at that, because from here on in all you’ll be able to get is a fag to take you out—that is, if you pay the tab.”

“You should know all about that! You were married to one,” Helen snapped. “Christ, you couldn’t even hold your faggot. Not even with twins as a bargaining point. Hey—are they faggots too?” She started to leave, but Neely blocked her way.

“What did you say about my children?” Neely’s voice was quivering.

“What’s wrong with having little twin faggots? I hear they’re very good to their mothers. Now out of my way ...” She shoved past Neely and headed for the door.

“No you don’t, you old bag!” Neely shouted. She leaped after Helen and grabbed her by the hair. Helen pulled away, but Neely held fast.

Suddenly Neely let out a gasp of amazement and stood staring at the thing in her hands. At the same time Helen’s hands flew to her head in horror.

“A wig!” Neely yelled, holding the long black hair up for Anne to see. “By God, her hair’s as phony as she is!”

Helen reached out for her wig, but Neely jumped back.

“Give me back my hair, you little bitch,” Helen yelled. “It cost me three hundred bucks!”

Neely put it on and danced around the room. “Hey! Dig me as a brunette!”

Helen chased after her. “Give me that, damn you!”

“It looked awful on you, Helen. I think you’re much more interesting this way—crew-cut.”

Helen fumbled with her own short, ragged hair. “I’m letting it grow in,” she said sullenly. “Those lousy operators in Jamaica didn’t know how to use dye, and when I got a permanent here, it all broke off. Now come on, Neely—give me that wig!”

In a sudden quick movement, Neely dashed to one of the enclosed toilets. Helen lunged after her, but Neely was too fast. She locked the door. In a moment they heard the toilet flush.

“Hey—what the hell are you doing?” Helen screamed. She turned to Anne. “Jesus, she’s throwing it in the can, I bet. I’ll kill her, that little bitch!”

Helen shouted oaths while Anne and the attendant tried to reason with Neely. Their only answer was the ominous flushing and reflushing of the toilet. Helen pounded on the door. Inside, Neely giggled and flushed the toilet again. This time there was a strange gurgling, followed by the splash and gush of overflowing water. A pool rushed out from under the door and spread across the room.

The door opened and Neely tiptoed out gingerly, giggling hysterically. “Oh ... hell ...” she gasped. “The silly thing won’t even go down the crapper!”

The attendant gingerly held up the sopping wet mass—it looked like a drowned animal.

“It’s ruined!” Helen shrieked. “Now what can I do?” She turned to Anne, her face streaking with tears. “How can I go out there now?”

Anne stared at her, speechless, as the water spread across the room.

Then, in the silence, the attendant cleared her throat. “Miss O’Hara—that wasn’t nice. You’ve probably ruined the plumbing.”

Neely laughed. “Send me the bill,” she said. “It was worth every penny of it.” She picked up her purse and rummaged in it, pulling out a five-dollar bill. “Here,” she said, “you run the best john in town.” She turned to Anne. “Come on, let’s leave the old bald eagle to cry in peace. I hope your faggot doesn’t get cold out there all alone,” she said sweetly to Helen.

Anne followed her through the door. Outside, she said, “That wasn’t fair, Neely.”

“Fair! I should have murdered her.”

“But it wasn’t right. She actually can’t come out of there until everyone goes.”

“Okay, so she’s stuck for tonight. Tomorrow she can buy another wig. But tomorrow I’ll still remember the things she said about my kids—and me. So I’m washed up—I can only sing for free, huh? Why, that miserable ...” She strode over to the table. “Kevin, you still want me to do that spectacular?”

Kevin’s face broke into a big grin.

“All right. You got yourself a deal,” Neely said. She slumped into a chair and poured herself some champagne. “Draw up the contracts and let my agents and lawyers okay them.”

“First thing tomorrow,” Kevin said happily. As they talked about the show, the room began to empty out. Neely and Anne watched the anxious young man sitting at Helen’s table, his eyes fastened on the door.

“I wonder what happened to Helen Lawson,” Kevin said as he paid the check. “Probably got involved with some of her fans.”

“Yeah, maybe one of them scalped her,” Neely said innocently.

As they passed the powder room, Anne looked back across the nearly empty room to Helen’s table. The young dancer was hysterically searching his pockets, trying to forage enough bills to pay the check the captain had presented. Kevin squeezed Anne’s arm happily. “You won’t have a change of heart about this television deal, will you, Neely?”

She tucked her arm gaily into Kevin’s. “Nope. I’ll sing my heart out for you and your little old product—but you’re gonna pay me a lot of money.”

“With pleasure,” Kevin answered. He looked at Anne with mute gratitude. Women sure were funny—you could talk your head off and get nowhere, but then let them spend ten minutes alone together in a powder room and anything could happen ...

******

CONTINUED IN

NEXT INSTALMENT